PERHAPS one of the most curious revolutions in literary history is the sudden bull’s-eye light cast by M. Longnon on the obscure existence of Francois Villon. 6 His book is not remarkable2 merely as a chapter of biography exhumed4 after four centuries. To readers of the poet it will recall, with a flavour of satire5, that characteristic passage in which he bequeaths his spectacles — with a humorous reservation of the case — to the hospital for blind paupers6 known as the Fifteen-Score. Thus equipped, let the blind paupers go and separate the good from the bad in the cemetery7 of the Innocents! For his own part the poet can see no distinction. Much have the dead people made of their advantages. What does it matter now that they have lain in state beds and nourished portly bodies upon cakes and cream! Here they all lie, to be trodden in the mud; the large estate and the small, sounding virtue8 and adroit9 or powerful vice10, in very much the same condition; and a bishop11 not to be distinguished12 from a lamp-lighter with even the strongest spectacles.
6 ETUDE BIOGRAPHIQUE SUR FRANCOIS VILLON. Paris: H. Menu.
Such was Villon’s cynical13 philosophy. Four hundred years after his death, when surely all danger might be considered at an end, a pair of critical spectacles have been applied14 to his own remains15; and though he left behind him a sufficiently16 ragged17 reputation from the first, it is only after these four hundred years that his delinquencies have been finally tracked home, and we can assign him to his proper place among the good or wicked. It is a staggering thought, and one that affords a fine figure of the imperishability of men’s acts, that the stealth of the private inquiry18 office can be carried so far back into the dead and dusty past. We are not so soon quit of our concerns as Villon fancied. In the extreme of dissolution, when not so much as a man’s name is remembered, when his dust is scattered19 to the four winds, and perhaps the very grave and the very graveyard20 where he was laid to rest have been forgotten, desecrated21, and buried under populous22 towns, — even in this extreme let an antiquary fall across a sheet of manuscript, and the name will be recalled, the old infamy23 will pop out into daylight like a toad24 out of a fissure25 in the rock, and the shadow of the shade of what was once a man will be heartily26 pilloried27 by his descendants. A little while ago and Villon was almost totally forgotten; then he was revived for the sake of his verses; and now he is being revived with a vengeance28 in the detection of his misdemeanours. How unsubstantial is this projection29 of a man’s existence, which can lie in abeyance30 for centuries and then be brushed up again and set forth31 for the consideration of posterity32 by a few dips in an antiquary’s inkpot! This precarious33 tenure34 of fame goes a long way to justify35 those (and they are not few) who prefer cakes and cream in the immediate36 present.
A Wild Youth.
Francois de Montcorbier, ALIAS37 Francois des Loges, ALIAS Francois Villon, ALIAS Michel Mouton, Master of Arts in the University of Paris, was born in that city in the summer of 1431. It was a memorable38 year for France on other and higher considerations. A great-hearted girl and a poor-hearted boy made, the one her last, the other his first appearance on the public stage of that unhappy country. On the 30th of May the ashes of Joan of Arc were thrown into the Seine, and on the 2d of December our Henry Sixth made his Joyous39 Entry dismally40 enough into disaffected42 and depopulating Paris. Sword and fire still ravaged43 the open country. On a single April Saturday twelve hundred persons, besides children, made their escape out of the starving capital. The hangman, as is not uninteresting to note in connection with Master Francis, was kept hard at work in 1431; on the last of April and on the 4th of May alone, sixty-two bandits swung from Paris gibbets. 7 A more confused or troublous time it would have been difficult to select for a start in life. Not even a man’s nationality was certain; for the people of Paris there was no such thing as a Frenchman. The English were the English indeed, but the French were only the Armagnacs, whom, with Joan of Arc at their head, they had beaten back from under their ramparts not two years before. Such public sentiment as they had centred about their dear Duke of Burgundy, and the dear Duke had no more urgent business than to keep out of their neighbourhood. . . . At least, and whether he liked it or not, our disreputable troubadour was tubbed and swaddled as a subject of the English crown.
7 BOUGEOIS DE PARIS, ed. Pantheon, pp. 688, 689.
We hear nothing of Villon’s father except that he was poor and of mean extraction. His mother was given piously45, which does not imply very much in an old Frenchwoman, and quite uneducated. He had an uncle, a monk46 in an abbey at Angers, who must have prospered47 beyond the family average, and was reported to be worth five or six hundred crowns. Of this uncle and his money-box the reader will hear once more. In 1448 Francis became a student of the University of Paris; in 1450 he took the degree of Bachelor, and in 1452 that of Master of Arts. His BOURSE, or the sum paid weekly for his board, was of the amount of two sous. Now two sous was about the price of a pound of salt butter in the bad times of 1417; it was the price of half-a-pound in the worse times of 1419; and in 1444, just four years before Villon joined the University, it seems to have been taken as the average wage for a day’s manual labour. 8 In short, it cannot have been a very profuse48 allowance to keep a sharp-set lad in breakfast and supper for seven mortal days; and Villon’s share of the cakes and pastry49 and general good cheer, to which he is never weary of referring, must have been slender from the first.
8 BOURGEOIS50, pp. 627, 636, and 725.
The educational arrangements of the University of Paris were, to our way of thinking, somewhat incomplete. Worldly and monkish51 elements were presented in a curious confusion, which the youth might disentangle for himself. If he had an opportunity, on the one hand, of acquiring much hair-drawn divinity and a taste for formal disputation, he was put in the way of much gross and flaunting52 vice upon the other. The lecture room of a scholastic53 doctor was sometimes under the same roof with establishments of a very different and peculiarly unedifying order. The students had extraordinary privileges, which by all accounts they abused extraordinarily54. And while some condemned55 themselves to an almost sepulchral56 regularity57 and seclusion58, others fled the schools, swaggered in the street “with their thumbs in their girdle,” passed the night in riot, and behaved themselves as the worthy59 forerunners60 of Jehan Frollo in the romance of NOTRE DAME61 DE PARIS. Villon tells us himself that he was among the truants62, but we hardly needed his avowal63. The burlesque64 erudition in which he sometimes indulged implies no more than the merest smattering of knowledge; whereas his acquaintance with blackguard haunts and industries could only have been acquired by early and consistent impiety65 and idleness. He passed his degrees, it is true; but some of us who have been to modern universities will make their own reflections on the value of the test. As for his three pupils, Colin Laurent, Girard Gossouyn, and Jehan Marceau — if they were really his pupils in any serious sense — what can we say but God help them! And sure enough, by his own description, they turned out as ragged, rowdy, and ignorant as was to be looked for from the views and manners of their rare preceptor.
