Henceforth the tragic2 meaning of life filled both their minds, and they tried in vain to banish3 the physical sadness which from moment to moment made their spirits more clear yet more disturbed. They clasped each other's hand, as if they were groping in dark, dangerous places. They spoke4 little, but often they gazed into each other's eyes, and the look of the one poured into that of the other a wave of confused emotion, the mingling5 of their love and horror. But it did not calm their hearts.
"Shall we go farther?"
"Yes, let us go on."
Still they clasped each other's hand closely, as if they were about to go through some strange test, and were resolved to experiment as to what depths could be reached by the combined force of their melancholy6. At the Dolo, the wheels made the chestnut-leaves rustle7 and crackle beneath them, and the tall changing trees flamed over their heads like crimson8 draperies on fire. At a distance was the Villa9 Barbariga, silent, deserted10, of a reddish hue11 in its denuded12 garden, showing vestiges13 of old paintings in the cracks of its fa?ade, like streaks14 of rouge15 on the wrinkled cheeks of an old woman. And, at every glance, the distances of the landscape seemed fainter and bluer, like things slowly submerged.
"Here is Strà."
They alighted before the Villa Pisani, and, accompanied by its guardian16, they visited the deserted apartments. They heard the sound of their own footsteps on the marble that reflected them, the echoes in the historic arches, the creaking of the doors, the tiresome17 voice of the keeper awakening18 the memories of the place. The rooms were vast, hung with faded draperies and furnished in the style of the Empire, with Napoleonic emblems19. The walls of one room were covered with portraits of the Pisani, procurators of San Marco; of another, with marble medallions of all the Doges; of a third, with a series of flowers painted in water-colors and mounted in delicate frames, pale as the dry flowers that are laid under glass, in memory of love or death.
As La Foscarina entered one room, she said:
"In time! Here, too!"
There, on a bracket, stood a transformation20 into marble of La Vecchia by Francesco Torbido, made even more repulsive21 by the relief, by the subtle skill of the sculptor22, to bring out with his chisel23 each tendon, wrinkle, and hollow place in the old woman's face. And at the doors of this room seemed to appear the ghosts of the crowned women that had hidden their unhappiness and their decay in that vast dwelling24, at once like a palace and a monastery25.
"Maria Luisa di Parma, in eighteen hundred and seventeen," continued the monotonous26 voice.
"Ah, the Queen of Spain, wife of Charles the Fourth, and mistress of Manuel Godo?," said Stelio. "She attracts me more than all the others. She came here when they were in exile. Do you know whether she stayed here with the King and the favorite!"
But the guardian knew only that name and the date.
"Why does she attract you?" La Foscarina asked. "I know nothing of her history."
"Her end, the last years of her life of exile, after so much struggle and passion, are extraordinarily27 full of poetry."
And he described that violent and tenacious28 character, the weak, credulous29 King, the handsome adventurer who had enjoyed the smiles of the Queen, and had been dragged through the streets by the infuriated mob; the agitations31 of the three lives bound together by Fate, and swept before Napoleon's will like leaves in a whirlwind; the tumult32 at Aranjuez, the abdication33, the exile.
"And Godo?—the Prince of Peace, as the King called him—faithfully followed the sovereigns into exile; he remained faithful to his royal mistress, and she to him. They all lived together under the same roof thenceforth, and Charles never doubted the virtue34 of Maria Luisa. Even to the day of his death, he lavished35 all manner of kindness on the two lovers. Imagine their life in this place; imagine here such a love coming safely through a storm so terrible. All was broken down, overthrown37, reduced to powder by the destroyer. Bonaparte had passed that way, but had not smothered38 that love, already old, beneath the ruins. The faithfulness of those two violent natures moves my heart not less than the credulity of the kindly39 King. Thus they grew old. Imagine it! The Queen died first, then the King; and the favorite, who was younger than they, lived a wandering life a few years more."
"This is the Emperor's room," said the guardian solemnly, flinging open a door.
The great shade seemed omnipresent in the villa of the Doge Alvise. The imperial eagle, symbol of his power, dominated all the faded relics40. But in the yellow room, the shade seemed to occupy the vast bed, to rest under the canopy41, surrounded by the four bedposts ornamented42 at the top with golden flames. The formidable sigla inscribed43 within the laurel crown shone upon the polished side of the bed. And this species of funereal44 couch seemed to be prolonged in the dim mirror hanging between the two figures of Victory that supported the candelabra.
