“He comes from Padua, where he has completed his studies.” Such were the words by which I was everywhere introduced, and which, the moment they were uttered, called upon me the silent observation of every young man of my age and condition, the compliments of all fathers, and the caresses3 of old women, as well as the kisses of a few who, although not old, were not sorry to be considered so for the sake of embracing a young man without impropriety. The curate of Saint- Samuel, the Abbe Josello, presented me to Monsignor Correre, Patriarch of Venice, who gave me the tonsure4, and who, four months afterwards, by special favour, admitted me to the four minor orders. No words could express the joy and the pride of my grandmother. Excellent masters were given to me to continue my studies, and M. Baffo chose the Abbe Schiavo to teach me a pure Italian style, especially poetry, for which I had a decided5 talent. I was very comfortably lodged6 with my brother Francois, who was studying theatrical7 architecture. My sister and my youngest brother were living with our grandam in a house of her own, in which it was her wish to die, because her husband had there breathed his last. The house in which I dwelt was the same in which my father had died, and the rent of which my mother continued to pay. It was large and well furnished.
Although Abbe Grimani was my chief protector, I seldom saw him, and I particularly attached myself to M. de Malipiero, to whom I had been presented by the Curate Josello. M. de Malipiero was a senator, who was unwilling8 at seventy years of age to attend any more to State affairs, and enjoyed a happy, sumptuous9 life in his mansion10, surrounded every evening by a well-chosen party of ladies who had all known how to make the best of their younger days, and of gentlemen who were always acquainted with the news of the town. He was a bachelor and wealthy, but, unfortunately, he had three or four times every year severe attacks of gout, which always left him crippled in some part or other of his body, so that all his person was disabled. His head, his lungs, and his stomach had alone escaped this cruel havoc11. He was still a fine man, a great epicure12, and a good judge of wine; his wit was keen, his knowledge of the world extensive, his eloquence13 worthy14 of a son of Venice, and he had that wisdom which must naturally belong to a senator who for forty years has had the management of public affairs, and to a man who has bid farewell to women after having possessed15 twenty mistresses, and only when he felt himself compelled to acknowledge that he could no longer be accepted by any woman. Although almost entirely16 crippled, he did not appear to be so when he was seated, when he talked, or when he was at table. He had only one meal a day, and always took it alone because, being toothless and unable to eat otherwise than very slowly, he did not wish to hurry himself out of compliment to his guests, and would have been sorry to see them waiting for him. This feeling deprived him of the pleasure he would have enjoyed in entertaining at his board friendly and agreeable guests, and caused great sorrow to his excellent cook.
The first time I had the honour of being introduced to him by the curate, I opposed earnestly the reason which made him eat his meals in solitude17, and I said that his excellency had only to invite guests whose appetite was good enough to enable them to eat a double share.
“But where can I find such table companions?” he asked.
“It is rather a delicate matter,” I answered; “but you must take your guests on trial, and after they have been found such as you wish them to be, the only difficulty will be to keep them as your guests without their being aware of the real cause of your preference, for no respectable man could acknowledge that he enjoys the honour of sitting at your excellency’s table only because he eats twice as much as any other man.”
The senator understood the truth of my argument, and asked the curate to bring me to dinner on the following day. He found my practice even better than my theory, and I became his daily guest.
This man, who had given up everything in life except his own self, fostered an amorous18 inclination19, in spite of his age and of his gout. He loved a young girl named Therese Imer, the daughter of an actor residing near his mansion, her bedroom window being opposite to his own. This young girl, then in her seventeenth year, was pretty, whimsical, and a regular coquette. She was practising music with a view to entering the theatrical profession, and by showing herself constantly at the window she had intoxicated20 the old senator, and was playing with him cruelly. She paid him a daily visit, but always escorted by her mother, a former actress, who had retired21 from the stage in order to work out her salvation22, and who, as a matter of course, had made up her mind to combine the interests of heaven with the works of this world. She took her daughter to mass every day and compelled her to go to confession23 every week; but every afternoon she accompanied her in a visit to the amorous old man, the rage of whom frightened me when she refused him a kiss under the plea that she had performed her devotions in the morning, and that she could not reconcile herself to the idea of offending the God who was still dwelling24 in her.
