"How sweet and terrible was the fate of Gaspara Stampa," said Stelio. "Do you know her Sonnets3? Yes, I saw them one day on your table. She was a strange mingling4 of ice and fire. Sometimes her mortal passion, above the Petrarchism of Aretino, lifted a glorious cry. I remember a magnificent verse of hers:
Vivere ardendo e non sentire il male!"
"Do you remember, Stelio," said La Foscarina, with that peculiar5 slight smile of hers which gave her face the look of one walking in her sleep, "do you remember the sonnet2 that begins:
Signore, io so che in me non son più viva,
E veggo omai ch'ancor in voi son morta?"
"I don't remember, Fosca."
"Do you remember your beautiful fancy about the dead Summer? Summer was lying on a funeral barge6, dressed in gold like a dogaressa, and the procession was bearing her toward the Island of Murano, where a master of the flame was to enclose her in a shroud7 of opalescent8 glass, so that when she should be submerged in the depths of the lagoon9, she could at least watch the waving seaweed. Do you remember?"
"It was an evening in September."
"The last night of September, the night of the Allegory. There was a great light on the water. You were in an exalted10 mood, and talked and talked. What things you said! You had come from solitude11, and your overcharged soul broke forth12. You poured a sparkling wave of poetry over your companion. A bark passed, laden13 with pomegranates. I called myself Perdita. Do you remember?"
As she walked she felt the extreme lightness of her step and felt that something in her was vanishing, as if her body were on the point of being changed to an empty chrysalis.
"My name was still Perdita. Stelio, do you recall another sonnet of Gaspara's beginning:
Io vorrei pur che Amor dicesse come
Debbo seguirlo....
Se tu credi piacere al mio signore?"
"I did not know you were so familiar with the unhappy Anasilla, my dear."
"Ah, I will tell you. I was hardly fourteen years old when I played in an old romantic tragedy called Gaspara Stampa. I played the leading part. It was at Dolo, where we passed the other day on our way to Strà. We played in a small rustic15 theater—a kind of tent. It was the year before my mother died. I remember it very well. I can remember the sound of my own voice, which was weak then, when I forced it in the tirades17 because some one in the wings kept whispering to me to speak louder, louder!... Well, Gaspara was despairing; she wept and raved18 for her cruel Count. There were many things about it all that my small, profaned19 soul did not know or understand, and I know not what instinct and comprehension of sorrow led me to find the accent and the cries that could stir the miserable20 crowd from which we expected to gain our daily bread. Ten hungry persons used me as a breadwinner; brutal21 necessity cut and tore away from me all the dream-flowers born of my trembling precocity22. Oh, it was a time of weeping and suffocation23, of terror, of unthinking weariness, of mute horror. Those that martyrized me knew not what they were doing, poor creatures, made stupid by poverty and work. God pardon them and give them peace! Only my mother—she, too, who 'for having loved too well and been too little loved, unhappy lived and died'—only my mother had pity on my pain, and knew how to take me in her arms, how to calm my horrible trembling, to weep when I wept, to console me. My blessed mother!"
Her voice changed. Her mother's eyes once again looked upon her, kind and firm and infinite as a peaceful horizon.—Tell me, tell me what I must do! Guide me, teach me, you who know!—Her heart felt again the clasp of those arms, and from the distance of years the old pain came back, but not harshly; it was almost sweet. The memory of her struggles and her sufferings seemed to bathe her soul in a warm wave, to sustain and comfort it. The test had been hard and the victory difficult, obtained at the price of persistent24 labor25, against brutal and hostile forces. She had witnessed the deepest misery26 and ruin, she had known heroic efforts, pity, horror, and the face of Death.
"I know what hunger is, Stelio, and what the approach of night seems like when a place of rest is uncertain," she said softly.
She stopped between the high walls, and lifted her little veil, looking deep into her friend's eyes. He grew pale under that look, so sudden was his emotion and surprise at her words. He felt confused, as if in the incoherence of a dream, incapable27 of applying the true significance of those words to the woman who was smiling at him, holding the delicate glass in her ungloved hand. Yet he had heard what she said, and she stood there before him in her rich fur cape28, looking at him with beautiful soft eyes, misty29 with unshed tears.