"Did the Emperor sleep in this bed?" inquired the young man of the custodian45, who pointed46 out to him on the wall the portrait of the great condottiere mantled47 in ermine, wearing a crown of laurel and holding a scepter, as he appeared at the coronation blessed by Pius VII. "Is it certain?"
He was surprised at himself at not feeling the emotion experienced by ambitious spirits at the sight of the traces of heroes—that strong throb48 he knew so well.
He lifted the edge of the yellow counterpane, and let it fall as suddenly as if the pillow under it had been full of vermin.
"Let us go away from this place; let us go!" said La Foscarina, who had been looking through the windows at the park, where the golden bars of the setting sun alternated with bluish-green zones of shade. "We cannot breathe here," she added.
"Now we pass into the room of Maximilian of Austria," said the droning voice, "he took the dressing-room of Amélie de Beauharnais for his bedroom."
They crossed this apartment in a flood of crimson light. The sunlight struck on a crimson couch, flashed rainbows from a frail50 chandelier with crystal drops that hung from the ceiling and kindled51 perpendicular52 red lines on the wall. Stelio stopped on the threshold, evoking53 in his fancy as he did so, the pensive54 figure of the young Archduke, with blue eyes, that fair flower of Hapsburg fallen in a barbaric land one summer morning!
"Let us go!" begged La Foscarina again, seeing him still delay.
She hastened through the immense salon55, painted in fresco56 by Tiepolo; the Corinthian bronze gate closing behind her gave forth1 a clang as resonant57 as the stroke of a bell, sending prolonged vibrations58 through space. She flew along, terrified, as if the whole palace were about to crumble59 and fall, and the light to fail, and she dreaded60 lest she should find herself alone among the shadows with these phantoms61 of unhappiness and death. As Stelio followed, through the space wherein the air was moved by her flight, between those walls enclosing relics, behind the famous actress who had simulated the fury of deadly passions, the desperate efforts of will and of desire, and the violent conflict of splendid destines on the stage of all lands, the warm blood in his veins62 grew chill, as if he were passing through a freezing atmosphere; he felt his heart grow cold, his courage flag; his reason for being lost its hold on his mind, and the magnificent illusions with which he had fed his soul, that it might surpass itself and his destiny, wavered and were dispersed63.
"Are we still living?" he asked, when they found themselves in the air without, in the park, far from the unwholesome odor.
He took La Foscarina's hand, shook her gently, gazed into her eyes and tried to smile; then he drew her into the sunlight in the middle of the green meadow.
"What heat! Do you feel it? How sweet the grass is!"
He half-closed his eyes, that he might feel the sun's rays on his eyelids64, and was once more filled with the joy of living. The woman imitated him, calmed by the pleasure her beloved showed; and she looked from under her half-closed eyelids at his fresh, sensuous65 mouth. They sat thus for some time, hand-in-hand, their feet resting on the warm grass. Her thoughts turned back to the Eugenean hills, which he had described, to the villages pink as the buried shells, to the first drops of rain on the tender leaves, Petrarch's fountain, to all things fair and pleasant.
"Life might still be sweet!" she sighed, in a voice wherein was the miracle of hope born anew.
The heart of her beloved became like a fruit suddenly ripened66 by a miraculous67 ray. Joy, delight, and tenderness spread through his whole being. Once more he reveled in the joy of the moment, as if it were the last of life. Love was exalted68 above Destiny.
"Do you love me? Tell me?"
She made no answer, but she opened wide her eyes, and the vastness of the universe was within the circle of those pupils. Never was boundless69 love more powerfully signified by mortal woman.
"Ah, life with thee is sweet, sweet—yesterday as well as to-morrow!"
He seemed intoxicated70 with her, with the sunlight, the grass, the divine sky, as with something never before seen or possessed71. The prisoner leaving his stifling72 cell, the convalescent who beholds73 the sea after looking death in the face, are not more intoxicated.
"Would you like to go now? Shall we leave our melancholy behind us? Would you like to go to a country where there is no autumn?"
—The autumn is in myself, and I carry it everywhere—she thought; but she smiled the slight smile with which she veiled her sadness.—It is I—it is I that must go away alone; I will disappear; I will go far-away and die, my love, O my love!—
During this moment of respite74, she had not succeeded either in conquering her sadness or reviving her hope; but her anguish75 was softened76, and she had lost all bitterness and rancor77.