What a sight for a young man of fifteen like me, whom the old man admitted as the only and silent witness of these erotic scenes! The miserable25 mother applauded her daughter’s reserve, and went so far as to lecture the elderly lover, who, in his turn, dared not refute her maxims27, which savoured either too much or too little of Christianity, and resisted a very strong inclination to hurl29 at her head any object he had at hand. Anger would then take the place of lewd30 desires, and after they had retired he would comfort himself by exchanging with me philosophical31 considerations.
Compelled to answer him, and not knowing well what to say, I ventured one day upon advising a marriage. He struck me with amazement32 when he answered that she refused to marry him from fear of drawing upon herself the hatred33 of his relatives.
“Then make her the offer of a large sum of money, or a position.”
“She says that she would not, even for a crown, commit a deadly sin.”
“In that case, you must either take her by storm, or banish34 her for ever from your presence.”
“I can do neither one nor the other; physical as well as moral strength is deficient35 in me.”
“Kill her, then.”
“That will very likely be the case unless I die first.”
“Indeed I pity your excellency.”
“Do you sometimes visit her?”
“No, for I might fall in love with her, and I would be miserable.”
“You are right.”
Witnessing many such scenes, and taking part in many similar conversations, I became an especial favourite with the old nobleman. I was invited to his evening assemblies which were, as I have stated before, frequented by superannuated36 women and witty37 men. He told me that in this circle I would learn a science of greater import than Gassendi’s philosophy, which I was then studying by his advice instead of Aristotle’s, which he turned into ridicule39. He laid down some precepts40 for my conduct in those assemblies, explaining the necessity of my observing them, as there would be some wonder at a young man of my age being received at such parties. He ordered me never to open my lips except to answer direct questions, and particularly enjoined42 me never to pass an opinion on any subject, because at my age I could not be allowed to have any opinions.
I faithfully followed his precepts, and obeyed his orders so well, that in a few days I had gained his esteem44, and become the child of the house, as well as the favourite of all the ladies who visited him. In my character of a young and innocent ecclesiastic45, they would ask me to accompany them in their visits to the convents where their daughters or their nieces were educated; I was at all hours received at their houses without even being announced; I was scolded if a week elapsed without my calling upon them, and when I went to the apartments reserved for the young ladies, they would run away, but the moment they saw that the intruder was only I, they would return at once, and their confidence was very charming to me.
Before dinner, M. de Malipiero would often inquire from me what advantages were accruing46 to me from the welcome I received at the hands of the respectable ladies I had become acquainted with at his house, taking care to tell me, before I could have time to answer, that they were all endowed with the greatest virtue47, and that I would give everybody a bad opinion of myself, if I ever breathed one word of disparagement48 to the high reputation they all enjoyed. In this way he would inculcate in me the wise precept41 of reserve and discretion49.
It was at the senator’s house that I made the acquaintance of Madame Manzoni, the wife of a notary50 public, of whom I shall have to speak very often. This worthy lady inspired me with the deepest attachment51, and she gave me the wisest advice. Had I followed it, and profited by it, my life would not have been exposed to so many storms; it is true that in that case, my life would not be worth writing.
All these fine acquaintances amongst women who enjoyed the reputation of being high-bred ladies, gave me a very natural desire to shine by my good looks and by the elegance52 of my dress; but my father confessor, as well as my grandmother, objected very strongly to this feeling of vanity. On one occasion, taking me apart, the curate told me, with honeyed words, that in the profession to which I had devoted53 myself my thoughts ought to dwell upon the best means of being agreeable to God, and not on pleasing the world by my fine appearance. He condemned54 my elaborate curls, and the exquisite55 perfume of my pomatum. He said that the devil had got hold of me by the hair, that I would be excommunicated if I continued to take such care of it, and concluded by quoting for my benefit these words from an oecumenical council: ‘clericus qui nutrit coman, anathema56 sit’. I answered him with the names of several fashionable perfumed abbots, who were not threatened with excommunication, who were not interfered58 with, although they wore four times as much powder as I did — for I only used a slight sprinkling — who perfumed their hair with a certain amber-scented pomatum which brought women to the very point of fainting, while mine, a jessamine pomade, called forth60 the compliment of every circle in which I was received. I added that I could not, much to my regret, obey him, and that if I had meant to live in slovenliness61, I would have become a Capuchin and not an abbe.