"And I have known other things."
It relieved her heart to speak like this; his humility30 gave her strength, as if she had accomplished31 some proud and daring deed. She never had felt conscious of her power and worldly glory in the presence of her beloved, but now the memory of her obscure martyrdom, her poverty and hunger, created in her heart a feeling of real superiority over him she believed invincible32.
"But I have no fear of suffering," she said, remembering the words he had spoken once: "Tell me you do not fear to suffer.... I believe your soul capable of bearing all the sorrow of the world." And her hand stole up to his cheek and caressed34 it, and he understood that she had answered those words spoken long ago.
He was silent, as intoxicated35 as if she had presented to his lips the very essence of her heart pressed out into that crystal cup like the blood of the grape. He waited for her to go on.
They reached a crossroads where stood a miserable hut, falling into ruin. La Foscarina stopped to look at it. The rude, unhinged windows were held open by a stick laid across them. The low sun struck the smoked walls within, and revealed the furniture—a table, a bench, a cradle.
"Do you remember, Stelio," said La Foscarina, "that inn at Dolo where we waited for the train. Vampa's inn, I mean. A great fire burned on the hearth36, the dishes glittered on the shelves, and slices of polenta were toasting on the gridiron. Twenty years ago everything was exactly the same—the same fire, the same dishes, the same polenta. My mother and I used to go in there after the performance, and sit on the bench before a table. I had wept, cried, raved, and had died of poison or by the sword, on the stage. I still heard in my ears the resonance37 of the verses I had uttered, in a voice that was not my own, and a strange will still possessed38 my soul, and I could not shake it off—it was as if another person, struggling with my inertness39, persisted in performing over again those movements and actions. The simulation of an outside life remained in the muscles of my face, and some evenings I could not calm them. Already, even then, the mask, the sensation of the living mask, was beginning to grow. My eyes would remain fixed40, and a chill crept at the roots of my hair. I had difficulty in recovering full consciousness of myself and my surroundings.
"The odors from the kitchen sickened me; the food on our plates seemed too coarse, heavy as a stone, impossible to swallow. My disgust at everything sprang from something indescribably delicate and precious, of which I was conscious under all my weariness—a vague feeling of nobility beneath my humiliation41. I hardly know how to express it. Perhaps it was the obscure presence of that power which later developed in me, of that election, of that difference wherewith Nature has marked me. Sometimes the consciousness of that difference from others became so strong that it almost raised a barrier between my mother and myself—God forgive me!—almost separated me from her. A great loneliness possessed me; nothing around me had power to touch me any more. I was alone with my destiny. My mother, even though she was with me, gradually receded42 into an infinite distance. Ah, she was to die soon, and was already preparing to leave me, and perhaps this withdrawal43 was the forerunner44. She used to urge me to eat, with the words only she knew how to say. I answered: 'Wait! Wait!' I could only drink; I had a great craving45 for cold water. At times, when I was more tired and trembling than usual, I smiled a long-continued smile. And even that dear woman herself, with her deep heart, could not understand whence came my smile!
"Incomparable hours, wherein it seemed that the bodily prison was being broken through by the soul that wandered to the extremest limits of life! What must your youth have been, Stelio! Who can imagine it? We have all felt the weight of sleep that descends47 upon us after fatigue48 or intoxication49, heavy and sudden as a stroke from a hammer, and it seems to annihilate50 us. But the power of dreams sometimes seizes upon us in waking hours with the same force; it holds us and we cannot resist it, though the whole thread of our existence seems on the point of being destroyed. Ah, some of the beautiful things you said that night in Venice come back to my mind, when you spoke33 of her marvelous hands weaving her own lights and shadows in a continuous work of beauty. You alone know how to describe the indescribable.