At some time or other, before or during his university career, the poet was adopted by Master Guillaume de Villon, chaplain of Saint Benoit-le-Betourne near the Sorbonne. From him he borrowed the surname by which he is known to posterity. It was most likely from his house, called the PORTE ROUGE67, and situated68 in a garden in the cloister69 of St. Benoit, that Master Francis heard the bell of the Sorbonne ring out the Angelus while he was finishing his SMALL TESTAMENT70 at Christmastide in 1546. Towards this benefactor71 he usually gets credit for a respectable display of gratitude72. But with his trap and pitfall73 style of writing, it is easy to make too sure. His sentiments are about as much to be relied on as those of a professional beggar; and in this, as in so many other matters, he comes towards us whining74 and piping the eye, and goes off again with a whoop75 and his finger to his nose. Thus, he calls Guillaume de Villon his “more than father,” thanks him with a great show of sincerity76 for having helped him out of many scrapes, and bequeaths him his portion of renown77. But the portion of renown which belonged to a young thief, distinguished (if, at the period when he wrote this legacy78, he was distinguished at all) for having written some more or less obscene and scurrilous79 ballads81, must have been little fitted to gratify the self-respect or increase the reputation of a benevolent82 ecclesiastic83. The same remark applies to a subsequent legacy of the poet’s library, with specification84 of one work which was plainly neither decent nor devout85. We are thus left on the horns of a dilemma86. If the chaplain was a godly, philanthropic personage, who had tried to graft87 good principles and good behaviour on this wild slip of an adopted son, these jesting legacies88 would obviously cut him to the heart. The position of an adopted son towards his adoptive father is one full of delicacy89; where a man lends his name he looks for great consideration. And this legacy of Villon’s portion of renown may be taken as the mere3 fling of an unregenerate scapegrace who has wit enough to recognise in his own shame the readiest weapon of offence against a prosy benefactor’s feelings. The gratitude of Master Francis figures, on this reading, as a frightful91 MINUS quantity. If, on the other hand, those jests were given and taken in good humour, the whole relation between the pair degenerates92 into the unedifying complicity of a debauched old chaplain and a witty93 and dissolute young scholar. At this rate the house with the red door may have rung with the most mundane94 minstrelsy; and it may have been below its roof that Villon, through a hole in the plaster, studied, as he tells us, the leisures of a rich ecclesiastic.
It was, perhaps, of some moment in the poet’s life that he should have inhabited the cloister of Saint Benoit. Three of the most remarkable among his early acquaintances are Catherine de Vausselles, for whom he entertained a short-lived affection and an enduring and most unmanly resentment95; Regnier de Montigny, a young blackguard of good birth; and Colin de Cayeux, a fellow with a marked aptitude96 for picking locks. Now we are on a foundation of mere conjecture97, but it is at least curious to find that two of the canons of Saint Benoit answered respectively to the names of Pierre de Vaucel and Etienne de Montigny, and that there was a householder called Nicolas de Cayeux in a street — the Rue66 des Poirees — in the immediate neighbourhood of the cloister. M. Longnon is almost ready to identify Catherine as the niece of Pierre; Regnier as the nephew of Etienne, and Colin as the son of Nicolas. Without going so far, it must be owned that the approximation of names is significant. As we go on to see the part played by each of these persons in the sordid99 melodrama100 of the poet’s life, we shall come to regard it as even more notable. Is it not Clough who has remarked that, after all, everything lies in juxtaposition101? Many a man’s destiny has been settled by nothing apparently102 more grave than a pretty face on the opposite side of the street and a couple of bad companions round the corner.
Catherine de Vausselles (or de Vaucel — the change is within the limits of Villon’s licence) had plainly delighted in the poet’s conversation; near neighbours or not, they were much together and Villon made no secret of his court, and suffered himself to believe that his feeling was repaid in kind. This may have been an error from the first, or he may have estranged103 her by subsequent misconduct or temerity104. One can easily imagine Villon an impatient wooer. One thing, at least, is sure: that the affair terminated in a manner bitterly humiliating to Master Francis. In presence of his lady-love, perhaps under her window and certainly with her connivance105, he was unmercifully thrashed by one Noe le Joly — beaten, as he says himself, like dirty linen106 on the washing-board. It is characteristic that his malice107 had notably108 increased between the time when he wrote the SMALL TESTAMENT immediately on the back of the occurrence, and the time when he wrote the LARGE TESTAMENT five years after. On the latter occasion nothing is too bad for his “damsel with the twisted nose,” as he calls her. She is spared neither hint nor accusation109, and he tells his messenger to accost110 her with the vilest111 insults. Villon, it is thought, was out of Paris when these amenities112 escaped his pen; or perhaps the strong arm of Noe le Joly would have been again in requisition. So ends the love story, if love story it may properly be called. Poets are not necessarily fortunate in love; but they usually fall among more romantic circumstances and bear their disappointment with a better grace.
The neighbourhood of Regnier de Montigny and Colin de Cayeux was probably more influential113 on his after life than the contempt of Catherine. For a man who is greedy of all pleasures, and provided with little money and less dignity of character, we may prophesy114 a safe and speedy voyage downward. Humble115 or even truckling virtue may walk unspotted in this life. But only those who despise the pleasures can afford to despise the opinion of the world. A man of a strong, heady temperament116, like Villon, is very differently tempted117. His eyes lay hold on all provocations118 greedily, and his heart flames up at a look into imperious desire; he is snared119 and broached-to by anything and everything, from a pretty face to a piece of pastry in a cookshop window; he will drink the rinsing120 of the wine cup, stay the latest at the tavern121 party; tap at the lit windows, follow the sound of singing, and beat the whole neighbourhood for another reveller122, as he goes reluctantly homeward; and grudge123 himself every hour of sleep as a black empty period in which he cannot follow after pleasure. Such a person is lost if he have not dignity, or, failing that, at least pride, which is its shadow and in many ways its substitute. Master Francis, I fancy, would follow his own eager instincts without much spiritual struggle. And we soon find him fallen among thieves in sober, literal earnest, and counting as acquaintances the most disreputable people he could lay his hands on: fellows who stole ducks in Paris Moat; sergeants125 of the criminal court, and archers126 of the watch; blackguards who slept at night under the butchers’ stalls, and for whom the aforesaid archers peered about carefully with lanterns; Regnier de Montigny, Colin de Cayeux, and their crew, all bound on a favouring breeze towards the gallows127; the disorderly abbess of Port Royal, who went about at fair time with soldiers and thieves, and conducted her abbey on the queerest principles, and most likely Perette Mauger, the great Paris receiver of stolen goods, not yet dreaming, poor woman! of the last scene of her career when Henry Cousin, executor of the high justice, shall bury her, alive and most reluctant, in front of the new Montigny gibbet. 9 Nay128, our friend soon began to take a foremost rank in this society. He could string off verses, which is always an agreeable talent; and he could make himself useful in many other ways. The whole ragged army of Bohemia, and whosoever loved good cheer without at all loving to work and pay for it, are addressed in contemporary verses as the “Subjects of Francois Villon.” He was a good genius to all hungry and unscrupulous persons; and became the hero of a whole legendary129 cycle of tavern tricks and cheateries. At best, these were doubtful levities130, rather too thievish for a schoolboy, rather too gamesome for a thief. But he would not linger long in this equivocal border land. He must soon have complied with his surroundings. He was one who would go where the cannikin clinked, not caring who should pay; and from supping in the wolves’ den1, there is but a step to hunting with the pack. And here, as I am on the chapter of his degradation131, I shall say all I mean to say about its darkest expression, and be done with it for good. Some charitable critics see no more than a JEU D’ESPRIT, a graceful132 and trifling133 exercise of the imagination, in the grimy ballad80 of Fat Peg90 (GROSSE MARGOT). I am not able to follow these gentlemen to this polite extreme. Out of all Villon’s works that ballad stands forth in flaring134 reality, gross and ghastly, as a thing written in a contraction135 of disgust. M. Longnon shows us more and more clearly at every page that we are to read our poet literally136, that his names are the names of real persons, and the events he chronicles were actual events. But even if the tendency of criticism had run the other way, this ballad would have gone far to prove itself. I can well understand the reluctance138 of worthy persons in this matter; for of course it is unpleasant to think of a man of genius as one who held, in the words of Marina to Boult —
“A place, for which the pained’st fiend
Of hell would not in reputation change.”