My answer made him so angry that, three or four days afterwards, he contrived62 to obtain leave from my grandmother to enter my chamber64 early in the morning, before I was awake, and, approaching my bed on tiptoe with a sharp pair of scissors, he cut off unmercifully all my front hair, from one ear to the other. My brother Francois was in the adjoining room and saw him, but he did not interfere57 as he was delighted at my misfortune. He wore a wig65, and was very jealous of my beautiful head of hair. Francois was envious66 through the whole of his life; yet he combined this feeling of envy with friendship; I never could understand him; but this vice38 of his, like my own vices67, must by this time have died of old age.
After his great operation, the abbe left my room quietly, but when I woke up shortly afterwards, and realized all the horror of this unheard-of execution, my rage and indignation were indeed wrought68 to the highest pitch.
What wild schemes of revenge my brain engendered69 while, with a looking-glass in my hand, I was groaning70 over the shameful71 havoc performed by this audacious priest! At the noise I made my grandmother hastened to my room, and amidst my brother’s laughter the kind old woman assured me that the priest would never have been allowed to enter my room if she could have foreseen his intention, and she managed to soothe72 my passion to some extent by confessing that he had over-stepped the limits of his right to administer a reproof73.
But I was determined74 upon revenge, and I went on dressing75 myself and revolving76 in my mind the darkest plots. It seemed to me that I was entitled to the most cruel revenge, without having anything to dread77 from the terrors of the law. The theatres being open at that time I put on a mask to go out, and I, went to the advocate Carrare, with whom I had become acquainted at the senator’s house, to inquire from him whether I could bring a suit against the priest. He told me that, but a short time since, a family had been ruined for having sheared78 the moustache of a Sclavonian — a crime not nearly so atrocious as the shearing79 of all my front locks, and that I had only to give him my instructions to begin a criminal suit against the abbe, which would make him tremble. I gave my consent, and begged that he would tell M. de Malipiero in the evening the reason for which I could not go to his house, for I did not feel any inclination to show myself anywhere until my hair had grown again.
I went home and partook with my brother of a repast which appeared rather scanty80 in comparison to the dinners I had with the old senator. The privation of the delicate and plentiful81 fare to which his excellency had accustomed me was most painful, besides all the enjoyments82 from which I was excluded through the atrocious conduct of the virulent84 priest, who was my godfather. I wept from sheer vexation; and my rage was increased by the consciousness that there was in this insult a certain dash of comical fun which threw over me a ridicule more disgraceful in my estimation than the greatest crime.
I went to bed early, and, refreshed by ten hours of profound slumber85, I felt in the morning somewhat less angry, but quite as determined to summon the priest before a court. I dressed myself with the intention of calling upon my advocate, when I received the visit of a skilful86 hair-dresser whom I had seen at Madame Cantarini’s house. He told me that he was sent by M. de Malipiero to arrange my hair so that I could go out, as the senator wished me to dine with him on that very day. He examined the damage done to my head, and said, with a smile, that if I would trust to his art, he would undertake to send me out with an appearance of even greater elegance than I could boast of before; and truly, when he had done, I found myself so good- looking that I considered my thirst for revenge entirely satisfied.
Having thus forgotten the injury, I called upon the lawyer to tell him to stay all proceedings87, and I hastened to M. de Malipiero’s palace, where, as chance would have it, I met the abbe. Notwithstanding all my joy, I could not help casting upon him rather unfriendly looks, but not a word was said about what had taken place. The senator noticed everything, and the priest took his leave, most likely with feelings of mortified89 repentance90, for this time I most verily deserved excommunication by the extreme studied elegance of my curling hair.
When my cruel godfather had left us, I did not dissemble with M. de Malipiero; I candidly91 told him that I would look out for another church, and that nothing would induce me to remain under a priest who, in his wrath92, could go the length of such proceedings. The wise old man agreed with me, and said that I was quite right: it was the best way to make me do ultimately whatever he liked. In the evening everyone in our circle, being well aware of what had happened, complimented me, and assured me that nothing could be handsomer than my new head-dress. I was delighted, and was still more gratified when, after a fortnight had elapsed, I found that M. de Malipiero did not broach93 the subject of my returning to my godfather’s church. My grandmother alone constantly urged me to return. But this calm was the harbinger of a storm. When my mind was thoroughly94 at rest on that subject, M. de Malipiero threw me into the greatest astonishment95 by suddenly telling me that an excellent opportunity offered itself for me to reappear in the church and to secure ample satisfaction from the abbe.
