From the fulness of her soul, and the abundance of her nature, La Foscarina sought everywhere for living things to love; her glance became child-like once more, and all things were reflected in it as in the peaceful water, and some seemed to reappear from the distant past, like apparitions4.
When the gondola touched the shore, she was surprised at having arrived.
"Do you wish to land, or do you prefer to go back?" asked Stelio, coming out of his reverie.
For a moment she hesitated, because her hand lay in his, and to move would have meant a lessening5 of sweetness.
"Yes," at last she said, with a smile. "Let us walk on this grass a little while."
They landed on the Island of San Francesco. A few slender young cypress6 shrubs7 greeted them timidly. Not a human face was to be seen. The invisible myriad8 filled the desert with their canticle of praise. The mists rose in clouds near the sunset hour.
"How many times we have walked together on the grass, have we not, Stelio?"
"But now comes the steep rock," he replied.
"Let the rock come, no matter how steep and rough it may be," said La Foscarina.
Stelio was surprised at the unusual gayety in his companion's voice. He looked at her, and saw a sort of intoxicated9 joy deep in her beautiful eyes.
"And do you know the reason why?"
"To others, this is a melancholy11 pilgrimage. Most persons, when they come to this place, leave it with the taste of death on their lips."
"But we are in a state of grace," said La Foscarina.
"The more we hope, the more we live," was the reply.
"And the more we love, the more we hope."
The rhythm of the aerial song continued, drawing from them their ideal essences.
"How beautiful you are!" said Stelio.
A sudden flush flowed over that impassioned face. She was silent, but her breath came quick, and she half-closed her eyes.
"A warm current of air is passing," she said in a half whisper. "Did you not feel on the water an occasional breath of warmer air?"
She drew deep breaths.
"There is an odor like that of new-mown hay. Don't you detect it?"
"That is the odor that comes from the banks of seaweed that are beginning to be uncovered."
"See how beautiful the country is!"
"That is Le Vignole. Down there is the Lido. And over there is the Island of Sant' Erasmo."
The sun had now thrown aside its veil and was showering gold upon the estuary12. The damp banks emerging from the fog suggested the opening of flowers. The shadows of the slender cypresses13 began to grow longer and of a deeper blue.
"I am certain," said La Foscarina, "that almond trees are in blossom somewhere near. Let us go on the dyke14."
She shook her head, tossing back her hair with one of those instinctive15 movements that seemed to break a bond or to free her of some fetter16.
"Wait!"
And quickly withdrawing from her hat two large pins that held it in place, she uncovered her head. She turned back to the landing and tossed the sparkling hat into the gondola; then she rejoined her friend, running her fingers lightly through the waves of her hair, through which the air passed, while the sun shone on it warmly. She seemed to feel relieved, as if she breathed more freely.
"Did the wings hurt?" Stelio asked with a laugh.
"Yes, the least weight annoys me. If I should not appear eccentric, I should always go without a hat. But when I see the trees I cannot resist my impulses. My hair remembers that it was born wild and free, and it wishes to breathe in its natural way—in the desert, at least."
Frank and gay in her manner, she glided18 over the grass with her graceful19, swaying movement. And Stelio recalled the day when, in the Gradenigo garden, she had appeared to his eyes like the beautiful tawny20 greyhound.
"Oh, here comes a Capuchin!"
The friar-guardian approached them, and greeted them with affability. He offered to conduct Stelio within the walls of the monastery21, but said that the rules forbade the admission of his companion.
"Shall I go in?" said Stelio, with a look at La Foscarina, who was smiling.
"Yes, go."
"But you will be all alone."
"Never mind; I will stay here alone."
"I will bring you a bit from the sacred pine."
He followed the friar under the portico22 with a raftered roof, whence hung the empty swallows' nests. Before he crossed the threshold, he turned once more to wave his hand at his friend. Then the door closed after him.
O BEATA SOLITUDO!
O SOLA BEATITUDO!
