Immediately after leaving Incisa, we saw the Arno, already a considerable river, rushing between deep banks, with the greenish line of a duck-pond diffused17 through its water. Nevertheless, though the first impression was not altogether agreeable, we soon became reconciled to this line, and ceased to think it an indication of impurity18; for, in spite of it, the river is still to a certain degree transparent19, and is, at any rate, a mountain stream, and comes uncontaminated from its source. The pure, transparent brown of the New England rivers is the most beautiful color; but I am content that it should be peculiar20 to them.
Our afternoon's drive was through scenery less striking than some which we had traversed, but still picturesque21 and beautiful. We saw deep valleys and ravines, with streams at the bottom; long, wooded hillsides, rising far and high, and dotted with white dwellings22, well towards the summits. By and by, we had a distant glimpse of Florence, showing its great dome23 and some of its towers out of a sidelong valley, as if we were between two great waves of the tumultuous sea of hills; while, far beyond, rose in the distance the blue peaks of three or four of the Apennines, just on the remote horizon. There being a haziness24 in the atmosphere, however, Florence was little more distinct to us than the Celestial25 City was to Christian26 and Hopeful, when they spied at it from the Delectable27 Mountains.
Keeping steadfastly28 onward29, we ascended30 a winding31 road, and passed a grand villa11, standing32 very high, and surrounded with extensive grounds. It must be the residence of some great noble; and it has an avenue of poplars or aspens, very light and gay, and fit for the passage of the bridal procession, when the proprietor33 or his heir brings home his bride; while, in another direction from the same front of the palace, stretches an avenue or grove34 of cypresses35, very long, and exceedingly black and dismal36, like a train of gigantic mourners. I have seen few things more striking, in the way of trees, than this grove of cypresses.
From this point we descended37, and drove along an ugly, dusty avenue, with a high brick wall on one side or both, till we reached the gate of Florence, into which we were admitted with as little trouble as custom-house officers, soldiers, and policemen can possibly give. They did not examine our luggage, and even declined a fee, as we had already paid one at the frontier custom-house. Thank heaven, and the Grand Duke!
As we hoped that the Casa del Bello had been taken for us, we drove thither38 in the first place, but found that the bargain had not been concluded. As the house and studio of Mr. Powers were just on the opposite side of the street, I went to it, but found him too much engrossed39 to see me at the moment; so I returned to the vettura, and we told Gaetano to carry us to a hotel. He established us at the Albergo della Fontana, a good and comfortable house. . . . Mr. Powers called in the evening,—a plain personage, characterized by strong simplicity40 and warm kindliness41, with an impending42 brow, and large eyes, which kindle43 as he speaks. He is gray, and slightly bald, but does not seem elderly, nor past his prime. I accept him at once as an honest and trustworthy man, and shall not vary from this judgment44. Through his good offices, the next day, we engaged the Casa del Bello, at a rent of fifty dollars a month, and I shall take another opportunity (my fingers and head being tired now) to write about the house, and Mr. Powers, and what appertains to him, and about the beautiful city of Florence. At present, I shall only say further, that this journey from Rome has been one of the brightest and most uncareful interludes of my life; we have all enjoyed it exceedingly, and I am happy that our children have it to look back upon.
June 4th.—At our visit to Powers's studio on Tuesday, we saw a marble copy of the fisher-boy holding a shell to his ear, and the bust45 of Proserpine, and two or three other ideal busts46; various casts of most of the ideal statues and portrait busts which he has executed. He talks very freely about his works, and is no exception to the rule that an artist is not apt to speak in a very laudatory47 style of a brother artist. He showed us a bust of Mr. Sparks by Persico,—a lifeless and thoughtless thing enough, to be sure,—and compared it with a very good one of the same gentleman by himself; but his chiefest scorn was bestowed48 on a wretched and ridiculous image of Mr. King, of Alabama, by Clark Mills, of which he said he had been employed to make several copies for Southern gentlemen. The consciousness of power is plainly to be seen, and the assertion of it by no means withheld49, in his simple and natural character; nor does it give me an idea of vanity on his part to see and hear it. He appears to consider himself neglected by his country,—by the government of it, at least,—and talks with indignation of the byways and political intrigue50 which, he thinks, win the rewards that ought to be bestowed exclusively on merit. An appropriation51 of twenty-five thousand dollars was made, some years ago, for a work of sculpture by him, to be placed in the Capitol; but the intermediate measures necessary to render it effective have been delayed; while the above-mentioned Clark Mills— certainly the greatest bungler52 that ever botched a block of marble—has received an order for an equestrian53 statue of Washington. Not that Mr. Powers is made bitter or sour by these wrongs, as he considers them; he talks of them with the frankness of his disposition54 when the topic comes in his way, and is pleasant, kindly55, and sunny when he has done with it.