"Do you wish to go away?"
—To go away, always to be going away, to wander throughout the world, to go long distances!—thought the nomad78 woman.—Never to stop, never to rest! The anxiety of the journey is not over yet, but already the truce79 has expired. You wish to comfort me, my friend, and, to console me, you propose that I should go far-away once more, although I returned to my home, as it were, but yesterday.—
Suddenly her eyes looked like two sparkling springs.
"Leave me in my home a little while longer. And remain here, too, if that is possible. Later, you will be free, you will be happy. You have so long a time before you! You are young. You will win what you deserve. They will not lose you, even if they must wait for you."
Her eyes had two crystal masks before them; they glittered in the sunshine, and seemed almost fixed80 in her fevered face.
"Ah, always the same shadow!" Stelio exclaimed, with an impatience81 he could not conceal82. "But what are you thinking of? What do you fear? Why not tell me what it is that troubles you? Explain yourself. Who is it that must wait for me?"
She trembled with terror at that question, which seemed new and unexpected, although he only repeated her own last words. She trembled to find herself so near danger, as if, in walking across this fair meadow, a precipice83 had suddenly opened under her feet.
And suddenly, in that unfamiliar84 place, on that beautiful grass, at the end of the day, after all those specters, sanguinary or bloodless, rose a living image of will and desire, which filled her with far greater terror. Suddenly, above all the figures of the Past, arose the figure of the Future, and again the aspect of her life was changed; and the sweetness of the respite was already lost, and the fair meadow with its sweet grass was worth nothing.
"Yes, let us talk, if you wish."
But she was obliged to lift her face a little to keep her tears from falling.
"Do not be sad!" pleaded the young man, whose soul was suspended on those eyelids, whence the tears would not fall. "You hold my heart in your hand. I never will fail you. Then why torment85 yourself? I am wholly yours."
For him, too, the image of Donatella was there, with her rounded figure, her body as robust86 and agile87 as a wingless Victory, armed with the glory of maidenhood88, attractive yet hostile, ready to struggle, and then to yield. But his soul was suspended from the eyelids of the other woman, like the tears that veiled the eyes in which he had seen the vastness of the universe, the infinity89 of love.
"Foscarina!"
At last the warm tears fell, but she did not let them course down her cheeks. With one of those movements that sometimes sprang from her sadness with the swift grace of a freed wing, she checked them, moistened her finger-tips with them, and touched her temples without drying them. And, while she still kept her tears upon herself, she tried to smile.
"Forgive me, Stelio. I am so weak!"
"Ah, dear fingers—beautiful as Sofia's! Let me kiss them as they are, still wet."
Within his caressing90 arm, he drew her across the field to a zone of golden green. Lightly, with his arm supporting hers, he kissed her finger-tips, one after another, more delicate than the buds of the tuberose. She startled, and he felt her tremble at each touch of his lips.
"They are salt!"
"Take care, Stelio! Some one may see us."
"No one is here."
"Perhaps down there, in the hothouses."
"There is not a sound. Hark!"
"We might hear the falling of a leaf."
"And the keeper?"
"He has gone to meet some other visitor."
"Does anyone ever come here?"
"The other day Richard Wagner came here with Daniela von Bülow."
"Ah, yes, the niece of the Countess Agoult, of 'Daniel Stern.'"
"Who can tell?"
"Only with himself, perhaps."
"Perhaps."
"Look at the glass windows and walls of the conservatories93—how they sparkle! They appear iridescent94. Rain, sunshine and time have painted it in that way. Does it not seem to reflect a distant twilight95? Perhaps you have sometimes stopped on the Pesaro quay96, to look at the beautiful pentafore window of the Evangelists. If you raised your eyes, you could see the windows of the palace marvelously painted by the changes of weather."
"You know all the secrets of Venice!"
"Not all yet."
"How warm it is here! See how tall those cedars97 are. There is a swallow's nest hanging on that limb."
"The swallows went away very late this year."
"Will you really take me to the Euganean hills in the spring?"
"Yes, Foscarina, I should like to do so."
"Spring is so far-away!"
"Life can still be sweet."
"We are living in a dream."
"Ah, what a land of dreams! No one comes here any more. Grass, grass everywhere! There is not a single human footstep."
"Deucalion with his stones, Ganymede with his eagle, Diana with her stag—all the gods of mythology99."