Then, as a change in the stops of an organ changes its whole tone, the woman's thoughts were suddenly transfigured. The horror of absence, to her the worst of all evils, bore down upon her loving soul. Her beloved was no longer there; she no longer heard his voice, felt his breath, touched his firm and gentle hand. She no longer saw him live; she could no longer realize that the air, the lights and shadows, all the life of the world, harmonized itself with his life!—Suppose that door never should open again—that he never should return to me!—No, that could not be. He would surely cross that threshold again in a few minutes, and once more she would receive him into her eyes and into her very soul. But alas23! in a few days, would he not thus disappear again, as he had disappeared now? And first the field, then the mountain, then other fields and mountains and rivers, then the strait and the ocean, the infinite space that neither tears nor cries can cross, would they not come between her and that brow, those eyes, those lips? The image of the far-off brutal24 city black with coal and bristling25 with arms, filled the peaceful island; the crash of hammers, the grinding of wheels, the puffing26 of engines, the immense groaning27 of iron, drowned the melody of the springtime. And with each of these simple things—with the grass, the sands, the brooks28, the seaweed, that soft feather floating downward, perhaps from the breast of a songbird—was contrasted the vision of streets overflowing29 with the human torrent30, houses with thousands of deformed31 eyes, full of fevers that are enemies to sleep, theaters filled with the restlessness or the stupor32 of men who yield one hour to relaxation33 from the ferocious34 battle for lucre35. And still, as in a vision, she saw again her own face and her name on walls contaminated by the leprosy of posters, on boards carried by stupid bearers, on gigantic bridges of factories, on the doors of public vehicles, here, there, and everywhere.
"Look! Look at this! A branch of flowering almond! There is an almond tree in bloom in the monastery garden, in the second cloister36, near the sacred pine! And you could detect the odor!"
Stelio ran toward her, joyous as a child, followed by the Capuchin, who bore a bouquet37 of fragrant38 thyme.
"Look! Take it. See what a wonderful thing it is!"
She took the branch, trembling, and her eyes were bright with tears.
"And you knew it was blooming!" said Stelio.
He perceived the glittering silvery drops in her eyes, which made them look like the petals39 of a flower. And at that instant, of all her adored person, he loved most blindly the delicate lines that went from the corners of her eyes to her temples, the tiny veins40 that made her eyelids41 look like violets, the sweet curve of her cheek, the tapering42 chin, and all that never would bloom again, all the shadows of that impassioned face.
"Ah, Father," said she, with a bright glance, repressing her sadness, "will not Christ's Poor Man weep again in heaven for this broken branch?"
The friar smiled with playful indulgence.
"When this good gentleman saw our tree," he replied, "he gave me no time to speak, but had the branch in his hand in a moment, and I could only say Amen. But the almond tree is rich."
He was placid43 and affable, with a crown of hair still nearly black, with a refined, olive-skinned face, and great tawny eyes, as clear as a topaz.
He accompanied the visitors to the meadow behind the convent. Standing47 on a bank, at the foot of a blasted cypress, the good monk48 pointed49 to the fertile isles51, praised their abundance, mentioned their varieties of fruit, lauded52 the more delightful53 according to the seasons, and directed their attention toward the boats sailing toward the Rialto with their new harvest.
"Praise to Thee, O Lord, for our Mother Earth!" said the woman with the flowering branch.
The Franciscan was susceptible54 to the beauty of that feminine voice, and was silent.
Lofty cypresses encircled the pious55 field; four of them showed the marks of lightning strokes. Their tops were motionless, and were the only sharp outlines in the level of the meadows, and waters that blended with the horizon. Not the slightest breeze now stirred the infinite mirror. A profound enchantment56 like an ecstasy57 filled the lovely place with rapture58. The melody of the winged creatures still continued to float from invisible regions, but it, too, seemed to begin to flag and soften59 in this silent sanctuary60.
"At this hour, on the hills of Umbria," said he that had despoiled61 the flowering almond of the cloister, "every olive-tree has at its base, like a covering that is shed, a heap of its cut branches; and the tree seems more beautiful because the heap of branches hides its rugged62 roots. Saint Francis passes in the air, and with his finger he heals the pain of the wounds made by the pruning63-knife."
The Capuchin made the sign of the cross, and took his leave.
"Praise be to Jesus Christ!"
The visitors watched him as he moved away under the deep shadows cast by the cypresses.
"He has found peace," said La Foscarina. "Does it not seem so to you, Stelio? There is great peace in his face and his voice. Look at his gait, too."
"He gave me a piece of the sacred pine," said Stelio. "I will send it to Sofia, who is devoted66 to the seraphic saint. Here it is. It has no resinous67 odor now. Smell it!"
For Sofia's sake she kissed the relic68. The lips of the good sister would touch the spot where she had pressed her own.
"Yes—send it."
Silently they strolled along, their heads bent69, in the footsteps of the man of peace, approaching the landing between the rows of cypress trees.
"Do you not sometimes wish to see her again?" asked La Foscarina, with a touch of shyness.
"Yes, very much," was Stelio's soft-spoken answer.
"And your mother?"
"And would you not like to go back there?"
"Yes, I shall return, perhaps."
"When?"
"I do not know yet. But I do wish to see once more my mother and Sofia. I long to see them very much, Foscarina."