His long absence from our country has made him think worse of us than we deserve; and it is an effect of what I myself am sensible, in my shorter exile: the most piercing shriek56, the wildest yell, and all the ugly sounds of popular turmoil57, inseparable from the life of a republic, being a million times more audible than the peaceful hum of prosperity and content which is going on all the while.
He talks of going home, but says that he has been talking of it every year since he first came to Italy; and between his pleasant life of congenial labor58, and his idea of moral deterioration59 in America, I think it doubtful whether he ever crosses the sea again. Like most exiles of twenty years, he has lost his native country without finding another; but then it is as well to recognize the truth,—that an individual country is by no means essential to one's comfort.
Powers took us into the farthest room, I believe, of his very extensive studio, and showed us a statue of Washington that has much dignity and stateliness. He expressed, however, great contempt for the coat and breeches, and masonic emblems60, in which he had been required to drape the figure. What would he do with Washington, the most decorous and respectable personage that ever went ceremoniously through the realities of life? Did anybody ever see Washington nude61? It is inconceivable. He had no nakedness, but I imagine he was born with his clothes on, and his hair powdered, and made a stately bow on his first appearance in the world. His costume, at all events, was a part of his character, and must be dealt with by whatever sculptor62 undertakes to represent him. I wonder that so very sensible a man as Powers should not see the necessity of accepting drapery, and the very drapery of the day, if he will keep his art alive. It is his business to idealize the tailor's actual work. But he seems to be especially fond of nudity, none of his ideal statues, so far as I know them, having so much as a rag of clothes. His statue of California, lately finished, and as naked as Venus, seemed to me a very good work; not an actual woman, capable of exciting passion, but evidently a little out of the category of human nature. In one hand she holds a divining-rod. "She says to the emigrants," observed Powers, "'Here is the gold, if you choose to take it.'" But in her face, and in her eyes, very finely expressed, there is a look of latent mischief63, rather grave than playful, yet somewhat impish or sprite-like; and, in the other hand, behind her back, she holds a bunch of thorns. Powers calls her eyes Indian. The statue is true to the present fact and history of California, and includes the age-long truth as respects the "auri sacra fames." . . . .
When we had looked sufficiently64 at the sculpture, Powers proposed that we should now go across the street and see the Casa del Bello. We did so in a body, Powers in his dressing-gown and slippers65, and his wife and daughters without assuming any street costume.
The Casa del Bello is a palace of three pianos, the topmost of which is occupied by the Countess of St. George, an English lady, and two lower pianos are to be let, and we looked at both. The upper one would have suited me well enough; but the lower has a terrace, with a rustic67 summer-house over it, and is connected with a garden, where there are arbors and a willow-tree, and a little wilderness69 of shrubbery and roses, with a fountain in the midst. It has likewise an immense suite66 of rooms, round the four sides of a small court, spacious70, lofty, with frescoed71 ceilings and rich hangings, and abundantly furnished with arm-chairs, sofas, marble tables, and great looking-glasses. Not that these last are a great temptation, but in our wandering life I wished to be perfectly73 comfortable myself, and to make my family so, for just this summer, and so I have taken the lower piano, the price being only fifty dollars per month (entirely74 furnished, even to silver and linen). Certainly this is something like the paradise of cheapness we were told of, and which we vainly sought in Rome. . . .
To me has been assigned the pleasantest room for my study; and when I like I can overflow75 into the summer-house or an arbor68, and sit there dreaming of a story. The weather is delightful76, too warm to walk, but perfectly fit to do nothing in, in the coolness of these great rooms. Every day I shall write a little, perhaps,—and probably take a brief nap somewhere between breakfast and tea,—but go to see pictures and statues occasionally, and so assuage77 and mollify myself a little after that uncongenial life of the consulate78, and before going back to my own hard and dusty New England.
After concluding the arrangement for the Casa del Bello, we stood talking a little while with Powers and his wife and daughter before the door of the house, for they seem so far to have adopted the habits of the Florentines as to feel themselves at home on the shady side of the street. The out-of-door life and free communication with the pavement, habitual79 apparently80 among the middle classes, reminds me of the plays of Moliere and other old dramatists, in which the street or the square becomes a sort of common parlor81, where most of the talk and scenic82 business of the people is carried on.