"Well, ... on that bench, in front of that rustic table, in Vampa's inn at Dolo, where destiny led me again with you, I had the most extraordinary visions that dreams ever have called up in my brain. I saw that which is unforgettable; I saw the real forms around me obliterated51 by the dream-figures born of my instinct and my thoughts. Under my fixed eyes, dazzled and scorched52 by the smoky petroleum53 lamps of the improvised54 stage, the world of my expression began to throb55 with life. The first lines of my art were developed in that state of anguish56, of weariness, fever, disgust, in which my sensibility became, so to speak, plastic, after the manner of the incandescent57 material we saw the workmen holding at the end of the tube. In it was a natural aspiration58 to be modeled, to receive breath, to fill a mold. On certain evenings, in that wall covered with copper59 utensils60, I could see myself reflected as in a mirror, in attitudes of grief or rage; with an unrecognizable face; and, in order to escape from this hallucination, to break the fixity of my gaze, I opened and shut my eyes rapidly. My mother would say, over and over: 'Eat, my daughter, at least eat this.' But what were bread, wine, meat, fruits, all those heavy things, in comparison with what I had within me? I said to her: 'Wait!' and when we rose to go, I used to take only a large piece of bread with me. I liked to eat it in the country the next morning, under a tree, or sitting on the bank of the Brenta.... Oh, those statues! They did not recognize me the other day, Stelio, but I recognized them!
"It was in the month of March, I remember. I went out into the country very early with my bread. I walked at random61, though I meant to go to the statues. I went from one to another, and stopped before every one, as if I were paying a visit. Some appeared very beautiful to me, and I tried to imitate their poses. But I remained longer with the mutilated ones, as if to console them. In the evening, on the stage, I remembered some of them while I was acting62, and with so deep a feeling of their distance and their solitude that I felt as if I could not speak any more. The audience would grow impatient at these pauses too prolonged. At times, when I had to wait for my companion in the scene to finish his tirade16, I used to stand in the attitude of one of those statues, and remain as motionless as if I had been made of stone. I was already beginning to carve my own destiny.
"I loved one of them tenderly; it had lost its arms, which once balanced a basket of fruit on its head. But the hands still remained attached to the basket, and the sight of them always aroused my pity. This statue stood on its pedestal in a flax-field; a little canal of stagnant63 water was near it, in which the reflected sky repeated the tender blue of the flowers. And always, since that time, in my most glowing moments on the stage, visions of some landscape rise in my memory, particularly when by the mere64 force of silence I succeed in producing a thrill in the listening throng65."
Her cheeks had flushed a little, and as the sun wrapped her in a radiant garment, drawing sparkles from her furs and from the crystal cup, her animation66 seemed like an increase of light.
"What a spring that was! In one of my wandering journeys I saw a great river for the first time. It appeared to me suddenly, swollen67, and flowing rapidly between two wild banks. I felt then how much of divinity there is in a great stream running through the earth. It was the Adige, flowing down from Verona, from the city of Juliet."
An ambiguous emotion filled her heart while she recalled the poverty and poetry of her youth. She was impelled68 to continue, though she did not know how she had arrived at these confidences, when she had intended to speak to her friend of another young life, not belonging to the past, but to the present. By what surprise of love had she been turned from an effort of her will, from her firm decision to face the painful truth, from the concentration of her slumbering69 energy to linger in the memory of the past, and to cover with the image of her own lost virgin70 self that other image which was so different?
"We reached Verona one evening in May. I was devoured71 by anxiety. I clasped close to my heart the book in which I had copied the lines of Juliet, and continually repeated to myself the words of my first entrance: 'How now? Who calls? I am here. What is your will?' My imagination was excited by a strange coincidence: on that very day I was fourteen years old—the age of Juliet. The Nurse's gossip sounded in my ears; and, little by little, my own destiny seemed mingled72 with that of the Veronese. At the corner of every street I thought I could see a throng approaching me, accompanying a coffin73 covered with white roses. When I saw the Arche degli Scaligeri behind its iron bars, I cried to my mother, 'Here is Juliet's tomb!' And I burst into sobs74, and had a desperate desire to love and to die. 'O thou too early seen unknown, and known too late!'"
Her voice, repeating the immortal75 words, penetrated76 the heart of her lover like a heart-rending melody. She paused a moment, then repeated:
"Too late!"