"How many statues! But these, at least, are not in exile. The ancient hornbeams still protect them."
"Here strolled Maria Luisa di Parma, between the King and the favorite. From time to time she would pause to listen to the click of the blades that cut the hornbeams to form arches. She would let fall her handkerchief, perfumed with jessamine, and Don Manuel Godo? would pick it up with a graceful100 gesture, hiding the pain he suffered when he stooped—a souvenir of the outrages101 he had endured at the hands of the mob in the streets of Aranjuez. How warm the sun was, and how excellent the snuff in its enameled102 box, when the King said with a smile: 'Certainly, our dear Bonaparte is not so well off at Saint Helena as we are here.' But the demon103 of power, of struggle, and of passion was still alive in the Queen's heart. Look at those red roses!"
"They fairly burn. One would think each had a live coal at its heart. Yes, they seem actually to burn."
"Gather a rose for me."
"Here is one."
"Oh, but its leaves are falling."
"Well, here is another."
"These leaves are falling too."
"They are all at the point of death. Perhaps this one is not."
"Do not break it off."
"Look! These seem to be redder still. Bonifazio's velvet—do you remember it? It has the same strength."
"'The inmost flower of the flame.'"
"What a memory!"
"Listen! They are closing the doors of the conservatories."
"The air is beginning to be cooler."
"Do you feel cold?"
"No, not yet."
"Did you leave your cloak in the carriage?"
"Yes."
"We will wait at Dolo for the train, and return to Venice by the railway."
"Yes."
"We still have time to spare."
"What is this? Look!"
"I don't know."
"What a bitter odor! It is a sort of shrubbery of box and hornbeams."
A rusty107 iron gate barred the entrance to the labyrinth between two columns that bore two Cupids riding on stone dolphins. Nothing was to be seen on the other side of the gate, except the beginning of the path, and a kind of solidly built and intricate thicket108, dark and mysterious. In the center of the maze109 rose a tower, at the summit of which stood the statue of a warrior110, as if reconnoitering from that point.
"Have you ever been in a labyrinth?" Stelio inquired.
"No, never," she replied.
They lingered to examine the entrance to the deceptive111 playground, composed by an ingenious gardener for the amusement of ladies and their cavaliers in the days of hoops112 and flowered waistcoats. But age and neglect had rendered it mournful and wild, had deprived it of all appearance of grace and regularity113, and had changed it into thick yellowish-brown woodland, full of inextricable turns through which the slanting114 rays of the setting sun shone so red that some of the shrubs115 looked like smokeless fire.
"It is open," said Stelio, feeling the gate yield as he leaned on it. "Do you see?"
He pushed back the rusty iron gate, took a step forward, and crossed the threshold.
"Where are you going?" asked his companion, with instinctive116 fear, putting out a hand to detain him.
"Do you not wish to go in?"
"Suppose we should lose ourselves?"
"You can see for yourself that it is very small. We can easily find the gate again."
"And suppose we don't find it?"
He laughed at this childish fear.
"No, no! No one is anywhere near. Let us go away."
She tried to draw him back, but he defended himself, stepping backward toward the path. Suddenly he disappeared, laughing.
"Stelio! Stelio!"
She could see him no longer, but she heard his ringing laughter in the midst of the wild thicket.
"Come back! come back!"
"No, no! Come in and find me."
"Stelio, come back! You will be lost," she called.
"I shall find Ariadne."
At that name, she felt her heart throb suddenly, then contract, then palpitate confusedly. Was not that the name he had called Donatella, that first night? Had he not called her Ariadne down there, in the gondola119, while seated at the young girl's feet? She even remembered his words: "Ariadne possesses a divine gift, whereby her power transcends120 all limits." She recalled his accent, his attitude, his look.
Tumultuous anguish seized upon her, obscured her reason, prevented her from realizing the spontaneity of the happening, and the simple careless jest in her friend's speech. The terror that lay hidden in the depths of her love rose in rebellion, mastered her, blinded her with misery121. The trifling122 little accident assumed an appearance of cruelty and derision. She could still hear that laugh ringing from the melancholy maze.
"Stelio!"
In her frantic123 hallucination, she cried out as if she had seen him embraced by the other woman, torn from her arms forever.
"Stelio!"
"Come and find me!" he answered laughing, still invisible.