June 5th.—For two or three mornings after breakfast I have rambled83 a little about the city till the shade grew narrow beneath the walls of the houses, and the heat made it uncomfortable to be in motion. To-day I went over the Ponte Carraja, and thence into and through the heart of the city, looking into several churches, in all of which I found people taking advantage of the cool breadth of these sacred interiors to refresh themselves and say their prayers. Florence at first struck me as having the aspect of a very new city in comparison with Rome; but, on closer acquaintance, I find that many of the buildings are antique and massive, though still the clear atmosphere, the bright sunshine, the light, cheerful hues84 of the stucco, and—as much as anything else, perhaps—the vivacious86 character of the human life in the streets, take away the sense of its being an ancient city. The streets are delightful to walk in after so many penitential pilgrimages as I have made over those little square, uneven87 blocks of the Roman pavement, which wear out the boots and torment88 the soul. I absolutely walk on the smooth flags of Florence for the mere89 pleasure of walking, and live in its atmosphere for the mere pleasure of living; and, warm as the weather is getting to be, I never feel that inclination90 to sink down in a heap and never stir again, which was my dull torment and misery91 as long as I stayed in Rome. I hardly think there can be a place in the world where life is more delicious for its own simple sake than here.
I went to-day into the Baptistery, which stands near the Duomo, and, like that, is covered externally with slabs92 of black and white marble, now grown brown and yellow with age. The edifice93 is octagonal, and on entering, one immediately thinks of the Pantheon,—the whole space within being free from side to side, with a dome above; but it differs from the severe simplicity of the former edifice, being elaborately ornamented94 with marble and frescos, and lacking that great eye in the roof that looks so nobly and reverently95 heavenward from the Pantheon. I did little more than pass through the Baptistery, glancing at the famous bronze doors, some perfect and admirable casts of which I had already seen at the Crystal Palace.
The entrance of the Duomo being just across the piazza96, I went in there after leaving the Baptistery, and was struck anew—for this is the third or fourth visit—with the dim grandeur97 of the interior, lighted as it is almost exclusively by painted windows, which seem to me worth all the variegated98 marbles and rich cabinet-work of St. Peter's. The Florentine Cathedral has a spacious and lofty nave99, and side aisles100 divided from it by pillars; but there are no chapels101 along the aisles, so that there is far more breadth and freedom of interior, in proportion to the actual space, than is usual in churches. It is woful to think how the vast capaciousness within St. Peter's is thrown away, and made to seem smaller than it is by every possible device, as if on purpose. The pillars and walls of this Duomo are of a uniform brownish, neutral tint102; the pavement, a mosaic103 work of marble; the ceiling of the dome itself is covered with frescos, which, being very imperfectly lighted, it is impossible to trace out. Indeed, it is but a twilight104 region that is enclosed within the firmament105 of this great dome, which is actually larger than that of St. Peter's, though not lifted so high from the pavement. But looking at the painted windows, I little cared what dimness there might be elsewhere; for certainly the art of man has never contrived106 any other beauty and glory at all to be compared to this.
The dome sits, as it were, upon three smaller domes107,—smaller, but still great,—beneath which are three vast niches108, forming the transepts of the cathedral and the tribune behind the high altar. All round these hollow, dome-covered arches or niches are high and narrow windows crowded with saints, angels, and all manner of blessed shapes, that turn the common daylight into a miracle of richness and splendor109 as it passes through their heavenly substance. And just beneath the swell110 of the great central dome is a wreath of circular windows quite round it, as brilliant as the tall and narrow ones below. It is a pity anybody should die without seeing an antique painted window, with the bright Italian sunshine glowing through it. This is "the dim, religious light" that Milton speaks of; but I doubt whether he saw these windows when he was in Italy, or any but those faded or dusty and dingy111 ones of the English cathedrals, else he would have illuminated112 that word "dim" with some epithet113 that should not chase away the dimness, yet should make it shine like a million of rubies114, sapphires115, emeralds, and topazes,—bright in themselves, but dim with tenderness and reverence116 because God himself was shining through them. I hate what I have said.
All the time that I was in the cathedral the space around the high altar, which stands exactly under the dome, was occupied by priests or acolytes117 in white garments, chanting a religious service.
