An old German artist, whom she often met in the galleries, once laid a paternal11 hand on Hilda’s head, and bade her go back to her own country.
“Go back soon,” he said, with kindly freedom and directness, “or you will go never more. And, if you go not, why, at least, do you spend the whole summer-time in Rome? The air has been breathed too often, in so many thousand years, and is not wholesome12 for a little foreign flower like you, my child, a delicate wood-anemone from the western forest-land.”
“I have no task nor duty anywhere but here,” replied Hilda. “The old masters will not set me free!”
“Ah, those old masters!” cried the veteran artist, shaking his head. “They are a tyrannous race! You will find them of too mighty13 a spirit to be dealt with, for long together, by the slender hand, the fragile mind, and the delicate heart, of a young girl. Remember that Raphael’s genius wore out that divinest painter before half his life was lived. Since you feel his influence powerfully enough to reproduce his miracles so well, it will assuredly consume you like a flame.”
“Yes, fair maiden15, you stand in that peril now!” insisted the kind old man; and he added, smiling, yet in a melancholy16 vein17, and with a German grotesqueness18 of idea, “Some fine morning, I shall come to the Pinacotheca of the Vatican, with my palette and my brushes, and shall look for my little American artist that sees into the very heart of the grand pictures! And what shall I behold19? A heap of white ashes on the marble floor, just in front of the divine Raphael’s picture of the Madonna da Foligno! Nothing more, upon my word! The fire, which the poor child feels so fervently20, will have gone into her innermost, and burnt her quite up!”
“It would be a happy martyrdom!” said Hilda, faintly smiling. “But I am far from being worthy21 of it. What troubles me much, among other troubles, is quite the reverse of what you think. The old masters hold me here, it is true, but they no longer warm me with their influence. It is not flame consuming, but torpor22 chilling me, that helps to make me wretched.”
“Perchance, then,” said the German, looking keenly at her, “Raphael has a rival in your heart? He was your first love; but young maidens23 are not always constant, and one flame is sometimes extinguished by another!” Hilda shook her head, and turned away. She had spoken the truth, however, in alleging24 that torpor, rather than fire, was what she had to dread25. In those gloomy days that had befallen her, it was a great additional calamity26 that she felt conscious of the present dimness of an insight which she once possessed27 in more than ordinary measure. She had lost—and she trembled lest it should have departed forever—the faculty28 of appreciating those great works of art, which heretofore had made so large a portion of her happiness. It was no wonder.
A picture, however admirable the painter’s art, and wonderful his power, requires of the spectator a surrender of himself, in due proportion with the miracle which has been wrought29. Let the canvas glow as it may, you must look with the eye of faith, or its highest excellence30 escapes you. There is always the necessity of helping31 out the painter’s art with your own resources of sensibility and imagination. Not that these qualities shall really add anything to what the master has effected; but they must be put so entirely32 under his control, and work along with him to such an extent, that, in a different mood, when you are cold and critical, instead of sympathetic, you will be apt to fancy that the loftier merits of the picture were of your own dreaming, not of his creating.
Like all revelations of the better life, the adequate perception of a great work of art demands a gifted simplicity33 of vision. In this, and in her self-surrender, and the depth and tenderness of her sympathy, had lain Hilda’s remarkable34 power as a copyist of the old masters. And now that her capacity of emotion was choked up with a horrible experience, it inevitably35 followed that she should seek in vain, among those friends so venerated36 and beloved, for the marvels37 which they had heretofore shown her. In spite of a reverence38 that lingered longer than her recognition, their poor worshipper became almost an infidel, and sometimes doubted whether the pictorial39 art be not altogether a delusion40.
For the first time in her life, Hilda now grew acquainted with that icy demon41 of weariness, who haunts great picture galleries. He is a plausible42 Mephistopheles, and possesses the magic that is the destruction of all other magic. He annihilates43 color, warmth, and, more especially, sentiment and passion, at a touch. If he spare anything, it will be some such matter as an earthen pipkin, or a bunch of herrings by Teniers; a brass44 kettle, in which you can see your rice, by Gerard Douw; a furred robe, or the silken texture45 of a mantle46, or a straw hat, by Van Mieris; or a long-stalked wineglass, transparent47 and full of shifting reflection, or a bit of bread and cheese, or an over-ripe peach with a fly upon it, truer than reality itself, by the school of Dutch conjurers. These men, and a few Flemings, whispers the wicked demon, were the only painters. The mighty Italian masters, as you deem them, were not human, nor addressed their work to human sympathies, but to a false intellectual taste, which they themselves were the first to create. Well might they call their doings “art,” for they substituted art instead of nature. Their fashion is past, and ought, indeed, to have died and been buried along with them.