She rushed into the labyrinth to find him, and advanced straight toward the voice and the laugh, guided by her impulse. But the path turned; a wall of bushes rose before her, impenetrable, and stopped her. She followed the winding124, deceiving path; but one turning followed another, and all looked alike, and the circle seemed to have no end.
"Look for me!" cried the voice from a distance, through the living hedges.
"Where are you? Where are you? Can you see me?"
She looked about for some opening in the hedge through which she might see. But all she saw was thick, interlacing branches, and the redness of the setting sun which lighted them on one side, while shadows darkened them on the other. The box-bushes and the hornbeams were so closely mingled125 that they increased momentarily the bewilderment of the breathless woman.
"I am losing myself! Come and meet me!"
Again that boyish laugh came from the maze.
"Ariadne, Ariadne! the thread!"
Now the words came from the opposite side, striking her heart as if with a blow.
"Ariadne!"
She turned back, ran, turned again, tried to break through the hedge, to see through the undergrowth, to break the branches. She saw nothing but the maze, always the same in every direction. At last she heard a step, so close that she thought it must be just behind her, and she started. But she was deceived. Again she explored her green prison; she listened, waited; she could hear no sound but her own breathing and the beating of her heart. The silence had become absolute. She gazed at the clear sky, curving in its immensity over the two green walls that held her prisoner. She felt that that immensity and narrowness were the only things in the world. And she could not succeed in separating in her thoughts the reality of that place from the image of her mental torture, the natural aspect of things from that kind of living allegory created by her own anguish.
"Stelio, where are you?"
No reply. She listened and waited in vain. The seconds seemed like hours.
"Where are you? I am afraid!"
No reply. But where was he, then? Had he found the way out? Had he left her there all alone? Would he continue to play this cruel game?
A mad desire to scream, to sob126, to throw herself on the ground, to hurt herself, to make herself ill, to die, assailed127 the distracted woman. Again she raised her eyes to the silent sky. The tops of the tall hornbeams were reddened, like logs when they have ceased to blaze and are about to fall in ashes.
"I can see you!" suddenly said a laughing voice, in the deep shadows, very near her.
"Where are you?"
He laughed among the leaves, but without revealing himself, like a faun in hiding. This game excited him; his body grew warm and supple128 by this exercise of his agility129; and the wild mystery, the contact with the earth, the odor of autumn, the strangeness of this unexpected adventure, the woman's bewilderment, even the presence of the marble deities130 mingled with his physical pleasure an illusion of antique poetry and grace.
"Where are you? Oh, do not play any more! Do not laugh in that way! Enough!"
He had crept, bareheaded, into the bushes on his hands and knees. He felt the dead leaves, the soft moss131. And as he breathed among the branches, and felt his heart throb with the strange delight of the situation, with the communion between his own life and the vegetable life around him, the spell of his fancy renewed among those winding ways the industry of the first maker132 of wings, the myth of the monster that was born of Pasipha? and the Bull, the Attic133 legend of Theseus in Crete. All that ancient world became real to him. In that glowing autumn evening, he was transfigured, according to the instincts of his blood and the recollections of his mind, into one of those ambiguous forms, half animal and half divine, one of those glittering genii whose throats were swollen134 with the same gland135 that hangs from the neck of the goat. A joyous136 voluptuousness137 suggested strange surprises to him, suggested the swiftness of pursuit, of flight, capture, and a fleeting138 embrace in the shadows of the wood. Then he desired some one like himself, fresh youthfulness that could share his laughter, two light feet to fly before him, two arms to resist him, a prize to capture at last. Donatella with her curved figure recurred139 to his mental vision.
"Enough, Stelio! I cannot run any more. I shall fall."
La Foscarina uttered a scream on feeling her skirt pulled by a hand that had reached through the shrubbery. She bent140 down, and saw in the shadows the face of a laughing faun. The laughter struck her ear without calming her distress141, without breaking the sense of suffering that overpowered her. As she looked at his boyish face, she saw at the same instant the face of the singer, who seemed to be stooping with her, imitating her movement as if she were a shadow. Her mind became more confused, and she could not distinguish between illusion and reality. The other woman seemed to overthrow36 her, oppress her, suffocate142 her.
"Leave me! Leave me! It is not I whom you seek!"
Her voice was so changed that Stelio broke off his laughter and his sport, withdrew his arm, and rose to his feet. She could not see him; the leafy, impenetrable wall was between them again.
"Take me away from this place. I cannot bear any more. My strength is gone. I suffer."