But beyond this natural unwillingness139, the whole difficulty of the case springs from a highly virtuous140 ignorance of life. Paris now is not so different from the Paris of then; and the whole of the doings of Bohemia are not written in the sugar-candy pastorals of Murger. It is really not at all surprising that a young man of the fifteenth century, with a knack141 of making verses, should accept his bread upon disgraceful terms. The race of those who do is not extinct; and some of them to this day write the prettiest verses imaginable. . . . After this, it were impossible for Master Francis to fall lower: to go and steal for himself would be an admirable advance from every point of view, divine or human.
9 CHRONIQUE SCANDALEUSE, ed. Pantheon, p. 237.
And yet it is not as a thief, but as a homicide, that he makes his first appearance before angry justice. On June 5, 1455, when he was about twenty-four, and had been Master of Arts for a matter of three years, we behold142 him for the first time quite definitely. Angry justice had, as it were, photographed him in the act of his homicide; and M. Longnon, rummaging143 among old deeds, has turned up the negative and printed it off for our instruction. Villon had been supping - copiously144 we may believe — and sat on a stone bench in front of the Church of St. Benoit, in company with a priest called Gilles and a woman of the name of Isabeau. It was nine o’clock, a mighty145 late hour for the period, and evidently a fine summer’s night. Master Francis carried a mantle146, like a prudent147 man, to keep him from the dews (SERAIN), and had a sword below it dangling148 from his girdle. So these three dallied149 in front of St Benoit, taking their pleasure (POUR SOY ESBATRE). Suddenly there arrived upon the scene a priest, Philippe Chermoye or Sermaise, also with sword and cloak, and accompanied by one Master Jehan le Mardi. Sermaise, according to Villon’s account, which is all we have to go upon, came up blustering150 and denying God; as Villon rose to make room for him upon the bench, thrust him rudely back into his place; and finally drew his sword and cut open his lower lip, by what I should imagine was a very clumsy stroke. Up to this point, Villon professes151 to have been a model of courtesy, even of feebleness: and the brawl152, in his version, reads like the fable153 of the wolf and the lamb. But now the lamb was roused; he drew his sword, stabbed Sermaise in the groin, knocked him on the head with a big stone, and then, leaving him to his fate, went away to have his own lip doctored by a barber of the name of Fouquet. In one version, he says that Gilles, Isabeau, and Le Mardi ran away at the first high words, and that he and Sermaise had it out alone; in another, Le Mardi is represented as returning and wresting154 Villon’s sword from him: the reader may please himself. Sermaise was picked up, lay all that night in the prison of Saint Benoit, where he was examined by an official of the Chatelet and expressly pardoned Villon, and died on the following Saturday in the Hotel Dieu.
This, as I have said, was in June. Not before January of the next year could Villon extract a pardon from the king; but while his hand was in, he got two. One is for “Francois des Loges, alias (AUTREMENT DIT) de Villon;” and the other runs in the name of Francois de Montcorbier. Nay, it appears there was a further complication; for in the narrative155 of the first of these documents, it is mentioned that he passed himself off upon Fouquet, the barber-surgeon, as one Michel Mouton. M. Longnon has a theory that this unhappy accident with Sermaise was the cause of Villon’s subsequent irregularities; and that up to that moment he had been the pink of good behaviour. But the matter has to my eyes a more dubious156 air. A pardon necessary for Des Loges and another for Montcorbier? and these two the same person? and one or both of them known by the ALIAS OF Villon, however honestly come by? and lastly, in the heat of the moment, a fourth name thrown out with an assured countenance157? A ship is not to be trusted that sails under so many colours. This is not the simple bearing of innocence158. No — the young master was already treading crooked159 paths; already, he would start and blench160 at a hand upon his shoulder, with the look we know so well in the face of Hogarth’s Idle Apprentice161; already, in the blue devils, he would see Henry Cousin, the executor of high justice, going in dolorous162 procession towards Montfaucon, and hear the wind and the birds crying around Paris gibbet.
A Gang of Thieves.
In spite of the prodigious163 number of people who managed to get hanged, the fifteenth century was by no means a bad time for criminals. A great confusion of parties and great dust of fighting favoured the escape of private housebreakers and quiet fellows who stole ducks in Paris Moat. Prisons were leaky; and as we shall see, a man with a few crowns in his pocket and perhaps some acquaintance among the officials, could easily slip out and become once more a free marauder. There was no want of a sanctuary164 where he might harbour until troubles blew by; and accomplices166 helped each other with more or less good faith. Clerks, above all, had remarkable facilities for a criminal way of life; for they were privileged, except in cases of notorious incorrigibility167, to be plucked from the hands of rude secular168 justice and tried by a tribunal of their own. In 1402, a couple of thieves, both clerks of the University, were condemned to death by the Provost of Paris. As they were taken to Montfaucon, they kept crying “high and clearly” for their benefit of clergy169, but were none the less pitilessly hanged and gibbeted. Indignant Alma Mater interfered170 before the king; and the Provost was deprived of all royal offices, and condemned to return the bodies and erect171 a great stone cross, on the road from Paris to the gibbet graven with the effigies172 of these two holy martyrs173. 10 We shall hear more of the benefit of clergy; for after this the reader will not be surprised to meet with thieves in the shape of tonsured174 clerks, or even priests and monks175.
10 Monstrelet: PANTHEON LITTERAIRE, p. 26.
To a knot of such learned pilferers our poet certainly belonged; and by turning over a few more of M. Longnon’s negatives, we shall get a clear idea of their character and doings. Montigny and De Cayeux are names already known; Guy Tabary, Petit-Jehan, Dom Nicolas, little Thibault, who was both clerk and goldsmith, and who made picklocks and melted plate for himself and his companions — with these the reader has still to become acquainted. Petit-Jehan and De Cayeux were handy fellows and enjoyed a useful pre-eminence176 in honour of their doings with the picklock. “DICTUS DES CAHYEUS EST FORTIS OPERATOR CROCHETORUM,” says Tabary’s interrogation, “SED DICTUS PETIT-JEHAN, EJUS SOCIUS, EST FORCIUS OPERATOR.” But the flower of the flock was little Thibault; it was reported that no lock could stand before him; he had a persuasive177 hand; let us salute178 capacity wherever we may find it. Perhaps the term GANG is not quite properly applied to the persons whose fortunes we are now about to follow; rather they were independent malefactors, socially intimate, and occasionally joining together for some serious operation just as modern stockjobbers form a syndicate for an important loan. Nor were they at all particular to any branch of misdoing. They did not scrupulously180 confine themselves to a single sort of theft, as I hear is common among modern thieves. They were ready for anything, from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter. Montigny, for instance, had neglected neither of these extremes, and we find him accused of cheating at games of hazard on the one hand, and on the other of the murder of one Thevenin Pensete in a house by the Cemetery of St. John. If time had only spared us some particulars, might not this last have furnished us with the matter of a grisly winter’s tale?