Then there is such a terrible lack of variety in their subjects. The churchmen, their great patrons, suggested most of their themes, and a dead mythology48 the rest. A quarter part, probably, of any large collection of pictures consists of Virgins50 and infant Christs, repeated over and over again in pretty much an identical spirit, and generally with no more mixture of the Divine than just enough to spoil them as representations of maternity51 and childhood, with which everybody’s heart might have something to do. Half of the other pictures are Magdalens, Flights into Egypt, Crucifixions, Depositions52 from the Cross, Pietas, Noli-me-tangeres, or the Sacrifice of Abraham, or martyrdoms of saints, originally painted as altar-pieces, or for the shrines53 of chapels54, and woefully lacking the accompaniments which the artist haft in view.
The remainder of the gallery comprises mythological55 subjects, such as nude56 Venuses, Ledas, Graces, and, in short, a general apotheosis57 of nudity, once fresh and rosy58 perhaps, but yellow and dingy59 in our day, and retaining only a traditionary charm. These impure60 pictures are from the same illustrious and impious hands that adventured to call before us the august forms of Apostles and Saints, the Blessed Mother of the Redeemer, and her Son, at his death, and in his glory, and even the awfulness of Him, to whom the martyrs61, dead a thousand years ago, have not yet dared to raise their eyes. They seem to take up one task or the other w the disrobed woman whom they call Venus, or the type of highest and tenderest womanhood in the mother of their Saviour62 with equal readiness, but to achieve the former with far more satisfactory success. If an artist sometimes produced a picture of the Virgin49, possessing warmth enough to excite devotional feelings, it was probably the object of his earthly love to whom he thus paid the stupendous and fearful homage63 of setting up her portrait to be worshipped, not figuratively as a mortal, but by religious souls in their earnest aspirations65 towards Divinity. And who can trust the religious sentiment of Raphael, or receive any of his Virgins as heaven-descended likenesses, after seeing, for example, the Fornarina of the Barberini Palace, and feeling how sensual the artist must have been to paint such a brazen66 trollop of his own accord, and lovingly? Would the Blessed Mary reveal herself to his spiritual vision, and favor him with sittings alternately with that type of glowing earthliness, the Fornarina?
But no sooner have we given expression to this irreverent criticism, than a throng68 of spiritual faces look reproachfully upon us. We see cherubs69 by Raphael, whose baby innocence70 could only have been nursed in paradise; angels by Raphael as innocent as they, but whose serene71 intelligence embraces both earthly and celestial72 things; madonnas by Raphael, on whose lips he has impressed a holy and delicate reserve, implying sanctity on earth, and into whose soft eyes he has thrown a light which he never could have imagined except by raising his own eyes with a pure aspiration64 heavenward. We remember, too, that divinest countenance73 in the Transfiguration, and withdraw all that we have said.
Poor Hilda, however, in her gloomiest moments, was never guilty of the high treason suggested in the above remarks against her beloved and honored Raphael. She had a faculty (which, fortunately for themselves, pure women often have) of ignoring all moral blotches75 in a character that won her admiration76. She purified the objects; of her regard by the mere77 act of turning such spotless eyes upon them.
Hilda’s despondency, nevertheless, while it dulled her perceptions in one respect, had deepened them in another; she saw beauty less vividly78, but felt truth, or the lack of it, more profoundly. She began to suspect that some, at least, of her venerated painters, had left an inevitable79 hollowness in their works, because, in the most renowned80 of them, they essayed to express to the world what they had not in their own souls. They deified their light and Wandering affections, and were continually playing off the tremendous jest, alluded81 to above, of offering the features of some venal82 beauty to be enshrined in the holiest places. A deficiency of earnestness and absolute truth is generally discoverable in Italian pictures, after the art had become consummate83. When you demand what is deepest, these painters have not wherewithal to respond. They substituted a keen intellectual perception, and a marvellous knack84 of external arrangement, instead of the live sympathy and sentiment which should have been their inspiration. And hence it happens, that shallow and worldly men are among the best critics of their works; a taste for pictorial art is often no more than a polish upon the hard enamel85 of an artificial character. Hilda had lavished86 her whole heart upon it, and found (just as if she had lavished it upon a human idol) that the greater part was thrown away.