They were the ominous77 words spoken by her lover, which she herself had repeated in the garden, when both were on the brink78 of being swept away on the flood of their passion: "It is late; too late!" The woman that was no longer young now faced the former image of herself, in her maidenhood79, throbbing80 in the form of Juliet before her first dream of love. Having reached the limit of experience, had she not at the same time preserved the dream intact—but to what purpose? If to-day she looked at the image of her far-distant youth, it was only to trample81 upon it in leading her beloved to the other woman, to her who lived and waited.
With her smile of inimitable sadness, she said:
"I was Juliet! One Sunday in May, in the immense arena82 in the amphitheater under the open sky, before an audience that had breathed in the legend of love and death, I was Juliet herself. No thrill from the most responsive audience, no applause, no triumph, ever has had from me the fulness and intoxication of that unique hour. Actually, when I heard Romeo say: 'O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright,' my whole being kindled83. With great economy, I had managed to buy a large bunch of roses, and these were my only ornament84. I mingled the roses with my words, my gestures, with every attitude. I dropped one at Romeo's feet when we first met; I strewed85 the petals86 of another on his head, as I stood on the balcony; and I covered his body with them as he lay in the tomb. The words came with the strangest ease, almost involuntarily, as in delirium87, and I could feel the throbbing in my veins88 accompanying them.
"I could see the great amphitheater, half in sunlight, half in shadow, and in the lighter89 part a sparkling from thousands of eyes. The day was as calm as this. Not a breath of air disturbed the folds of my robes, or the hair that floated on my uncovered neck. I felt my strength and animation momentarily increasing. How I spoke of the lark90 and the nightingale! I had heard them both a thousand times in the country. I knew all their songs of the woods, the meadows, and the sky. Every word, as it left my lips, seemed to have been steeped in the warmth of my blood. There was no fiber91 in me that did not give forth harmonious92 sound. Ah, the grace, the state of grace! Every time it is given to me to rise to the highest summit of my art I live again in that indescribable abandon. Yes, I was Juliet! I cried out in terror at the approach of dawn. The breeze stirred my hair. I could feel the extraordinary silence on which my lamentation93 fell. The multitude seemed to have sunk into the ground. I spoke of the terror of the coming day, but already I felt in reality 'the mask of night upon my face.' Romeo had descended94. We were already dead; already both had entered the vale of shadows. Do you remember? My eyes sought the fading light of the sky. The people were noisy in the arena; they were impatient for the death scene; they would listen no more to the mother, the nurse, or the friar. The quiver of that impatience95 quickened my throbbing heart. The tragedy swept on. I recall the odor of the pitch from the funeral torches, and of the roses that covered me, and I remember the sound of far-off bells, and of the sky that was losing its light, little by little, as Juliet was losing her life, and a star, the first star, that swam in my eyes with my tears. When I fell dead on Romeo's body, the cry of the multitude in the shadows was so violent that I was frightened. Some one lifted me and dragged me toward that cry. Some one held the torch close to my tear-stained face, which must have been the color of death.... And thus, Stelio, one night in May, Juliet came to life again, and appeared before the people of Verona."
Again she paused, and closed her eyes as if she were dizzy, but her sorrowful lips still smiled at her friend.
"And then? Then came the need to move, to go no matter where, to traverse space, to breathe in the wind. My mother followed me in silence. We crossed a bridge, walked beside the Adige, and went on and on. My mother asked at times where we were going. I wished to find the Franciscan convent where Juliet's tomb was hidden, since, to my great regret, she was not buried in one of those beautiful tombs behind the great iron gates. But I did not wish to say so, and I could not speak. My voice seemed to have been lost with the last word of the dying Juliet. 'Where are we going?' again asked that indefatigable96 kindness. Ah, then the last word of Juliet came to me in reply. We were again near the Adige, beside a bridge. I think I began to run, because soon afterward97 I felt myself seized by my mother's arms, and I stood leaning against the parapet, choking with sobs. 'There let me die!' I wished to say, but could not. The river carried with it the night and all its stars. I felt that the desire to die was not mine alone. Ah, blessed mother!"
She became very pale; her whole heart felt once more the embrace of those arms, the kiss of those lips, those tender tears, the depth of that suffering.