At Christmas-time in 1456, readers of Villon will remember that he was engaged on the SMALL TESTAMENT. About the same period, CIRCA FESTUM NATIVITATIS DOMINI, he took part in a memorable supper at the Mule181 Tavern, in front of the Church of St. Mathurin. Tabary, who seems to have been very much Villon’s creature, had ordered the supper in the course of the afternoon. He was a man who had had troubles in his time and languished182 in the Bishop of Paris’s prisons on a suspicion of picking locks; confiding183, convivial184, not very astute185 — who had copied out a whole improper186 romance with his own right hand. This supper-party was to be his first introduction to De Cayeux and Petit-Jehan, which was probably a matter of some concern to the poor man’s muddy wits; in the sequel, at least, he speaks of both with an undisguised respect, based on professional inferiority in the matter of picklocks. Dom Nicolas, a Picardy monk, was the fifth and last at table. When supper had been despatched and fairly washed down, we may suppose, with white Baigneux or red Beaune, which were favourite wines among the fellowship, Tabary was solemnly sworn over to secrecy187 on the night’s performances; and the party left the Mule and proceeded to an unoccupied house belonging to Robert de Saint-Simon. This, over a low wall, they entered without difficulty. All but Tabary took off their upper garments; a ladder was found and applied to the high wall which separated Saint-Simon’s house from the court of the College of Navarre; the four fellows in their shirt-sleeves (as we might say) clambered over in a twinkling; and Master Guy Tabary remained alone beside the overcoats. From the court the burglars made their way into the vestry of the chapel188, where they found a large chest, strengthened with iron bands and closed with four locks. One of these locks they picked, and then, by levering up the corner, forced the other three. Inside was a small coffer, of walnut189 wood, also barred with iron, but fastened with only three locks, which were all comfortably picked by way of the keyhole. In the walnut coffer — a joyous sight by our thieves’ lantern — were five hundred crowns of gold. There was some talk of opening the aumries, where, if they had only known, a booty eight or nine times greater lay ready to their hand; but one of the party (I have a humorous suspicion it was Dom Nicolas, the Picardy monk) hurried them away. It was ten o’clock when they mounted the ladder; it was about midnight before Tabary beheld190 them coming back. To him they gave ten crowns, and promised a share of a two-crown dinner on the morrow; whereat we may suppose his mouth watered. In course of time, he got wind of the real amount of their booty and understood how scurvily191 he had been used; but he seems to have borne no malice. How could he, against such superb operators as Petit-Jehan and De Cayeux; or a person like Villon, who could have made a new improper romance out of his own head, instead of merely copying an old one with mechanical right hand?
The rest of the winter was not uneventful for the gang. First they made a demonstration192 against the Church of St. Mathurin after chalices193, and were ignominiously194 chased away by barking dogs. Then Tabary fell out with Casin Chollet, one of the fellows who stole ducks in Paris Moat, who subsequently became a sergeant124 of the Chatelet and distinguished himself by misconduct, followed by imprisonment195 and public castigation196, during the wars of Louis Eleventh. The quarrel was not conducted with a proper regard to the king’s peace, and the pair publicly belaboured each other until the police stepped in, and Master Tabary was cast once more into the prisons of the Bishop. While he still lay in durance, another job was cleverly executed by the band in broad daylight, at the Augustine Monastery197. Brother Guillaume Coiffier was beguiled198 by an accomplice165 to St. Mathurin to say mass; and during his absence, his chamber199 was entered and five or six hundred crowns in money and some silver plate successfully abstracted. A melancholy200 man was Coiffier on his return! Eight crowns from this adventure were forwarded by little Thibault to the incarcerated201 Tabary; and with these he bribed202 the jailor and reappeared in Paris taverns203. Some time before or shortly after this, Villon set out for Angers, as he had promised in the SMALL TESTAMENT. The object of this excursion was not merely to avoid the presence of his cruel mistress or the strong arm of Noe le Joly, but to plan a deliberate robbery on his uncle the monk. As soon as he had properly studied the ground, the others were to go over in force from Paris — picklocks and all — and away with my uncle’s strongbox! This throws a comical sidelight on his own accusation against his relatives, that they had “forgotten natural duty” and disowned him because he was poor. A poor relation is a distasteful circumstance at the best, but a poor relation who plans deliberate robberies against those of his blood, and trudges205 hundreds of weary leagues to put them into execution, is surely a little on the wrong side of toleration. The uncle at Angers may have been monstrously206 undutiful; but the nephew from Paris was upsides with him.
On the 23d April, that venerable and discreet207 person, Master Pierre Marchand, Curate and Prior of Paray-le-Monial, in the diocese of Chartres, arrived in Paris and put up at the sign of the Three Chandeliers, in the Rue de la Huchette. Next day, or the day after, as he was breakfasting at the sign of the Armchair, he fell into talk with two customers, one of whom was a priest and the other our friend Tabary. The idiotic208 Tabary became mighty confidential209 as to his past life. Pierre Marchand, who was an acquaintance of Guillaume Coiffier’s and had sympathised with him over his loss, pricked210 up his ears at the mention of picklocks, and led on the transcriber211 of improper romances from one thing to another, until they were fast friends. For picklocks the Prior of Paray professed212 a keen curiosity; but Tabary, upon some late alarm, had thrown all his into the Seine. Let that be no difficulty, however, for was there not little Thibault, who could make them of all shapes and sizes, and to whom Tabary, smelling an accomplice, would be only too glad to introduce his new acquaintance? On the morrow, accordingly, they met; and Tabary, after having first wet his whistle at the prior’s expense, led him to Notre Dame and presented him to four or five “young companions,” who were keeping sanctuary in the church. They were all clerks, recently escaped, like Tabary himself, from the episcopal prisons. Among these we may notice Thibault, the operator, a little fellow of twenty-six, wearing long hair behind. The Prior expressed, through Tabary, his anxiety to become their accomplice and altogether such as they were (DE LEUR SORTS ET DE LEURS COMPLICES). Mighty polite they showed themselves, and made him many fine speeches in return. But for all that, perhaps because they had longer heads than Tabary, perhaps because it is less easy to wheedle213 men in a body, they kept obstinately214 to generalities and gave him no information as to their exploits, past, present, or to come. I suppose Tabary groaned215 under this reserve; for no sooner were he and the Prior out of the church than he fairly emptied his heart to him, gave him full details of many hanging matters in the past, and explained the future intentions of the band. The scheme of the hour was to rob another Augustine monk, Robert de la Porte, and in this the Prior agreed to take a hand with simulated greed. Thus, in the course of two days, he had turned this wineskin of a Tabary inside out. For a while longer the farce216 was carried on; the Prior was introduced to Petit-Jehan, whom he describes as a little, very smart man of thirty, with a black beard and a short jacket; an appointment was made and broken in the de la Porte affair; Tabary had some breakfast at the Prior’s charge and leaked out more secrets under the influence of wine and friendship; and then all of a sudden, on the 17th of May, an alarm sprang up, the Prior picked up his skirts and walked quietly over to the Chatelet to make a deposition217, and the whole band took to their heels and vanished out of Paris and the sight of the police.
Vanish as they like, they all go with a clog218 about their feet. Sooner or later, here or there, they will be caught in the fact, and ignominiously sent home. From our vantage of four centuries afterwards, it is odd and pitiful to watch the order in which the fugitives219 are captured and dragged in.