“It is my province,” added the senator, “as president of the Confraternity of the Holy Sacrament, to choose the preacher who is to deliver the sermon on the fourth Sunday of this month, which happens to be the second Christmas holiday. I mean to appoint you, and I am certain that the abbe will not dare to reject my choice. What say you to such a triumphant96 reappearance? Does it satisfy you?”
This offer caused me the greatest surprise, for I had never dreamt of becoming a preacher, and I had never been vain enough to suppose that I could write a sermon and deliver it in the church. I told M. de Malipiero that he must surely be enjoying a joke at my expense, but he answered that he had spoken in earnest, and he soon contrived to persuade me and to make me believe that I was born to become the most renowned98 preacher of our age as soon as I should have grown fat — a quality which I certainly could not boast of, for at that time I was extremely thin. I had not the shadow of a fear as to my voice or to my elocution, and for the matter of composing my sermon I felt myself equal to the production of a masterpiece.
I told M. de Malipiero that I was ready, and anxious to be at home in order to go to work; that, although no theologian, I was acquainted with my subject, and would compose a sermon which would take everyone by surprise on account of its novelty.
On the following day, when I called upon him, he informed me that the abbe had expressed unqualified delight at the choice made by him, and at my readiness in accepting the appointment; but he likewise desired that I should submit my sermon to him as soon as it was written, because the subject belonging to the most sublime100 theology he could not allow me to enter the pulpit without being satisfied that I would not utter any heresies101. I agreed to this demand, and during the week I gave birth to my masterpiece. I have now that first sermon in my possession, and I cannot help saying that, considering my tender years, I think it a very good one.
I could not give an idea of my grandmother’s joy; she wept tears of happiness at having a grandson who had become an apostle. She insisted upon my reading my sermon to her, listened to it with her beads102 in her hands, and pronounced it very beautiful. M. de Malipiero, who had no rosary when I read it to him, was of opinion that it would not prove acceptable to the parson. My text was from Horace: ‘Ploravere suis non respondere favorem sperdtum meritis’; and I deplored103 the wickedness and ingratitude104 of men, through which had failed the design adopted by Divine wisdom for the redemption of humankind. But M. de Malipiero was sorry that I had taken my text from any heretical poet, although he was pleased that my sermon was not interlarded with Latin quotations106.
I called upon the priest to read my production; but as he was out I had to wait for his return, and during that time I fell in love with his niece, Angela. She was busy upon some tambour work; I sat down close by her, and telling me that she had long desired to make my acquaintance, she begged me to relate the history of the locks of hair sheared by her venerable uncle.
My love for Angela proved fatal to me, because from it sprang two other love affairs which, in their turn, gave birth to a great many others, and caused me finally to renounce107 the Church as a profession. But let us proceed quietly, and not encroach upon future events.
On his return home the abbe found me with his niece, who was about my age, and he did not appear to be angry. I gave him my sermon: he read it over, and told me that it was a beautiful academical dissertation108, but unfit for a sermon from the pulpit, and he added,
“I will give you a sermon written by myself, which I have never delivered; you will commit it to memory, and I promise to let everybody suppose that it is of your own composition.”
“I thank you, very reverend father, but I will preach my own sermon, or none at all.”
“At all events, you shall not preach such a sermon as this in my church.”
“You can talk the matter over with M. de Malipiero. In the meantime I will take my work to the censorship, and to His Eminence109 the Patriarch, and if it is not accepted I shall have it printed.”
“All very well, young man. The patriarch will coincide with me.”
In the evening I related my discussion with the parson before all the guests of M. de Malipiero. The reading of my sermon was called for, and it was praised by all. They lauded26 me for having with proper modesty110 refrained from quoting the holy fathers of the Church, whom at my age I could not be supposed to have sufficiently111 studied, and the ladies particularly admired me because there was no Latin in it but the Text from Horace, who, although a great libertine112 himself, has written very good things. A niece of the patriarch, who was present that evening, promised to prepare her uncle in my favour, as I had expressed my intention to appeal to him; but M. de Malipiero desired me not to take any steps in the matter until I had seen him on the following day, and I submissively bowed to his wishes.
When I called at his mansion the next day he sent for the priest, who soon made his appearance. As he knew well what he had been sent for, he immediately launched out into a very long discourse113, which I did not interrupt, but the moment he had concluded his list of objections I told him that there could not be two ways to decide the question; that the patriarch would either approve or disapprove114 my sermon.
“In the first case,” I added, “I can pronounce it in your church, and no responsibility can possibly fall upon your shoulders; in the second, I must, of course, give way.”