With a mingled feeling of surprise and alarm, Stelio watched the great waves of life that passed over her, the extraordinary expressions, the alternating lights and shadows; but he dared not speak, dared not break in upon the occult workings of that great, unhappy soul. He could only feel confusedly in her words the beauty and sadness of things unexpressed.
"Speak to me still," he said. "Draw nearer to me, sweet soul! No moment since I first loved you has been worth the steps that we have taken together to-day."
Again her first sudden question returned to her mind: "Do you think often of Donatella?"
A short path led to the Fondamenta degli Angeli, whence the lagoon could be seen, smooth and luminous98.
"How beautiful that light is!" she said. "It is like that night when my name was still Perdita, Stelio."
"The last night of September," she added. "Do you remember?"
Her heart was filled with exaltation to such a degree that she almost feared it would fail her. But she resolved that her voice should utter firmly the name that must break the silence between her friend and herself.
"Do you remember the ship anchored before the gardens? A salute100 greeted the flag as it slid down the mast. Our gondola101 touched the ship as we passed under its shadow."
"Then, in that shadow, you first spoke Donatella's name."
She made a new effort, as a swimmer, submerged by a wave, rises again and shakes his head free of the foam104.
"She began then to be yours!"
She felt as if she were growing rigid105 from head to foot. Her eyes stared fixedly106 at the glittering water.
"She must be yours," she said at last, with the sternness of necessity in her voice, as if to repel107 with a second shock the terrible things that were ready to surge up from her fiery108 heart.
Seized by sudden anguish, incapable of interrupting by a word the lightning-like apparitions109 of her tragic110 soul, Stelio halted, and laid his hand on his companion's arm to make her stop also.
"Is it not true?" she asked with a sweetness almost calm, as if her tension had suddenly relaxed, and her passion had quietly accepted the yoke111 laid upon it by her will. "Speak! I do not fear to suffer. Let us sit down here. I am a little tired."
They sat down on a low wall, facing the water.
"What can I say to you?" said the young man in a stifled112 voice, after a pause, unable to overcome the agitation113 arising from the certainty of his present love and the consciousness of his desires, inexorable as fate. "Perhaps what you have imagined is true; perhaps it is only a fancy of your own mind. I am certain to-day of only one thing, and that is that I love you and recognize in you all that is noble. I know one other thing that is noble—that I have a work to do and a life to live according to the dictates114 of Nature. You, too, must remember. On that September evening I spoke to you a long time of my life and of the genii that are leading it to its final destiny. You know that I can renounce115 nothing."
He trembled as if he held in his hand a sharp weapon, with which, as he was compelled to move it, he could not avoid wounding the defenseless woman.
"No, nothing; and especially your love, which ceaselessly exalts116 my strength and my hope. But did you not promise me more than love? Can you not do for me things that love alone cannot do? Do you not desire to be the constant inspiration of my life and my work?"
She listened motionless, with fixed eyes.
"It is true," he continued, after an anxious pause, recovering his courage, and feeling that on the sincerity117 of this moment depended the fate of that free alliance whereby he had hoped to be broadened, not confined. "It is true; that evening, when I saw you descend46 the stairs in the midst of the throng in company with her who had sung, I believed that a secret thought guided you from the moment that you did not come alone to meet me."
The woman felt a chill run through the roots of her hair. Her fingers trembled round the crystal cup, wherein the colors of sky and water were blended.
"I believed that you yourself had chosen her. Your look was that of one who knows and foresees. I was struck by it."
By her keen torture, the woman realized how sweet a falsehood would have been. She wished that he would either lie or be silent. She measured the distance that lay between her and the canal—the water that swallows and lulls118 to sleep.
"There was something about her that was hostile to me. She remained to me obscure, incomprehensible. Do you remember the way she disappeared? Her image faded, and only the desire of her song remained. You yourself, who led her to me, have more than once revived the remembrance of her. You have seen her shadow even where she was not."
She saw Death itself. No other wound had gone deeper, had hurt her so cruelly.—I alone! I alone have brought it on myself!—And she remembered the cry that had brought this misery: "Go! She awaits you!" Suddenly the internal tempest seemed to become a mere hallucination. She thought herself non-existent, and wondered to see the glass shining in her hand; she lost all corporeal119 sense. All that had happened was only a trick of the imagination. Her name was Perdita. The dead Summer was lying in the depths of the lagoon. Words were words, that was all.