Montigny was the first. In August of that same year, he was laid by the heels on many grievous counts; sacrilegious robberies, frauds, incorrigibility, and that bad business about Thevenin Pensete in the house by the cemetery of St. John. He was reclaimed220 by the ecclesiastical authorities as a clerk; but the claim was rebutted221 on the score of incorrigibility, and ultimately fell to the ground; and he was condemned to death by the Provost of Paris. It was a very rude hour for Montigny, but hope was not yet over. He was a fellow of some birth; his father had been king’s pantler; his sister, probably married to some one about the Court, was in the family way, and her health would be endangered if the execution was proceeded with. So down comes Charles the Seventh with letters of mercy, commuting222 the penalty to a year in a dungeon223 on bread and water, and a pilgrimage to the shrine224 of St. James in Galicia. Alas225! the document was incomplete; it did not contain the full tale of Montigny’s enormities; it did not recite that he had been denied benefit of clergy, and it said nothing about Thevenin Pensete. Montigny’s hour was at hand. Benefit of clergy, honourable226 descent from king’s pantler, sister in the family way, royal letters of commutation — all were of no avail. He had been in prison in Rouen, in Tours, in Bordeaux, and four times already in Paris; and out of all these he had come scatheless227; but now he must make a little excursion as far as Montfaucon with Henry Cousin, executor of high justice. There let him swing among the carrion228 crows.
About a year later, in July 1458, the police laid hands on Tabary. Before the ecclesiastical commissary he was twice examined, and, on the latter occasion, put to the question ordinary and extraordinary. What a dismal41 change from pleasant suppers at the Mule, where he sat in triumph with expert operators and great wits! He is at the lees of life, poor rogue229; and those fingers which once transcribed230 improper romances are now agonisingly stretched upon the rack. We have no sure knowledge, but we may have a shrewd guess of the conclusion. Tabary, the admirer, would go the same way as those whom he admired.
The last we hear of is Colin de Cayeux. He was caught in autumn 1460, in the great Church of St. Leu d’Esserens, which makes so fine a figure in the pleasant Oise valley between Creil and Beaumont. He was reclaimed by no less than two bishops231; but the Procureur for the Provost held fast by incorrigible232 Colin. 1460 was an ill-starred year: for justice was making a clean sweep of “poor and indigent233 persons, thieves, cheats, and lockpickers,” in the neighbourhood of Paris; 11 and Colin de Cayeux, with many others, was condemned to death and hanged. 12
11 CHRON. SCAND. ut supra.
12 Here and there, principally in the order of events, this article differs from M. Longnon’s own reading of his material. The ground on which he defers234 the execution of Montigny and De Cayeux beyond the date of their trials seems insufficient235. There is a law of parsimony236 for the construction of historical documents; simplicity237 is the first duty of narration238; and hanged they were.
Villon and the Gallows.
Villon was still absent on the Angers expedition when the Prior of Paray sent such a bombshell among his accomplices; and the dates of his return and arrest remain undiscoverable. M. Campaux plausibly239 enough opined for the autumn of 1457, which would make him closely follow on Montigny, and the first of those denounced by the Prior to fall into the toils241. We may suppose, at least, that it was not long thereafter; we may suppose him competed for between lay and clerical Courts; and we may suppose him alternately pert and impudent242, humble and fawning243, in his defence. But at the end of all supposing, we come upon some nuggets of fact. For first, he was put to the question by water. He who had tossed off so many cups of white Baigneux or red Beaune, now drank water through linen folds, until his bowels244 were flooded and his heart stood still. After so much raising of the elbow, so much outcry of fictitious245 thirst, here at last was enough drinking for a lifetime. Truly, of our pleasant vices246, the gods make whips to scourge247 us. And secondly248 he was condemned to be hanged. A man may have been expecting a catastrophe249 for years, and yet find himself unprepared when it arrives. Certainly, Villon found, in this legitimate250 issue of his career, a very staggering and grave consideration. Every beast, as he says, clings bitterly to a whole skin. If everything is lost, and even honour, life still remains; nay, and it becomes, like the ewe lamb in Nathan’s parable251, as dear as all the rest. “Do you fancy,” he asks, in a lively ballad, “that I had not enough philosophy under my hood44 to cry out: ‘I appeal’? If I had made any bones about the matter, I should have been planted upright in the fields, the St, Denis Road” — Montfaucon being on the way to St. Denis. An appeal to Parliament, as we saw in the case of Colin de Cayeux, did not necessarily lead to an acquittal or a commutation; and while the matter was pending252, our poet had ample opportunity to reflect on his position. Hanging is a sharp argument, and to swing with many others on the gibbet adds a horrible corollary for the imagination. With the aspect of Montfaucon he was well acquainted; indeed, as the neighbourhood appears to have been sacred to junketing and nocturnal picnics of wild young men and women, he had probably studied it under all varieties of hour and weather. And now, as he lay in prison waiting the mortal push, these different aspects crowded back on his imagination with a new and startling significance; and he wrote a ballad, by way of epitaph for himself and his companions, which remains unique in the annals of mankind. It is, in the highest sense, a piece of his biography:—
“La pluye nous a debuez et lavez,
Et le soleil dessechez et noirciz;
Pies, corbeaulx, nous ont les yeux cavez,
Et arrachez la barbe et les sourcilz.
Jamais, nul temps, nous ne sommes rassis;
Puis ca, puis la, comme le vent137 varie,
A son plaisir sans cesser nous charie,
Plus becquetez d’oiscaulx que dez a couldre.
Ne soyez donc de nostre confrairie,
Mais priez Dieu que tous nous vueille absouldre.”
Here is some genuine thieves’ literature after so much that was spurious; sharp as an etching, written with a shuddering253 soul. There is an intensity254 of consideration in the piece that shows it to be the transcript255 of familiar thoughts. It is the quintessence of many a doleful nightmare on the straw, when he felt himself swing helpless in the wind, and saw the birds turn about him, screaming and menacing his eyes.
And, after all, the Parliament changed his sentence into one of banishment256; and to Roussillon, in Dauphiny, our poet must carry his woes257 without delay. Travellers between Lyons and Marseilles may remember a station on the line, some way below Vienne, where the Rhone fleets seaward between vine-clad hills. This was Villon’s Siberia. It would be a little warm in summer perhaps, and a little cold in winter in that draughty valley between two great mountain fields; but what with the hills, and the racing258 river, and the fiery259 Rhone wines, he was little to be pitied on the conditions of his exile. Villon, in a remarkably260 bad ballad, written in a breath, heartily thanked and fulsomely261 belauded the Parliament; the ENVOI, like the proverbial postscript262 of a lady’s letter, containing the pith of his performance in a request for three days’ delay to settle his affairs and bid his friends farewell. He was probably not followed out of Paris, like Antoine Fradin, the popular preacher, another exile of a few years later, by weeping multitudes; 13 but I daresay one or two rogues263 of his acquaintance would keep him company for a mile or so on the south road, and drink a bottle with him before they turned. For banished264 people, in those days, seem to have set out on their own responsibility, in their own guard, and at their own expense. It was no joke to make one’s way from Paris to Roussillon alone and penniless in the fifteenth century. Villon says he left a rag of his tails on every bush. Indeed, he must have had many a weary tramp, many a slender meal, and many a to-do with blustering captains of the Ordonnance. But with one of his light fingers, we may fancy that he took as good as he gave; for every rag of his tail, he would manage to indemnify himself upon the population in the shape of food, or wine, or ringing money; and his route would be traceable across France and Burgundy by housewives and inn-keepers lamenting265 over petty thefts, like the track of a single human locust266. A strange figure he must have cut in the eyes of the good country people: this ragged, blackguard city poet, with a smack267 of the Paris student, and a smack of the Paris street arab, posting along the highways, in rain or sun, among the green fields and vineyards. For himself, he had no taste for rural loveliness; green fields and vineyards would be mighty indifferent to Master Francis; but he would often have his tongue in his cheek at the simplicity of rustic268 dupes, and often, at city gates, he might stop to contemplate269 the gibbet with its swinging bodies, and hug himself on his escape.