"And why do you not go to them, then? What holds you here?"
He took the hand that hung idly at her side, and they continued to walk thus. As the oblique72 rays of the sun lighted the right cheek of each, they saw their united shadows preceding them on the grass.
"When you were speaking of the hills of Umbria just now," said La Foscarina, "perhaps you were thinking of the hills of your own part of the country. That figure of the pruned73 olive tree was not new to me. I remember you speaking to me once before of the pruning of trees. In no other form of his labor74 can the farmer gain a deeper sense of the mute life that is in a tree. When he stands before a pear, an apple, or a peach tree with the pruning-knife and shears75 that may increase their fertility and strength, but which could nevertheless as easily cause their death, the spirit of divination76 surges within him, from the wisdom he has acquired from his long communings with the earth and the sky. The tree is at its most delicate moment, when its senses are awakened77, and the sap is flowing to the buds that swell78 and swell, and are just ready to open. And man, with his pitiless knife, must regulate the mysterious movement of the sap. The tree is there intact, ignorant of Hesiod and of Virgil, in labor with its flowering and its fruit; and every branch in the air is as full of life as is the arm of the man that wields79 the knife. Which is the branch that must be cut off? Will the sap heal the cut? You told me about your orchard80 once—I remember it. You said that all the cuts should be turned toward the north, so then the sun should not see them."
She spoke70 as she had spoken in that far-off evening in November, when the young man had arrived at her house, breathless from the tempest of wind, after he had borne the hero in his arms.
He smiled, and let himself be led by that dear hand. He inhaled81 the fragrance82 of that flowery branch in which was a suggestion of bitterness.
"It is true," he said. "And Laimo would prepare the ointment83 of Saint Fiacre in the mortar84, and Sofia would bring him the strong linen85 to bandage the larger wounds, after they had been cleansed86."
In fancy he could see the kneeling peasant, pounding cow-dung, clay, and barley-husks in a stone mortar, according to an ancient recipe.
"In ten days," he continued, "the whole hill, seen from the seas, will be like a great pink cloud. Sofia wrote to remind me of it. Has she ever reappeared to you?"
"She is with us now."
"She is now standing at the window, looking out at the purpling sea; and our mother, leaning on the window-ledge with her, says to her: 'Who knows whether Stelio may not be on that sail boat which I see waiting at the mouth of the river for the wind? He promised me he would return unexpectedly by sea, in a small boat.'—And then her heart aches."
"Ah, why do you disappoint her?"
"Yes, Fosca, you are right. But I can live far-away from her for months and months, yet feel that my life is full. Then—an hour comes when nothing in the world appears to me so sweet as her dear eyes and there is a part of myself that remains87 inconsolable. I have heard the sailors of the Tyrrhenean Sea call the Adriatic the Gulf88 of Venice. To-night I remember that my house is on the Gulf, and that seems to bring it nearer to me."
They had reached the gondola once more, but turned to look back at the isle50 of prayer, where grew the tall cypresses with their imploring89 arms.
"Over yonder is the canal of the Tre Porti that leads to the open sea," said the homesick one, fancying that he could see himself standing on the deck of the little brig, in sight of his tamarisks and myrtles.
They re?mbarked, and floated away, silent for a long time. The aerial melody still fell softly on the archipelago.
"Now that the plan of your work is finished," said La Foscarina, beginning again her gentle persuasion90, though her heart trembled in her breast, "you will need peace and quiet for your labor upon it. Have you not always worked best at your home? In no other place will you be able to soothe91 the restless anxiety that possesses you. I know it well."
"That is true," he replied. "When the yearning92 for glory seizes us, we believe that the conquest of art must be like the siege of a fortification, and that trumpets93 and shouts accompany the courageous94 assault; while in reality the only work that is of real value is that which has been developed in austere95 silence—work performed with slow, indomitable perseverance96, in hard, pure solitude97. Nothing is of any value save the complete abandonment of soul and body to the Idea which we desire to establish among men as a permanent and dominating force."
"Ah, you know it, too!"
The woman's eyes were filled with tears again, at the sound of those inexorable words, in which was expressed the depth of virile98 passion, the heroic necessity of mental domination, the firm determination to surpass himself and to force his destiny without flinching99.
"Yes, you know it well!"
And she was thrilled, as one that beholds100 a noble spectacle; and, contemplating101 that embodied102 force of will, all else appeared vain to her. The tears she had felt in her eyes when he had brought her the flowering branch now seemed mean and weakly effeminate in comparison with those that in this moment welled up and were alone worthy103 to be kissed away by her friend.