The abbe was struck by my determination and he said,
“Do not go to the patriarch; I accept your sermon; I only request you to change your text. Horace was a villain115.”
“Why do you quote Seneca, Tertullian, Origen, and Boethius? They were all heretics, and must, consequently, be considered by you as worse wretches116 than Horace, who, after all, never had the chance of becoming a Christian28!”
However, as I saw it would please M. de Malipiero, I finally consented to accept, as a substitute for mine, a text offered by the abbe, although it did not suit in any way the spirit of my production; and in order to get an opportunity for a visit to his niece, I gave him my manuscript, saying that I would call for it the next day. My vanity prompted me to send a copy to Doctor Gozzi, but the good man caused me much amusement by returning it and writing that I must have gone mad, and that if I were allowed to deliver such a sermon from the pulpit I would bring dishonour117 upon myself as well as upon the man who had educated me.
I cared but little for his opinion, and on the appointed day I delivered my sermon in the Church of the Holy Sacrament in the presence of the best society of Venice. I received much applause, and every one predicted that I would certainly become the first preacher of our century, as no young ecclesiastic of fifteen had ever been known to preach as well as I had done. It is customary for the faithful to deposit their offerings for the preacher in a purse which is handed to them for that purpose.
The sexton who emptied it of its contents found in it more than fifty sequins, and several billets-doux, to the great scandal of the weaker brethren. An anonymous118 note amongst them, the writer of which I thought I had guessed, let me into a mistake which I think better not to relate. This rich harvest, in my great penury119, caused me to entertain serious thoughts of becoming a preacher, and I confided120 my intention to the parson, requesting his assistance to carry it into execution. This gave me the privilege of visiting at his house every day, and I improved the opportunity of conversing121 with Angela, for whom my love was daily increasing. But Angela was virtuous122. She did not object to my love, but she wished me to renounce the Church and to marry her. In spite of my infatuation for her, I could not make up my mind to such a step, and I went on seeing her and courting her in the hope that she would alter her decision.
The priest, who had at last confessed his admiration123 for my first sermon, asked me, some time afterwards, to prepare another for St. Joseph’s Day, with an invitation to deliver it on the 19th of March, 1741. I composed it, and the abbe spoke97 of it with enthusiasm, but fate had decided that I should never preach but once in my life. It is a sad tale, unfortunately for me very true, which some persons are cruel enough to consider very amusing.
Young and rather self-conceited124, I fancied that it was not necessary for me to spend much time in committing my sermon to memory. Being the author, I had all the ideas contained in my work classified in my mind, and it did not seem to me within the range of possibilities that I could forget what I had written. Perhaps I might not remember the exact words of a sentence, but I was at liberty to replace them by other expressions as good, and as I never happened to be at a loss, or to be struck dumb, when I spoke in society, it was not likely that such an untoward125 accident would befall me before an audience amongst whom I did not know anyone who could intimidate126 me and cause me suddenly to lose the faculty127 of reason or of speech. I therefore took my pleasure as usual, being satisfied with reading my sermon morning and evening, in order to impress it upon my memory which until then had never betrayed me.
The 19th of March came, and on that eventful day at four o’clock in the afternoon I was to ascend128 the pulpit; but, believing myself quite secure and thoroughly master of my subject, I had not the moral courage to deny myself the pleasure of dining with Count Mont-Real, who was then residing with me, and who had invited the patrician129 Barozzi, engaged to be married to his daughter after the Easter holidays.
I was still enjoying myself with my fine company, when the sexton of the church came in to tell me that they were waiting for me in the vestry. With a full stomach and my head rather heated, I took my leave, ran to the church, and entered the pulpit. I went through the exordium with credit to myself, and I took breathing time; but scarcely had I pronounced the first sentences of the narration130, before I forgot what I was saying, what I had to say, and in my endeavours to proceed, I fairly wandered from my subject and I lost myself entirely. I was still more discomforted by a half-repressed murmur131 of the audience, as my deficiency appeared evident. Several persons left the church, others began to smile, I lost all presence of mind and every hope of getting out of the scrape.
I could not say whether I feigned132 a fainting fit, or whether I truly swooned; all I know is that I fell down on the floor of the pulpit, striking my head against the wall, with an inward prayer for annihilation.