After coming out, I took a view of the edifice from a corner of the street nearest to the dome, where it and the smaller domes can be seen at once. It is greatly more satisfactory than St. Peter's in any view I ever had of it,—striking in its outline, with a mystery, yet not a bewilderment, in its masses and curves and angles, and wrought118 out with a richness of detail that gives the eyes new arches, new galleries, new niches, new pinnacles119, new beauties, great and small, to play with when wearied with the vast whole. The hue85, black and white marbles, like the Baptistery, turned also yellow and brown, is greatly preferable to the buff travertine of St. Peter's.
From the Duomo it is but a moderate street's length to the Piazza del Gran Duca, the principal square of Florence. It is a very interesting place, and has on one side the old Governmental Palace,—the Palazzo Vecchio,—where many scenes of historic interest have been enacted120; for example, conspirators121 have been hanged from its windows, or precipitated122 from them upon the pavement of the square below.
It is a pity that we cannot take as much interest in the history of these Italian Republics as in that of England, for the former is much the more picturesque and fuller of curious incident. The sobriety of the Anglo-Saxon race—in connection, too, with their moral sense—keeps them from doing a great many things that would enliven the page of history; and their events seem to come in great masses, shoved along by the agency of many persons, rather than to result from individual will and character. A hundred plots for a tragedy might be found in Florentine history for one in English.
At one corner of the Palazzo Vecchio is a bronze equestrian statue of Cosmo de' Medici, the first Grand Duke, very stately and majestic123; there are other marble statues—one of David, by Michael Angelo—at each side of the palace door; and entering the court I found a rich antique arcade124 within, surrounded by marble pillars, most elaborately carved, supporting arches that were covered with faded frescos. I went no farther, but stepped across a little space of the square to the Loggia di Lanzi, which is broad and noble, of three vast arches, at the end of which, I take it, is a part of the Palazzo Uffizi fronting on the piazza. I should call it a portico125 if it stood before the palace door; but it seems to have been constructed merely for itself, and as a shelter for the people from sun and rain, and to contain some fine specimens126 of sculpture, as well antique as of more modern times. Benvenuto Cellini's Perseus stands here; but it did not strike me so much as the cast of it in the Crystal Palace.
A good many people were under these great arches; some of whom were reclining, half or quite asleep, on the marble seats that are built against the back of the loggia. A group was reading an edict of the Grand Duke, which appeared to have been just posted on a board, at the farther end of it; and I was surprised at the interest which they ventured to manifest, and the freedom with which they seemed to discuss it. A soldier was on guard, and doubtless there were spies enough to carry every word that was said to the ear of absolute authority. Glancing myself at the edict, however, I found it referred only to the furtherance of a project, got up among the citizens themselves, for bringing water into the city; and on such topics, I suppose there is freedom of discussion.
June 7th.—Saturday evening we walked with U—— and J——- into the city, and looked at the exterior127 of the Duomo with new admiration128. Since my former view of it, I have noticed—which, strangely enough, did not strike me before—that the facade129 is but a great, bare, ugly space, roughly plastered over, with the brickwork peeping through it in spots, and a faint, almost invisible fresco72 of colors upon it. This front was once nearly finished with an incrustation of black and white marble, like the rest of the edifice; but one of the city magistrates130, Benedetto Uguccione, demolished131 it, three hundred years ago, with the idea of building it again in better style. He failed to do so, and, ever since, the magnificence of the great church has been marred132 by this unsightly roughness of what should have been its richest part; nor is there, I suppose, any hope that it will ever be finished now.
The campanile, or bell-tower, stands within a few paces of the cathedral, but entirely disconnected from it, rising to a height of nearly three hundred feet, a square tower of light marbles, now discolored by time. It is impossible to give an idea of the richness of effect produced by its elaborate finish; the whole surface of the four sides, from top to bottom, being decorated with all manner of statuesque and architectural sculpture. It is like a toy of ivory, which some ingenious and pious133 monk134 might have spent his lifetime in adorning135 with scriptural designs and figures of saints; and when it was finished, seeing it so beautiful, he prayed that it might be miraculously136 magnified from the size of one foot to that of three hundred. This idea somewhat satisfies me, as conveying an impression how gigantesque the campanile is in its mass and height, and how minute and varied137 in its detail. Surely these mediaeval works have an advantage over the classic. They combine the telescope and the microscope.
The city was all alive in the summer evening, and the streets humming with voices. Before the doors of the cafes were tables, at which people were taking refreshment138, and it went to my heart to see a bottle of English ale, some of which was poured foaming139 into a glass; at least, it had exactly the amber141 hue and the foam140 of English bitter ale; but perhaps it may have been merely a Florentine imitation.