"Ah, well, then—go back to your sea, to your own countryside, to your own home. Light your lamp once more with the oil of your own olives."
Stelio's lips were closely compressed, and a deep frown wrinkled his brow.
"The dear sister will come to your side again to lay a blade of grass on the difficult page."
He bent his brow, which was clouded with a thought.
"You will rest in talking with Sofia by the window; and perhaps you will see again the flocks of sheep on their way from the plain to the mountains."
The sunlight was approaching the gigantic acropolis of the Dolomites. The phalanx of clouds was disordered as if in battle, pierced by innumerable darts104 of light, and steeped in a marvelous blood-like crimson105.
Slowly, after a long silence, Stelio spoke:
La Foscarina started.
"And suppose she asks me about the love of the brother who searches through the tombs?"
"And suppose the page on which she lays the blade of grass were the page wherein that trembling soul tells of its secret and terrible battle against the horrible evil?"
In her sudden terror, the woman could find no words. Both relapsed into silence, looking long at the sharp peaks of the distant mountains, which glowed as if just emerging from primordial110 fire. The spectacle of this eternally desolate111 grandeur112 awakened in them a sense of mysterious fatality113 and a certain confused terror which they could neither conquer nor comprehend.
"And you?" said Stelio suddenly, after a long silence.
La Foscarina made no reply.
The bells of San Marco sounded the signal for the Angelus, and their tremendous clamor swelled114 in ever-widening waves over the still crimson lagoon115 which they were leaving to the memories of shadows and death. From San Giorgio Maggiore and San Giorgio dei Greci, from San Giorgio degli Schiavoni and San Giovanni in Bragora, from San Moisé, from the Salute116, the Redentore, and, from one place to another, throughout the whole domain117 of the Evangelists, even to the distant towers of the Madonna dell' Orto, of San Giobbe and Sant' Andrea, the bronze voices answered, mingling118 in one great chorus floating over the silent stones and waters, a veritable dome119 of sound, invisible, yet the vibrations120 of which seemed to communicate with the scintillation of the first stars. And the reverberation121 above the heads of the two in the gondola was so great that they seemed to feel it in the roots of their hair and in the cool shiver of their flesh.
"Oh, is that you, Daniele?"
Stelio had recognized at the door of his own house, on the Fondamenta Samedo, the figure of Daniele Glauro.
"Ah, Stelio, I have been waiting for you!" cried Daniele breathlessly, striving to make himself heard above the pealing122 of bells. "Richard Wagner is dead!"
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1
gondola
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| n.威尼斯的平底轻舟；飞船的吊船 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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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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lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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cypress
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| n.柏树 | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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8
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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9
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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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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estuary
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| n.河口，江口 | |
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cypresses
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| n.柏属植物，柏树( cypress的名词复数 ) | |
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dyke
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| n.堤，水坝，排水沟 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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fetter
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| n./vt.脚镣，束缚 | |
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ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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lucre
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| n.金钱，财富 | |
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cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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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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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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tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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savory
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| adj.风味极佳的，可口的，味香的 | |
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choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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46
novices
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| n.新手( novice的名词复数 )；初学修士（或修女）；（修会等的）初学生；尚未赢过大赛的赛马 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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lauded
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| v.称赞，赞美( laud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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55
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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56
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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57
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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58
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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59
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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60
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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61
despoiled
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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63
pruning
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| n.修枝，剪枝，修剪v.修剪（树木等）( prune的现在分词 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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64
tonsure
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| n.削发；v.剃 | |
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65
tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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66
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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resinous
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| adj.树脂的，树脂质的，树脂制的 | |
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68
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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69
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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70
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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71
yearns
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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72
oblique
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| adj.斜的，倾斜的，无诚意的，不坦率的 | |
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73
pruned
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| v.修剪（树木等）( prune的过去式和过去分词 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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74
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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75
shears
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| n.大剪刀 | |
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76
divination
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| n.占卜，预测 | |
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77
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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78
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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79
wields
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的第三人称单数 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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80
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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81
inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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83
ointment
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| n.药膏，油膏，软膏 | |
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84
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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85
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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86
cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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88
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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90
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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93
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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97
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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99
flinching
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的现在分词 ) | |
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100
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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101
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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102
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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103
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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104
darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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105
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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106
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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107
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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108
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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109
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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primordial
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| adj.原始的；最初的 | |
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111
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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112
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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113
fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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114
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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115
lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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116
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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117
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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118
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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119
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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120
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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121
reverberation
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| 反响； 回响； 反射； 反射物 | |
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122
pealing
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的现在分词 ) | |
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