"Could I love her? Were I to see her again, should I desire to turn her destiny toward mine? Perhaps. But of what use would that be? And of what use would all the vicissitudes120 and necessities of life be against the faith that links us? Could you and I resemble commonplace lovers who pass their days in quarreling, weeping, and cursing?"
The woman gnashed her teeth. She had a wild instinct to defend herself, and to hurt him as in a hopeless struggle. A murderous desire flashed across her maddened brain.
—No, you shall not have her!—And the brutality121 of her tyrant122 seemed monstrous123 to her. Under the measured and repeated blows, she felt that she was like a man she had once seen on the dusty road of a mining town, prostrated124 by repeated blows on his head from a mallet125 in his enemy's hand. That hideous126 memory mingled with her mental torture. She sprang up, impelled by the savage127 force that filled her being. The glass broke in her convulsed hand, cut her, fell in a sparkling shower at her feet.
Stelio startled. The woman's motionless silence had deceived him, but now he looked at her and saw her at last; and once more he saw, as on that night in her room when the logs had crackled on the hearth, the expression of madness on her agitated128 face. He stammered129 some words of regret, but impatience boiled under his concern.
"Ah," said La Foscarina, mastering her agony with a bitterness that convulsed her mouth, "how strong I am! Another time have a care that your wounds are not made so slowly, since my resistance is so slight, my friend."
She saw that blood was dripping from her fingers; she wrapped them in her handkerchief. She looked at the sparkling fragments on the grass.
"The cup is broken! You had praised it too highly. Shall we raise a mausoleum for it here?"
She was very bitter, almost mocking, her lips opening slightly to utter a mirthless laugh. Stelio stood silent, chagrined130, his heart full of rancor131 at beholding132 the destruction of so beautiful an effort as that perfect cup.
"Let us imitate Nero, since we have already imitated Xerxes!"
She felt even more keenly than he the harshness of her sarcasm133, the insincerity of her voice, the malignity134 of the laugh that was like a muscular spasm135. But she was unable to conquer her soul at that moment. She felt a bitter, irresistible136 necessity to scorn, to devastate137, to trample under foot, invaded by a sort of perfidious138 demon139. Every vestige140 of tenderness and benevolence141 had vanished, every hope, every illusion. The bitter hatred142 that lurks143 under the love of ardent144 natures was dominant145. On the man's face she could discern the same shadow that darkened her own.
"Do I irritate you? Do you wish to return to Venice alone? Would you like to leave the dying season behind you? The tide is falling, but there is always enough water for one who has no intention of returning. Would it suit you to have me try it? Am I not as docile146 as you could wish?"
She said these insensate things in a hissing147 tone, and became almost livid, as if suddenly burned by some corroding148 poison. And Stelio remembered having seen the same mask on her face on a distant day of love, madness and sadness. His heart contracted, then softened149.
"Ah, if I have hurt you, I ask for pardon," he said, trying to take her hand and soothe150 her by a gentle act. "But did we not begin together to approach this matter? Was it not you that"—
She interrupted him, exasperated151 by his gentleness.
"Hurt me? And what does that matter? Have no pity, no pity! Do not weep over the beautiful eyes of the wounded hare!"
The words broke between her teeth. Her contracted lips opened in a convulsion of wild laughter that was like heart-rending sobs. Her companion shuddered152, spoke to her in a low tone, aware of the curious eyes of the women who sat at the thresholds of their cabins.
"Calm yourself! Calm yourself! Oh, Foscarina, I beg of you! Do not act so, I entreat153! We shall soon be at the quay154, and then we shall go home. I will tell you—You will understand me then. Come, now we are in the street. Do you hear me?"
He feared she would fall in her hysterical155 convulsion, and stood ready to support her. But she only walked faster, unable to speak, smothering156 that wild laughter with her bandaged hand.
Never could he forget the change in those eyes. They were dull, staring, sightless, yet they seemed to see something that was not there; they were filled with an unknown vision, occupied by some monstrous image which without doubt had generated that mad and anguished158 laughter.