13 CHRON. SCAND., p. 338.
How long he stayed at Roussillon, how far he became the protege of the Bourbons, to whom that town belonged, or when it was that he took part, under the auspices270 of Charles of Orleans, in a rhyming tournament to be referred to once again in the pages of the present volume, are matters that still remain in darkness, in spite of M. Longnon’s diligent271 rummaging among archives. When we next find him, in summer 1461, alas! he is once more in durance: this time at Meun-sur-Loire, in the prisons of Thibault d’Aussigny, Bishop of Orleans. He had been lowered in a basket into a noisome272 pit, where he lay, all summer, gnawing273 hard crusts and railing upon fate. His teeth, he says, were like the teeth of a rake: a touch of haggard portraiture274 all the more real for being excessive and burlesque, and all the more proper to the man for being a caricature of his own misery275. His eyes were “bandaged with thick walls.” It might blow hurricanes overhead; the lightning might leap in high heaven; but no word of all this reached him in his noisome pit. “Il n’entre, ou gist276, n’escler ni tourbillon.” Above all, he was fevered with envy and anger at the freedom of others; and his heart flowed over into curses as he thought of Thibault d’Aussigny, walking the streets in God’s sunlight, and blessing277 people with extended fingers. So much we find sharply lined in his own poems. Why he was cast again into prison — how he had again managed to shave the gallows — this we know not, nor, from the destruction of authorities, are we ever likely to learn. But on October 2d, 1461, or some day immediately preceding, the new King, Louis Eleventh, made his joyous entry into Meun. Now it was a part of the formality on such occasions for the new King to liberate204 certain prisoners; and so the basket was let down into Villon’s pit, and hastily did Master Francis scramble278 in, and was most joyfully279 hauled up, and shot out, blinking and tottering280, but once more a free man, into the blessed sun and wind. Now or never is the time for verses! Such a happy revolution would turn the head of a stocking-weaver, and set him jingling281 rhymes. And so — after a voyage to Paris, where he finds Montigny and De Cayeux clattering282, their bones upon the gibbet, and his three pupils roystering in Paris streets, “with their thumbs under their girdles,” — down sits Master Francis to write his LARGE TESTAMENT, and perpetuate283 his name in a sort of glorious ignominy.
The Large Testament.
Of this capital achievement and, with it, of Villon’s style in general, it is here the place to speak. The LARGE TESTAMENT is a hurly-burly of cynical and sentimental284 reflections about life, jesting legacies to friends and enemies, and, interspersed285 among these many admirable ballades, both serious and absurd. With so free a design, no thought that occurred to him would need to be dismissed without expression; and he could draw at full length the portrait of his own bedevilled soul, and of the bleak286 and blackguardly world which was the theatre of his exploits and sufferings. If the reader can conceive something between the slap-dash inconsequence of Byron’s DON JUAN and the racy humorous gravity and brief noble touches that distinguish the vernacular287 poems of Burns, he will have formed some idea of Villon’s style. To the latter writer — except in the ballades, which are quite his own, and can be paralleled from no other language known to me — he bears a particular resemblance. In common with Burns he has a certain rugged288 compression, a brutal289 vivacity290 of epithet291, a homely292 vigour293, a delight in local personalities294, and an interest in many sides of life, that are often despised and passed over by more effete295 and cultured poets. Both also, in their strong, easy colloquial296 way, tend to become difficult and obscure; the obscurity in the case of Villon passing at times into the absolute darkness of cant98 language. They are perhaps the only two great masters of expression who keep sending their readers to a glossary297.
“Shall we not dare to say of a thief,” asks Montaigne, “that he has a handsome leg?” It is a far more serious claim that we have to put forward in behalf of Villon. Beside that of his contemporaries, his writing, so full of colour, so eloquent298, so picturesque299, stands out in an almost miraculous300 isolation301. If only one or two of the chroniclers could have taken a leaf out of his book, history would have been a pastime, and the fifteenth century as present to our minds as the age of Charles Second. This gallows-bird was the one great writer of his age and country, and initiated302 modern literature for France. Boileau, long ago, in the period of perukes and snuff-boxes, recognised him as the first articulate poet in the language; and if we measure him, not by priority of merit, but living duration of influence, not on a comparison with obscure forerunners, but with great and famous successors, we shall instal this ragged and disreputable figure in a far higher niche303 in glory’s temple than was ever dreamed of by the critic. It is, in itself, a memorable fact that, before 1542, in the very dawn of printing, and while modern France was in the making, the works of Villon ran through seven different editions. Out of him flows much of Rabelais; and through Rabelais, directly and indirectly304, a deep, permanent, and growing inspiration. Not only his style, but his callous305 pertinent306 way of looking upon the sordid and ugly sides of life, becomes every day a more specific feature in the literature of France. And only the other year, a work of some power appeared in Paris, and appeared with infinite scandal, which owed its whole inner significance and much of its outward form to the study of our rhyming thief.
The world to which he introduces us is, as before said, blackguardly and bleak. Paris swarms307 before us, full of famine, shame, and death; monks and the servants of great lords hold high wassail upon cakes and pastry; the poor man licks his lips before the baker’s window; people with patched eyes sprawl308 all night under the stalls; chuckling309 Tabary transcribes310 an improper romance; bare-bosomed lasses and ruffling311 students swagger in the streets; the drunkard goes stumbling homewards; the graveyard is full of bones; and away on Montfaucon, Colin de Cayeux and Montigny hang draggled in the rain. Is there nothing better to be seen than sordid misery and worthless joys? Only where the poor old mother of the poet kneels in church below painted windows, and makes tremulous supplication312 to the Mother of God.
In our mixed world, full of green fields and happy lovers, where not long before, Joan of Arc had led one of the highest and noblest lives in the whole story of mankind, this was all worth chronicling that our poet could perceive. His eyes were indeed sealed with his own filth313. He dwelt all his life in a pit more noisome than the dungeon at Meun. In the moral world, also, there are large phenomena314 not cognisable out of holes and corners. Loud winds blow, speeding home deep-laden ships and sweeping315 rubbish from the earth; the lightning leaps and cleans the face of heaven; high purposes and brave passions shake and sublimate316 men’s spirits; and meanwhile, in the narrow dungeon of his soul, Villon is mumbling317 crusts and picking vermin.
Along with this deadly gloom of outlook, we must take another characteristic of his work: its unrivalled insincerity. I can give no better similitude of this quality than I have given already: that he comes up with a whine318, and runs away with a whoop and his finger to his nose. His pathos319 is that of a professional mendicant320 who should happen to be a man of genius; his levity321 that of a bitter street arab, full of bread. On a first reading, the pathetic passages preoccupy322 the reader, and he is cheated out of an alms in the shape of sympathy. But when the thing is studied the illusion fades away: in the transitions, above all, we can detect the evil, ironical323 temper of the man; and instead of a flighty work, where many crude but genuine feelings tumble together for the mastery as in the lists of tournament, we are tempted to think of the LARGE TESTAMENT as of one long-drawn epical324 grimace325, pulled by a merry-andrew, who has found a certain despicable eminence over human respect and human affections by perching himself astride upon the gallows. Between these two views, at best, all temperate326 judgments327 will be found to fall; and rather, as I imagine, towards the last.