Two of the parish clerks carried me to the vestry, and after a few moments, without addressing a word to anyone, I took my cloak and my hat, and went home to lock myself in my room. I immediately dressed myself in a short coat, after the fashion of travelling priests, I packed a few things in a trunk, obtained some money from my grandmother, and took my departure for Padua, where I intended to pass my third examination. I reached Padua at midnight, and went to Doctor Gozzi’s house, but I did not feel the slightest temptation to mention to him my unlucky adventure.
I remained in Padua long enough to prepare myself for the doctor’s degree, which I intended to take the following year, and after Easter I returned to Venice, where my misfortune was already forgotten; but preaching was out of the question, and when any attempt was made to induce me to renew my efforts, I manfully kept to my determination never to ascend the pulpit again.
On the eve of Ascension Day M. Manzoni introduced me to a young courtesan, who was at that time in great repute at Venice, and was nick-named Cavamacchia, because her father had been a scourer133. This named vexed134 her a great deal, she wished to be called Preati, which was her family name, but it was all in vain, and the only concession135 her friends would make was to call her by her Christian name of Juliette. She had been introduced to fashionable notice by the Marquis de Sanvitali, a nobleman from Parma, who had given her one hundred thousand ducats for her favours. Her beauty was then the talk of everybody in Venice, and it was fashionable to call upon her. To converse136 with her, and especially to be admitted into her circle, was considered a great boon137.
As I shall have to mention her several times in the course of my history, my readers will, I trust, allow me to enter into some particulars about her previous life.
Juliette was only fourteen years of age when her father sent her one day to the house of a Venetian nobleman, Marco Muazzo, with a coat which he had cleaned for him. He thought her very beautiful in spite of the dirty rags in which she was dressed, and he called to see her at her father’s shop, with a friend of his, the celebrated138 advocate, Bastien Uccelli, who; struck by the romantic and cheerful nature of Juliette still more than by her beauty and fine figure, gave her an apartment, made her study music, and kept her as his mistress. At the time of the fair, Bastien took her with him to various public places of resort; everywhere she attracted general attention, and secured the admiration of every lover of the sex. She made rapid progress in music, and at the end of six months she felt sufficient confidence in herself to sign an engagement with a theatrical manager who took her to Vienna to give her a ‘castrato’ part in one of Metastasio’s operas.
The advocate had previously139 ceded140 her to a wealthy Jew who, after giving her splendid diamonds, left her also.
In Vienna, Juliette appeared on the stage, and her beauty gained for her an admiration which she would never have conquered by her very inferior talent. But the constant crowd of adorers who went to worship the goddess, having sounded her exploits rather too loudly, the august Maria-Theresa objected to this new creed141 being sanctioned in her capital, and the beautfiul actress received an order to quit Vienna forthwith.
Count Spada offered her his protection, and brought her back to Venice, but she soon left for Padua where she had an engagement. In that city she kindled142 the fire of love in the breast of Marquis Sanvitali, but the marchioness having caught her once in her own box, and Juliette having acted disrespectfully to her, she slapped her face, and the affair having caused a good deal of noise, Juliette gave up the stage altogether. She came back to Venice, where, made conspicuous143 by her banishment144 from Vienna, she could not fail to make her fortune. Expulsion from Vienna, for this class of women, had become a title to fashionable favour, and when there was a wish to depreciate145 a singer or a dancer, it was said of her that she had not been sufficiently prized to be expelled from Vienna.
After her return, her first lover was Steffano Querini de Papozzes, but in the spring of 1740, the Marquis de Sanvitali came to Venice and soon carried her off. It was indeed difficult to resist this delightful146 marquis! His first present to the fair lady was a sum of one hundred thousand ducats, and, to prevent his being accused of weakness or of lavish147 prodigality148, he loudly proclaimed that the present could scarcely make up for the insult Juliette had received from his wife — an insult, however, which the courtesan never admitted, as she felt that there would be humiliation150 in such an acknowledgment, and she always professed151 to admire with gratitude105 her lover’s generosity152. She was right; the admission of the blow received would have left a stain upon her charms, and how much more to her taste to allow those charms to be prized at such a high figure!
It was in the year 1741 that M. Manzoni introduced me to this new Phryne as a young ecclesiastic who was beginning to make a reputation. I found her surrounded by seven or eight well-seasoned admirers, who were burning at her feet the incense153 of their flattery. She was carelessly reclining on a sofa near Querini. I was much struck with her appearance. She eyed me from head to foot, as if I had been exposed for sale, and telling me, with the air of a princess, that she was not sorry to make my acquaintance, she invited me to take a seat. I began then, in my turn, to examine her closely and deliberately154, and it was an easy matter, as the room, although small, was lighted with at least twenty wax candles.