As we returned home over the Arno, crossing the Ponte di Santa Trinita, we were struck by the beautiful scene of the broad, calm river, with the palaces along its shores repeated in it, on either side, and the neighboring bridges, too, just as perfect in the tide beneath as in the air above,—a city of dream and shadow so close to the actual one. God has a meaning, no doubt, in putting this spiritual symbol continually beside us.
Along the river, on both sides, as far as we could see, there was a row of brilliant lamps, which, in the far distance, looked like a cornice of golden light; and this also shone as brightly in the river's depths. The lilies of the evening, in the quarter where the sun had gone down, were very soft and beautiful, though not so gorgeous as thousands that I have seen in America. But I believe I must fairly confess that the Italian sky, in the daytime, is bluer and brighter than our own, and that the atmosphere has a quality of showing objects to better advantage. It is more than mere daylight; the magic of moonlight is somehow mixed up with it, although it is so transparent a medium of light.
Last evening, Mr. Powers called to see us, and sat down to talk in a friendly and familiar way. I do not know a man of more facile intercourse142, nor with whom one so easily gets rid of ceremony. His conversation, too, is interesting. He talked, to begin with, about Italian food, as poultry143, mutton, beef, and their lack of savoriness as compared with our own; and mentioned an exquisite144 dish of vegetables which they prepare from squash or pumpkin145 blossoms; likewise another dish, which it will be well for us to remember when we get back to the Wayside, where we are overrun with acacias. It consists of the acacia-blossoms in a certain stage of their development fried in olive-oil. I shall get the receipt from Mrs. Powers, and mean to deserve well of my country by first trying it, and then making it known; only I doubt whether American lard, or even butter, will produce the dish quite so delicately as fresh Florence oil.
Meanwhile, I like Powers all the better, because he does not put his life wholly into marble. We had much talk, nevertheless, on matters of sculpture, for he drank a cup of tea with us, and stayed a good while.
He passed a condemnatory146 sentence on classic busts in general, saying that they were conventional, and not to be depended upon as trite147 representations of the persons. He particularly excepted none but the bust of Caracalla; and, indeed, everybody that has seen this bust must feel the justice of the exception, and so be the more inclined to accept his opinion about the rest. There are not more than half a dozen—that of Cato the Censor148 among the others—in regard to which I should like to ask his judgment individually. He seems to think the faculty149 of making a bust an extremely rare one. Canova put his own likeness150 into all the busts he made. Greenough could not make a good one; nor Crawford, nor Gibson. Mr. Harte, he observed,—an American sculptor, now a resident in Florence,—is the best man of the day for making busts. Of course, it is to be presumed that he excepts himself; but I would not do Powers the great injustice151 to imply that there is the slightest professional jealousy152 in his estimate of what others have done, or are now doing, in his own art. If he saw a better man than himself, he would recognize him at once, and tell the world of him; but he knows well enough that, in this line, there is no better, and probably none so good. It would not accord with the simplicity of his character to blink a fact that stands so broadly before him.
We asked him what he thought, of Mr. Gibson's practice of coloring his statues, and he quietly and slyly said that he himself had made wax figures in his earlier days, but had left off making them now. In short, he objected to the practice wholly, and said that a letter of his on the subject had been published in the London "Athenaeum," and had given great offence to some of Mr. Gibson's friends. It appeared to me, however, that his arguments did not apply quite fairly to the case, for he seems to think Gibson aims at producing an illusion of life in the statue, whereas I think his object is merely to give warmth and softness to the snowy marble, and so bring it a little nearer to our hearts and sympathies. Even so far, nevertheless, I doubt whether the practice is defensible, and I was glad to see that Powers scorned, at all events, the argument drawn153 from the use of color by the antique sculptors154, on which Gibson relies so much. It might almost be implied, from the contemptuous way in which Powers spoke155 of color, that he considers it an impertinence on the face of visible nature, and would rather the world had been made without it; for he said that everything in intellect or feeling can be expressed as perfectly, or more so, by the sculptor in colorless marble, as by the painter with all the resources of his palette. I asked him whether he could model the face of Beatrice Cenci from Guido's picture so as to retain the subtle expression, and he said he could, for that the expression depended entirely on the drawing, "the picture being a badly colored thing." I inquired whether he could model a blush, and he said "Yes"; and that he had once proposed to an artist to express a blush in marble, if he would express it in picture. On consideration, I believe one to be as impossible as the other; the life and reality of the blush being in its tremulousness, coming and going. It is lost in a settled red just as much as in a settled paleness, and neither the sculptor nor painter can do more than represent the circumstances of attitude and expression that accompany the blush. There was a great deal of truth in what Powers said about this matter of color, and in one of our interminable New England winters it ought to comfort us to think how little necessity there is for any hue but that of the snow.