For some of the earlier painters, however, she still retained much of her former reverence. Fra Angelico, she felt, must have breathed a humble87 aspiration between every two touches of his brush, in order to have made the finished picture such a visible prayer as we behold it, in the guise88 of a prim89 angel, or a saint without the human nature. Through all these dusky centuries, his works may still help a struggling heart to pray. Perugino was evidently a devout90 man; and the Virgin, therefore, revealed herself to him in loftier and sweeter faces of celestial womanhood, and yet with a kind of homeliness91 in their human mould, than even the genius of Raphael could imagine. Sodoma, beyond a question, both prayed and wept, while painting his fresco92, at Siena, of Christ bound to a pillar.
In her present need and hunger for a spiritual revelation, Hilda felt a vast and weary longing93 to see this last-mentioned picture once again. It is inexpressibly touching94. So weary is the Saviour and utterly95 worn out with agony, that his lips have fallen apart from mere exhaustion96; his eyes seem to be set; he tries to lean his head against the pillar, but is kept from sinking down upon the ground only by the cords that bind97 him. One of the most striking effects produced is the sense of loneliness. You behold Christ deserted98 both in heaven and earth; that despair is in him which wrung99 forth100 the saddest utterance101 man ever made, “Why hast Thou forsaken102 me?” Even in this extremity103, however, he is still divine. The great and reverent67 painter has not suffered the Son of God to be merely an object of pity, though depicting104 him in a state so profoundly pitiful. He is rescued from it, we know not how,—by nothing less than miracle,—by a celestial majesty105 and beauty, and some quality of which these are the outward garniture. He is as much, and as visibly, our Redeemer, there bound, there fainting, and bleeding from the scourge106, with the cross in view, as if he sat on his throne of glory in the heavens! Sodoma, in this matchless picture, has done more towards reconciling the incongruity107 of Divine Omnipotence108 and outraged109, suffering Humanity, combined in one person, than the theologians ever did.
This hallowed work of genius shows what pictorial art, devoutly110 exercised, might effect in behalf of religious truth; involving, as it does, deeper mysteries of revelation, and bringing them closer to man’s heart, and making him tenderer to be impressed by them, than the most eloquent111 words of preacher or prophet.
It is not of pictures like the above that galleries, in Rome or elsewhere, are made up, but of productions immeasurably below them, and requiring to be appreciated by a very different frame of mind. Few amateurs are endowed with a tender susceptibility to the sentiment of a picture; they are not won from an evil life, nor anywise morally improved by it. The love of art, therefore, differs widely in its influence from the love of nature; whereas, if art had not strayed away from its legitimate112 paths and aims, it ought to soften113 and sweeten the lives of its worshippers, in even a more exquisite114 degree than the contemplation of natural objects. But, of its own potency115, it has no such effect; and it fails, likewise, in that other test of its moral value which poor Hilda was now involuntarily trying upon it. It cannot comfort the heart in affliction; it grows dim when the shadow is upon us.
So the melancholy girl wandered through those long galleries, and over the mosaic116 pavements of vast, solitary117 saloons, wondering what had become of the splendor that used to beam upon her from the walls. She grew sadly critical, and condemned118 almost everything that she was wont to admire. Heretofore, her sympathy went deeply into a picture, yet seemed to leave a depth which it was inadequate119 to sound; now, on the contrary, her perceptive120 faculty penetrated121 the canvas like a steel probe, and found but a crust of paint over an emptiness. Not that she gave up all art as worthless; only it had lost its consecration122. One picture in ten thousand, perhaps, ought to live in the applause of mankind, from generation to generation, until the colors fade and blacken out of sight, or the canvas rot entirely away. For the rest, let them be piled in garrets, just as the tolerable poets are shelved, when their little day is over. Is a painter more sacred than a poet?
And as for these galleries of Roman palaces, they were to Hilda, —though she still trod them with the forlorn hope of getting back her sympathies,—they were drearier123 than the whitewashed124 walls of a prison corridor. If a magnificent palace were founded, as was generally the case, on hardened guilt74 and a stony125 conscience,—if the prince or cardinal126 who stole the marble of his vast mansion127 from the Coliseum, or some Roman temple, had perpetrated still deadlier crimes, as probably he did,—there could be no fitter punishment for his ghost than to wander, perpetually through these long suites128 of rooms, over the cold marble or mosaic of the floors, growing chiller at every eternal footstep. Fancy the progenitor129 of the Dorias thus haunting those heavy halls where his posterity130 reside! Nor would it assuage131 his monotonous132 misery133, but increase it manifold, to be compelled to scrutinize134 those masterpieces of art, which he collected with so much cost and care, and gazing at them unintelligently, still leave a further portion of his vital warmth at every one.