He could find no words to comfort her. The simultaneous coincidence of his recent thought of Donatella, and her sudden divination143 of it, impressed him deeply.
"Wait a little! I will try to find the way out. I will call some one."
"Are you going away?"
"Don't be afraid! There is no danger."
But while he spoke thus to reassure144 her, he felt the inaneness145 of his words—the incongruity146 between that laughable adventure and the obscure emotion born of a far different cause. And now he too felt the strange ambiguity147 whereby the trifling event appeared in two confusing aspects: a suppressed desire to laugh persisted under his concern for her, so that his perturbation was new to him, like wild agitations born of extravagant148 dreams.
"Do not go away!" she implored149, a prey150 to her hallucinations. "Perhaps we can meet there at the next turning. Let us try. Take my hands."
"Foscarina, what is the matter? Are you really ill? Wait! I will try to break through."
He attempted to break down the hedge, and snapped off a few twigs152, but its thickness resisted him, and he scratched his hands uselessly.
"No, it is impossible."
"Cry out! Call some one."
He cried aloud in the silence.
The top of the hedge had lost its deep color, but a red light now spread over the sky above them. A triangle of wild ducks passed in sweeping153 flight.
"Let me go, Foscarina. I shall find the tower easily, and will call from there. Some one will be sure to hear me."
"No! No!"
But she heard him move away, followed the sound of his steps, and was once more bewildered by the maze, once more alone and lost. She stopped, waited, listened, and looked at the sky. She lost all sense of time; the seconds seemed hours.
"Stelio! Stelio!"
She was no longer capable of an effort to control her disordered and exasperated154 mind. She felt the approach of a crisis of mad fear, as one feels the approach of a whirlwind.
"Stelio!"
He heard that cry full of anguish, and hastened his search along the winding paths that first seemed to lead him toward the tower and then away from it. The laughter had frozen in his heart. His whole soul shook to its foundation every time his name reached him, uttered by that invisible agony. And the gradual lessening157 of the light brought up an image of blood that is flowing away, of slowly fading life.
"I am here! I am here!"
One of the paths brought him at last to the open space where the tower stood. He ran furiously up the winding stairs, felt dizzy when he reached the top, closed his eyes while grasping the railing, opened them again, and saw a long zone of fire on the horizon, the disk of the rayless moon, the gray plain, and the labyrinth below him, black and spotted158 with box-bush and horn-beam, narrow in its endless convolutions, looking like a dismantled159 edifice160 covered with wild vines.
"Stop! Stop! Do not run like that! Some one has heard me. A man is coming. I can see him coming. Wait! Stop!"
He watched the woman turning and running like a mad creature along the dark, delusive paths, like something condemned161 to vain torture, to some useless but eternal fatigue162, like a sister of the fabulous163 martyrs164.
"Stop!"
It seemed that she did not hear him, or that she could not control her fatal agitation30, and that he could not rescue her, but must always remain there, a witness of that terrible chastisement165.
"Here he is!"
One of the keepers had heard their cries, had approached them, and now entered by the gateway166. Stelio met him at the foot of the tower, and together they hastened to find the lost woman. The man knew the secret of the labyrinth, and Stelio prevented any chatter167 and jests by surprising him with his generosity168.
"Has she lost consciousness—has she fallen?" The darkness and the silence were sinister169, and he felt alarmed. She did not answer when he called her, and he could not hear her footsteps. Night had already fallen on the place, and a damp veil was descending170 from the purple sky.
"Shall I find her in a swoon upon the ground," he thought.
He started at seeing a mysterious figure appear at a turning, with a pale face that attracted all the last rays of daylight, white as a pearl, with large, fixed eyes, and lips closely compressed.
They turned back toward the Dolo, taking the same route beside the Brenta. She never spoke, never opened her lips, never answered, as if she could not unclose her teeth. She lay in the bottom of the carriage, wrapped in her cloak, and now and then she shook with a deep shudder171, as one attacked by malarial172 fever. Her friend tried to take her hands in his to warm them, but in vain—they were inert173 and lifeless. And as they drove along, the statues passed and passed beside them.
The river flowed black between its banks, under the purple and silver sky; the moon was rising. A black boat came down the stream, towed by two gray horses with heavy hoofs174, led by a man who whistled cheerfully, and the funnel175 smoked on the deck like a chimney on a hut. The yellow light of a lantern flashed, and the odor of supper floated on the air; and here and there, as they drove along, the statues passed and passed beside them.