Mr. Powers, nevertheless, had brought us a bunch of beautiful roses, and seemed as capable of appreciating their delicate blush as we were. The best thing he said against the use of color in marble was to the effect that the whiteness removed the object represented into a sort of spiritual region, and so gave chaste156 permission to those nudities which would otherwise suggest immodesty. I have myself felt the truth of this in a certain sense of shame as I looked at Gibson's tinted157 Venus.
He took his leave at about eight o'clock, being to make a call on the Bryants, who are at the Hotel de New York, and also on Mrs. Browning, at Casa Guidi.
END OF VOL. I.
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besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pertinacity
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| n.执拗，顽固 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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dole
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| n.救济，（失业）救济金；vt.（out）发放，发给 | |
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coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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infesting
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| v.害虫、野兽大批出没于( infest的现在分词 )；遍布于 | |
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repelling
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| v.击退( repel的现在分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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interferes
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| vi. 妨碍，冲突，干涉 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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impurity
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| n.不洁，不纯，杂质 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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haziness
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| 有薄雾，模糊； 朦胧之性质或状态； 零能见度 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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26
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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27
delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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28
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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29
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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30
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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32
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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33
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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34
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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35
cypresses
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| n.柏属植物，柏树( cypress的名词复数 ) | |
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36
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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37
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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38
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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39
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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40
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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41
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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42
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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43
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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44
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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45
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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46
busts
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|
| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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47
laudatory
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| adj.赞扬的 | |
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48
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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50
intrigue
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|
| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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51
appropriation
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| n.拨款，批准支出 | |
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52
Bungler
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|
| n.笨拙者，经验不够的人 | |
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53
equestrian
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| adj.骑马的；n.马术 | |
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54
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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55
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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56
shriek
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|
| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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57
turmoil
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|
| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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58
labor
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|
| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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59
deterioration
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| n.退化；恶化；变坏 | |
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60
emblems
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| n.象征，标记( emblem的名词复数 ) | |
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61
nude
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| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
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62
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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63
mischief
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|
| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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64
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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65
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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66
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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67
rustic
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|
| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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68
arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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69
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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70
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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71
frescoed
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| 壁画( fresco的名词复数 )； 温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
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72
fresco
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| n.壁画；vt.作壁画于 | |
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73
perfectly
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|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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74
entirely
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|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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75
overflow
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|
| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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76
delightful
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|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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77
assuage
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| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
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78
consulate
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| n.领事馆 | |
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79
habitual
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|
| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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80
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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81
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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82
scenic
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|
| adj.自然景色的，景色优美的 | |
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83
rambled
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|
| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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84
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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85
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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86
vivacious
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|
| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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87
uneven
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|
| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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88
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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89
mere
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|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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90
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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91
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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92
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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93
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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94
ornamented
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|
| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
reverently
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|
| adv.虔诚地 | |
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96
piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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97
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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98
variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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99
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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100
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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101
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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102
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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103
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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104
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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105
firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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106
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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107
domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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108
niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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109
splendor
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|
| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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110
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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111
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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112
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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113
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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114
rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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115
sapphires
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| n.蓝宝石，钢玉宝石( sapphire的名词复数 )；蔚蓝色 | |
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116
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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117
acolytes
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| n.助手( acolyte的名词复数 )；随从；新手；（天主教）侍祭 | |
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118
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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119
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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120
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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122
precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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123
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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124
arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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125
portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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126
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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127
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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128
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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129
facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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130
magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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131
demolished
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|
| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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132
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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133
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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134
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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135
adorning
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| 修饰，装饰物 | |
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136
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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137
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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138
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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139
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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140
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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141
amber
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|
| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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142
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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143
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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144
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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145
pumpkin
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| n.南瓜 | |
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146
condemnatory
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| adj. 非难的，处罚的 | |
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147
trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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148
censor
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| n./vt.审查，审查员；删改 | |
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149
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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150
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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151
injustice
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|
| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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152
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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153
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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154
sculptors
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| 雕刻家，雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 )； [天]玉夫座 | |
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155
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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156
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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157
tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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