There were two things on which he felt with perfect and, in one case, even threatening sincerity.
The first of these was an undisguised envy of those richer than himself. He was for ever drawing a parallel, already exemplified from his own words, between the happy life of the well-to-do and the miseries328 of the poor. Burns, too proud and honest not to work, continued through all reverses to sing of poverty with a light, defiant329 note. Beranger waited till he was himself beyond the reach of want, before writing the OLD VAGABOND or JACQUES. Samuel Johnson, although he was very sorry to be poor, “was a great arguer for the advantages of poverty” in his ill days. Thus it is that brave men carry their crosses, and smile with the fox burrowing330 in their vitals. But Villon, who had not the courage to be poor with honesty, now whiningly331 implores332 our sympathy, now shows his teeth upon the dung-heap with an ugly snarl333. He envies bitterly, envies passionately334. Poverty, he protests, drives men to steal, as hunger makes the wolf sally from the forest. The poor, he goes on, will always have a carping word to say, or, if that outlet335 be denied, nourish rebellious336 thoughts. It is a calumny337 on the noble army of the poor. Thousands in a small way of life, ay, and even in the smallest, go through life with tenfold as much honour and dignity and peace of mind, as the rich gluttons338 whose dainties and state-beds awakened339 Villon’s covetous340 temper. And every morning’s sun sees thousands who pass whistling to their toil240. But Villon was the “mauvais pauvre” defined by Victor Hugo, and, in its English expression, so admirably stereotyped341 by Dickens. He was the first wicked sansculotte. He is the man of genius with the moleskin cap. He is mighty pathetic and beseeching342 here in the street, but I would not go down a dark road with him for a large consideration.
The second of the points on which he was genuine and emphatic343 was common to the middle ages; a deep and somewhat snivelling conviction of the transitory nature of this life and the pity and horror of death. Old age and the grave, with some dark and yet half-sceptical terror of an after-world — these were ideas that clung about his bones like a disease. An old ape, as he says, may play all the tricks in its repertory, and none of them will tickle344 an audience into good humour. “Tousjours vieil synge est desplaisant.” It is not the old jester who receives most recognition at a tavern party, but the young fellow, fresh and handsome, who knows the new slang, and carries off his vice with a certain air. Of this, as a tavern jester himself, he would be pointedly345 conscious. As for the women with whom he was best acquainted, his reflections on their old age, in all their harrowing pathos, shall remain in the original for me. Horace has disgraced himself to something the same tune179; but what Horace throws out with an ill-favoured laugh, Villon dwells on with an almost maudlin346 whimper.
It is in death that he finds his truest inspiration in the swift and sorrowful change that overtakes beauty; in the strange revolution by which great fortunes and renowns are diminished to a handful of churchyard dust; and in the utter passing away of what was once lovable and mighty. It is in this that the mixed texture347 of his thought enables him to reach such poignant348 and terrible effects, and to enchance pity with ridicule349, like a man cutting capers350 to a funeral march. It is in this, also, that he rises out of himself into the higher spheres of art. So, in the ballade by which he is best known, he rings the changes on names that once stood for beautiful and queenly women, and are now no more than letters and a legend. “Where are the snows of yester year?” runs the burden. And so, in another not so famous, he passes in review the different degrees of bygone men, from the holy Apostles and the golden Emperor of the East, down to the heralds351, pursuivants, and trumpeters, who also bore their part in the world’s pageantries and ate greedily at great folks’ tables: all this to the refrain of “So much carry the winds away!” Probably, there was some melancholy in his mind for a yet lower grade, and Montigny and Colin de Cayeux clattering their bones on Paris gibbet. Alas, and with so pitiful an experience of life, Villon can offer us nothing but terror and lamentation352 about death! No one has ever more skilfully353 communicated his own disenchantment; no one ever blown a more ear-piercing note of sadness. This unrepentant thief can attain354 neither to Christian355 confidence, nor to the spirit of the bright Greek saying, that whom the gods love die early. It is a poor heart, and a poorer age, that cannot accept the conditions of life with some heroic readiness.
The date of the LARGE TESTAMENT is the last date in the poet’s biography. After having achieved that admirable and despicable performance, he disappears into the night from whence he came. How or when he died, whether decently in bed or trussed up to a gallows, remains a riddle356 for foolhardy commentators357. It appears his health had suffered in the pit at Meun; he was thirty years of age and quite bald; with the notch358 in his under lip where Sermaise had struck him with the sword, and what wrinkles the reader may imagine. In default of portraits, this is all I have been able to piece together, and perhaps even the baldness should be taken as a figure of his destitution359. A sinister360 dog, in all likelihood, but with a look in his eye, and the loose flexile mouth that goes with wit and an overweening sensual temperament. Certainly the sorriest figure on the rolls of fame.
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den
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remarkable
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mere
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exhumed
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satire
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paupers
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cemetery
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virtue
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adroit
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vice
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bishop
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distinguished
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cynical
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applied
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remains
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sufficiently
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ragged
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inquiry
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19
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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20
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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21
desecrated
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| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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23
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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24
toad
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆 | |
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25
fissure
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| n.裂缝；裂伤 | |
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26
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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27
pilloried
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| v.使受公众嘲笑( pillory的过去式和过去分词 )；将…示众；给…上颈手枷；处…以枷刑 | |
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28
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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29
projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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30
abeyance
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| n.搁置，缓办，中止，产权未定 | |
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31
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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32
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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33
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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34
tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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35
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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36
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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37
alias
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| n.化名；别名；adv.又名 | |
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38
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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39
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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40
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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41
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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42
disaffected
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| adj.（政治上）不满的，叛离的 | |
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43
ravaged
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| 毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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44
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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45
piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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46
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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47
prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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49
pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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50
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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51
monkish
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| adj.僧侣的，修道士的，禁欲的 | |
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52
flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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53
scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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54
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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55
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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56
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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57
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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58
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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59
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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60
forerunners
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| n.先驱( forerunner的名词复数 )；开路人；先兆；前兆 | |
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61
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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62
truants
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| n.旷课的小学生( truant的名词复数 )；逃学生；逃避责任者；懒散的人 | |
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63
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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64
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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65
impiety
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| n.不敬；不孝 | |
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66
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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67
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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68
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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69
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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70
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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71
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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72
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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73
pitfall
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| n.隐患，易犯的错误；陷阱，圈套 | |
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74
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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75
whoop
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| n.大叫，呐喊，喘息声；v.叫喊，喘息 | |
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76
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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77
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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78
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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79
scurrilous
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| adj.下流的，恶意诽谤的 | |
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80
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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81
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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82
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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83
ecclesiastic
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| n.教士，基督教会；adj.神职者的，牧师的，教会的 | |
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84
specification
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| n.详述；[常pl.]规格，说明书，规范 | |
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85
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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86
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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87
graft
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| n.移植，嫁接，艰苦工作，贪污；v.移植，嫁接 | |
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88
legacies
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| n.遗产( legacy的名词复数 )；遗留之物；遗留问题；后遗症 | |
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89
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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90
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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91
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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92
degenerates
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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93
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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94
mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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95
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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96
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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97
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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98
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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99
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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100
melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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101
juxtaposition
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| n.毗邻，并置，并列 | |
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102
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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103
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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104
temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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105
connivance
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| n.纵容；默许 | |
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106
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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107
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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108
notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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109
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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110
accost
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| v.向人搭话，打招呼 | |
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111
vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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112
amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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113
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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114
prophesy
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| v.预言；预示 | |
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115
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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116
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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117
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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118
provocations
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| n.挑衅( provocation的名词复数 )；激怒；刺激；愤怒的原因 | |
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119
snared
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| v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
rinsing
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| n.清水，残渣v.漂洗( rinse的现在分词 )；冲洗；用清水漂洗掉（肥皂泡等）；（用清水）冲掉 | |
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121
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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122
reveller
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| n.摆设酒宴者，饮酒狂欢者 | |
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123
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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124
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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125
sergeants
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| 警官( sergeant的名词复数 )； （美国警察）警佐； （英国警察）巡佐； 陆军（或空军）中士 | |
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126
archers
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| n.弓箭手，射箭运动员( archer的名词复数 ) | |
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127
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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128
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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129
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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130
levities
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| n.欠考虑( levity的名词复数 )；不慎重；轻率；轻浮 | |
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131
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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132
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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133
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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134
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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135
contraction
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| n.缩略词，缩写式，害病 | |
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136
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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137
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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138
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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139
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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140
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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141
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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142
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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143
rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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144
copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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145
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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146
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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147
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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148
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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149
dallied
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的过去式和过去分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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150
blustering
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| adj.狂风大作的，狂暴的v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的现在分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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151
professes
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| 声称( profess的第三人称单数 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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152
brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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153
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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154
wresting
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| 动词wrest的现在进行式 | |
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155
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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156
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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157
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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158
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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159
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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160
blench
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| v.退缩，畏缩 | |
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161
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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162
dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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163
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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164