"Shall we stop here a little while? Would you like some water?"
They found themselves now on the Fondamenta dei Vetrai. How long was it since they had walked beside the stagnant canal? How much of their life had vanished in the interval159? What profound shadow were they leaving behind them?
Having descended into the gondola, and wrapped herself in her cloak, La Foscarina tried to control her hysteria, holding her face with both hands, but from time to time the terrible laugh would escape; then she pressed her hands closer to her mouth, as if she were trying to suffocate160 herself.
The lagoon and the deep twilight161 obliterated all forms and colors; only the rows of posts, like a file of monks162 on a path of ashes, showed against the dark background. When the bells began their clamor, her soul remembered, her tears gushed163 forth; the horror was vanquished164.
She took her hands from her face, leaned toward her friend's shoulder, and found again her voice in saying:
"Forgive me!"
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laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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mingling
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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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barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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opalescent
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| adj.乳色的，乳白的 | |
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lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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madrigal
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| n.牧歌；（流行于16和17世纪无乐器伴奏的）合唱歌曲 | |
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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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16
tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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17
tirades
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| 激烈的长篇指责或演说( tirade的名词复数 ) | |
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raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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19
profaned
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| v.不敬( profane的过去式和过去分词 )；亵渎，玷污 | |
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20
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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21
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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22
precocity
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| n.早熟，早成 | |
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23
suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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24
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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25
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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26
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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27
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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28
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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29
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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30
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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31
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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32
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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33
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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34
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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36
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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37
resonance
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| n.洪亮；共鸣；共振 | |
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38
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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39
inertness
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| n.不活泼，没有生气；惰性；惯量 | |
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40
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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41
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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42
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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43
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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44
forerunner
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| n.前身，先驱（者），预兆，祖先 | |
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45
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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46
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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47
descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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48
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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49
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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50
annihilate
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| v.使无效；毁灭；取消 | |
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51
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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52
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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53
petroleum
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| n.原油，石油 | |
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54
improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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55
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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56
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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57
incandescent
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| adj.遇热发光的， 白炽的，感情强烈的 | |
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58
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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59
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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60
utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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61
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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62
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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63
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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64
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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65
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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66
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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67
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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68
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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70
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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71
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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72
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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73
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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74
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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75
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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76
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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77
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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78
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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79
maidenhood
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| n. 处女性, 处女时代 | |
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80
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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81
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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82
arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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83
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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84
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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85
strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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86
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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87
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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88
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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89
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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90
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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91
fiber
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| n.纤维，纤维质 | |
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92
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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93
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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94
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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95
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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96
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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97
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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98
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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99
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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100
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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101
gondola
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| n.威尼斯的平底轻舟；飞船的吊船 | |
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102
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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103
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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104
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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105
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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106
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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107
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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108
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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109
apparitions
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| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
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110
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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111
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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112
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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113
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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114
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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115
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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116
exalts
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| 赞扬( exalt的第三人称单数 )； 歌颂； 提升； 提拔 | |
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117
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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118
lulls
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| n.间歇期（lull的复数形式）vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的第三人称单数形式） | |
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119
corporeal
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| adj.肉体的，身体的；物质的 | |
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120
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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121
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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122
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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123
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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124
prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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125
mallet
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| n.槌棒 | |
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126
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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127
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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128
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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129
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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130
chagrined
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| adj.懊恼的，苦恼的v.使懊恼，使懊丧，使悔恨( chagrin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
rancor
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| n.深仇，积怨 | |
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132
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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133
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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134
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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135
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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136
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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137
devastate
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| v.使荒芜，破坏，压倒 | |
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138
perfidious
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| adj.不忠的，背信弃义的 | |
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139
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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140
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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141
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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142
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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143
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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144
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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145
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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146
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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147
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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148
corroding
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| 使腐蚀，侵蚀( corrode的现在分词 ) | |
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149
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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150
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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151
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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152
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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153
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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154
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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155
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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156
smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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157
ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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158
anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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159
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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160
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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161
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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162
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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163
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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164
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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