Such, or of a similar kind, is the torment135 of those who seek to enjoy pictures in an uncongenial mood. Every haunter of picture galleries, we should imagine, must have experienced it, in greater or less degree; Hilda never till now, but now most bitterly.
And now, for the first time in her lengthened136 absence, comprising so many years of her young life, she began to be acquainted with the exile’s pain. Her pictorial imagination brought up vivid scenes of her native village, with its great old elm-trees; and the neat, comfortable houses, scattered137 along the wide, grassy138 margin139 of its street, and the white meeting-house, and her mother’s very door, and the stream of gold brown water, which her taste for color had kept flowing, all this while, through her remembrance. O dreary140 streets, palaces, churches, and imperial sepulchres of hot and dusty Rome, with the muddy Tiber eddying141 through the midst, instead of the gold-brown rivulet142! How she pined under this crumbly magnificence, as if it were piled all upon her human heart! How she yearned143 for that native homeliness, those familiar sights, those faces which she had known always, those days that never brought any strange event; that life of sober week-days, and a solemn sabbath at the close! The peculiar144 fragrance145 of a flower-bed, which Hilda used to cultivate, came freshly to her memory, across the windy sea, and through the long years since the flowers had withered146. Her heart grew faint at the hundred reminiscences that were awakened147 by that remembered smell of dead blossoms; it was like opening a drawer, where many things were laid away, and every one of them scented148 with lavender and dried rose-leaves.
We ought not to betray Hilda’s secret; but it is the truth, that being so sad, and so utterly alone, and in such great need of sympathy, her thoughts sometimes recurred149 to the sculptor150. Had she met him now, her heart, indeed, might not have been won, but her confidence would have flown to him like a bird to its nest. One summer afternoon, especially, Hilda leaned upon the battlements of her tower, and looked over Rome towards the distant mountains, whither Kenyon had told her that he was going.
“O that he were here!” she sighed; “I perish under this terrible secret; and he might help me to endure it. O that he were here!”
That very afternoon, as the reader may remember, Kenyon felt Hilda’s hand pulling at the silken cord that was connected with his heart-strings, as he stood looking towards Rome from the battlements of Monte Beni.
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1
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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grotesqueness
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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alleging
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| 断言，宣称，辩解( allege的现在分词 ) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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venerated
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| 敬重（某人或某事物），崇敬( venerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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annihilates
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| n.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的名词复数 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的第三人称单数 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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44
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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45
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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48
mythology
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| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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50
virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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51
maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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52
depositions
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| 沉积（物）( deposition的名词复数 )； （在法庭上的）宣誓作证； 处置； 罢免 | |
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53
shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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55
mythological
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| adj.神话的 | |
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56
nude
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| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
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57
apotheosis
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| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
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58
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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59
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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60
impure
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| adj.不纯净的，不洁的；不道德的，下流的 | |
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61
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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62
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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63
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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64
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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65
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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66
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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67
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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68
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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69
cherubs
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| 小天使，胖娃娃( cherub的名词复数 ) | |
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70
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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71
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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72
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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73
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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74
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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75
blotches
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| n.（皮肤上的）红斑，疹块( blotch的名词复数 )；大滴 [大片]（墨水或颜色的）污渍 | |
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76
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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77
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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78
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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79
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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80
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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81
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
venal
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| adj.唯利是图的，贪脏枉法的 | |
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83
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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84
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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85
enamel
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| n.珐琅，搪瓷，瓷釉；(牙齿的)珐琅质 | |
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86
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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88
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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89
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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90
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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91
homeliness
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| n.简朴，朴实；相貌平平 | |
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92
fresco
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| n.壁画；vt.作壁画于 | |
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93
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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94
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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95
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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96
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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97
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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98
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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99
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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100
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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101
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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102
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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103
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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104
depicting
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| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
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105
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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106
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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107
incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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108
omnipotence
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| n.全能，万能，无限威力 | |
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109
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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110
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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111
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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112
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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113
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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114
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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115
potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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116
mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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117
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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118
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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119
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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120
perceptive
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| adj.知觉的，有洞察力的，感知的 | |
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121
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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122
consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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123
drearier
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| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的比较级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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124
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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126
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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127
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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128
suites
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| n.套( suite的名词复数 )；一套房间；一套家具；一套公寓 | |
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129
progenitor
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| n.祖先，先驱 | |
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130
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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131
assuage
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| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
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132
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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133
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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134
scrutinize
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| n.详细检查，细读 | |
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135
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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136
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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138
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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139
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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140
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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141
eddying
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| 涡流，涡流的形成 | |
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142
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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143
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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145
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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146
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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147
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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148
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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149
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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150
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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