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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165
accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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166
accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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167
incorrigibility
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| n.无法矫正；屡教不改；无可救药；难望矫正 | |
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168
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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169
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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170
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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171
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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172
effigies
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| n.（人的）雕像，模拟像，肖像( effigy的名词复数 ) | |
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173
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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174
tonsured
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| v.剃( tonsure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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176
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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177
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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178
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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179
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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180
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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181
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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182
languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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183
confiding
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|
| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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184
convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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185
astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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186
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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187
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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188
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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189
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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190
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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191
scurvily
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| 下流地，粗鄙地，无礼地 | |
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192
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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193
chalices
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| n.高脚酒杯( chalice的名词复数 )；圣餐杯；金杯毒酒；看似诱人实则令人讨厌的事物 | |
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194
ignominiously
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| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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195
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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196
castigation
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| n.申斥，强烈反对 | |
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197
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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198
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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199
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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200
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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201
incarcerated
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| 钳闭的 | |
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202
bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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203
taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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204
liberate
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| v.解放，使获得自由，释出，放出；vt.解放，使获自由 | |
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205
trudges
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| n.跋涉，长途疲劳的步行( trudge的名词复数 ) | |
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206
monstrously
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207
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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208
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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209
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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210
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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211
transcriber
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| 抄写者 | |
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212
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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213
wheedle
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| v.劝诱，哄骗 | |
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214
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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215
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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216
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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217
deposition
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| n.免职，罢官；作证；沉淀；沉淀物 | |
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218
clog
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| vt.塞满，阻塞；n.[常pl.]木屐 | |
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219
fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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220
reclaimed
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| adj.再生的；翻造的；收复的；回收的v.开拓( reclaim的过去式和过去分词 )；要求收回；从废料中回收（有用的材料）；挽救 | |
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221
rebutted
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| v.反驳，驳回( rebut的过去式和过去分词 )；击退 | |
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222
commuting
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| 交换（的） | |
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223
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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224
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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225
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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226
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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227
scatheless
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| adj.无损伤的，平安的 | |
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228
carrion
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| n.腐肉 | |
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229
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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230
transcribed
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| （用不同的录音手段）转录( transcribe的过去式和过去分词 )； 改编（乐曲）（以适应他种乐器或声部）； 抄写； 用音标标出（声音） | |
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231
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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232
incorrigible
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|
| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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233
indigent
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的 | |
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234
defers
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| v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的第三人称单数 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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235
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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236
parsimony
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| n.过度节俭，吝啬 | |
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237
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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238
narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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239
plausibly
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| 似真地 | |
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240
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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241
toils
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| 网 | |
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242
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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243
fawning
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| adj.乞怜的，奉承的v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的现在分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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244
bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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245
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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246
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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247
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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248
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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249
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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250
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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251
parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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252
pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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253
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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254
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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255
transcript
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| n.抄本，誊本，副本，肄业证书 | |
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256
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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257
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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258
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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259
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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260
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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261
fulsomely
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262
postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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263
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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264
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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265
lamenting
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|
| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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266
locust
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| n.蝗虫；洋槐，刺槐 | |
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267
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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268
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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269
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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270
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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271
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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272
noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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273
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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274
portraiture
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| n.肖像画法 | |
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275
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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276
gist
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| n.要旨；梗概 | |
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277
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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278
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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279
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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280
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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281
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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282
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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283
perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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284
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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285
interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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286
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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287
vernacular
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| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
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288
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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289
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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290
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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291
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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292
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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293
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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294
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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295
effete
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| adj.无生产力的，虚弱的 | |
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296
colloquial
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| adj.口语的，会话的 | |
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297
glossary
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| n.注释词表；术语汇编 | |
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298
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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299
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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300
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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301
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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302
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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303
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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304
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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305
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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306
pertinent
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| adj.恰当的；贴切的；中肯的；有关的；相干的 | |
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307
swarms
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| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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308
sprawl
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| vi.躺卧，扩张，蔓延；vt.使蔓延；n.躺卧，蔓延 | |
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309
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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310
transcribes
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| （用不同的录音手段）转录( transcribe的第三人称单数 )； 改编（乐曲）（以适应他种乐器或声部）； 抄写； 用音标标出（声音） | |
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311
ruffling
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| 弄皱( ruffle的现在分词 )； 弄乱； 激怒； 扰乱 | |
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312
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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313
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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314
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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315
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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316
sublimate
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| v.(使)升华，净化 | |
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317
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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318
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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319
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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320
mendicant
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| n.乞丐；adj.行乞的 | |
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321
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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322
preoccupy
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| vt.使全神贯注，使入神 | |
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323
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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324
epical
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| adj.叙事诗的，英勇的 | |
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325
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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326
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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327
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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328
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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329
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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330
burrowing
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的现在分词 )；翻寻 | |
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331
whiningly
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332
implores
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的第三人称单数 ) | |
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333
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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334
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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335
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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336
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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337
calumny
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| n.诽谤，污蔑，中伤 | |
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338
gluttons
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| 贪食者( glutton的名词复数 )； 贪图者； 酷爱…的人； 狼獾 | |
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339
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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340
covetous
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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341
stereotyped
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| adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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342
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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343
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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344
tickle
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| v.搔痒，胳肢；使高兴；发痒；n.搔痒，发痒 | |
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345
pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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346
maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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347
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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348
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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349
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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350
capers
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| n.开玩笑( caper的名词复数 )；刺山柑v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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351
heralds
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| n.使者( herald的名词复数 )；预报者；预兆；传令官v.预示( herald的第三人称单数 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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352
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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353
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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354
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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355
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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356
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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357
commentators
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| n.评论员( commentator的名词复数 )；时事评论员；注释者；实况广播员 | |
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358
notch
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| n.(V字形)槽口，缺口，等级 | |
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359
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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360
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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