It was like a Stygian landscape, like a vision of Hades, a region of shadows, mist, and water. Everything grew misty176 and vanished like spirits. The moon enchanted177 and attracted the plain, as it enchants178 and attracts the water, absorbing the vapors179 of earth with insatiable, silent thirst. Solitary180 pools shone everywhere; small, silvery canals were visible, glittering at uncertain distances. Earth seemed to be gradually losing its solidity, and the sky seemed to regard its own melancholy reflected in innumerable placid181 mirrors.
And here and there, along the banks of the stream, like the ghosts of a people disappeared, the statues passed and passed!
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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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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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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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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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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8
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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9
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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10
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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12
denuded
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| adj.[医]变光的，裸露的v.使赤裸( denude的过去式和过去分词 )；剥光覆盖物 | |
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vestiges
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| 残余部分( vestige的名词复数 )； 遗迹； 痕迹； 毫不 | |
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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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16
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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17
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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18
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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19
emblems
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| n.象征，标记( emblem的名词复数 ) | |
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20
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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21
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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22
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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23
chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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24
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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25
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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26
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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27
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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28
tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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29
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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30
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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31
agitations
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| （液体等的）摇动( agitation的名词复数 )； 鼓动； 激烈争论； （情绪等的）纷乱 | |
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32
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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33
abdication
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| n.辞职；退位 | |
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34
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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35
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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36
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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37
overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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38
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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39
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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40
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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41
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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42
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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43
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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44
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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45
custodian
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| n.保管人，监护人；公共建筑看守 | |
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46
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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47
mantled
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| 披着斗篷的，覆盖着的 | |
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48
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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49
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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50
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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51
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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52
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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53
evoking
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| 产生，引起，唤起( evoke的现在分词 ) | |
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54
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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55
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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56
fresco
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| n.壁画；vt.作壁画于 | |
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57
resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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58
vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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59
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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60
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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61
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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62
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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63
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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64
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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65
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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66
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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68
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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69
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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70
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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71
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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72
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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73
beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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74
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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75
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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76
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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77
rancor
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| n.深仇，积怨 | |
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78
nomad
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| n.游牧部落的人，流浪者，游牧民 | |
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79
truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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80
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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81
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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82
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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83
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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84
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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85
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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86
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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87
agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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88
maidenhood
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| n. 处女性, 处女时代 | |
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89
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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90
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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91
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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92
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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93
conservatories
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| n.（培植植物的）温室，暖房( conservatory的名词复数 ) | |
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94
iridescent
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| adj.彩虹色的，闪色的 | |
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95
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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96
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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97
cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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98
lichens
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| n.地衣( lichen的名词复数 ) | |
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99
mythology
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| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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100
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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101
outrages
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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102
enameled
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| 涂瓷釉于，给…上瓷漆，给…上彩饰( enamel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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104
lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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105
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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106
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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107
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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108
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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109
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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110
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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111
deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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112
hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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113
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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114
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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115
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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116
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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117
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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118
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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119
gondola
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| n.威尼斯的平底轻舟；飞船的吊船 | |
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120
transcends
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的第三人称单数 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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121
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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122
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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123
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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124
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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125
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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126
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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127
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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128
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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129
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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130
deities
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| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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131
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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132
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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133
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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134
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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gland
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| n.腺体，(机)密封压盖，填料盖 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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voluptuousness
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| n.风骚，体态丰满 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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142
suffocate
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| vt.使窒息，使缺氧，阻碍；vi.窒息，窒息而亡，阻碍发展 | |
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143
divination
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| n.占卜，预测 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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inaneness
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| n.疯狂，狂暴 | |
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incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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153
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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delusive
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| adj.欺骗的，妄想的 | |
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156
ewer
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| n.大口水罐 | |
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lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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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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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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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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165
chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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171
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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malarial
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| 患疟疾的，毒气的 | |
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inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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funnel
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| n.漏斗；烟囱；v.汇集 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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enchants
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| 使欣喜，使心醉( enchant的第三人称单数 )； 用魔法迷惑 | |
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vapors
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| n.水汽，水蒸气，无实质之物( vapor的名词复数 )；自夸者；幻想 [药]吸入剂 [古]忧郁（症）v.自夸，（使）蒸发( vapor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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181
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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