Juliette was then in her eighteenth year; the freshness of her complexion155 was dazzling, but the carnation156 tint157 of her cheeks, the vermilion of her lips, and the dark, very narrow curve of her eyebrows158, impressed me as being produced by art rather than nature. Her teeth — two rows of magnificent pearls — made one overlook the fact that her mouth was somewhat too large, and whether from habit, or because she could not help it, she seemed to be ever smiling. Her bosom159, hid under a light gauze, invited the desires of love; yet I did not surrender to her charms. Her bracelets160 and the rings which covered her fingers did not prevent me from noticing that her hand was too large and too fleshy, and in spite of her carefully hiding her feet, I judged, by a telltale slipper161 lying close by her dress, that they were well proportioned to the height of her figure — a proportion which is unpleasant not only to the Chinese and Spaniards, but likewise to every man of refined taste. We want a tall women to have a small foot, and certainly it is not a modern taste, for Holofernes of old was of the same opinion; otherwise he would not have thought Judith so charming: ‘et sandalid ejus rapuerunt oculos ejus’. Altogether I found her beautiful, but when I compared her beauty and the price of one hundred thousand ducats paid for it, I marvelled162 at my remaining so cold, and at my not being tempted163 to give even one sequin for the privilege of making from nature a study of the charms which her dress concealed165 from my eyes.
I had scarcely been there a quarter of an hour when the noise made by the oars166 of a gondola167 striking the water heralded168 the prodigal149 marquis. We all rose from our seats, and M. Querini hastened, somewhat blushing, to quit his place on the sofa. M. de Sanvitali, a man of middle age, who had travelled much, took a seat near Juliette, but not on the sofa, so she was compelled to turn round. It gave me the opportunity of seeing her full front, while I had before only a side view of her face.
After my introduction to Juliette, I paid her four or five visits, and I thought myself justified169, by the care I had given to the examination of her beauty, in saying in M. de Malipiero’s draw-room, one evening, when my opinion about her was asked, that she could please only a glutton170 with depraved tastes; that she had neither the fascination171 of simple nature nor any knowledge of society, that she was deficient in well-bred, easy manners as well as in striking talents and that those were the qualities which a thorough gentleman liked to find in a woman. This opinion met the general approbation172 of his friends, but M. de Malipiero kindly173 whispered to me that Juliette would certainly be informed of the portrait I had drawn174 of her, and that she would become my sworn enemy. He had guessed rightly.
I thought Juliette very singular, for she seldom spoke to me, and whenever she looked at me she made use of an eye-glass, or she contracted her eye-lids, as if she wished to deny me the honour of seeing her eyes, which were beyond all dispute very beautiful. They were blue, wondrously175 large and full, and tinted176 with that unfathomable variegated177 iris178 which nature only gives to youth, and which generally disappears, after having worked miracles, when the owner reaches the shady side of forty. Frederick the Great preserved it until his death.
Juliette was informed of the portrait I had given of her to M. de Malipiero’s friends by the indiscreet pensioner179, Xavier Cortantini. One evening I called upon her with M. Manzoni, and she told him that a wonderful judge of beauty had found flaws in hers, but she took good care not to specify180 them. It was not difficult to make out that she was indirectly181 firing at me, and I prepared myself for the ostracism182 which I was expecting, but which, however, she kept in abeyance183 fully43 for an hour. At last, our conversation falling upon a concert given a few days before by Imer, the actor, and in which his daughter, Therese, had taken a brilliant part, Juliette turned round to me and inquired what M. de Malipiero did for Therese. I said that he was educating her. “He can well do it,” she answered, “for he is a man of talent; but I should like to know what he can do with you?”
“Whatever he can.”
“I am told that he thinks you rather stupid.”
As a matter of course, she had the laugh on her side, and I, confused, uncomfortable and not knowing what to say, took leave after having cut a very sorry figure, and determined never again to darken her door. The next day at dinner the account of my adventure caused much amusement to the old senator.
Throughout the summer, I carried on a course of Platonic184 love with my charming Angela at the house of her teacher of embroidery185, but her extreme reserve excited me, and my love had almost become a torment186 to myself. With my ardent187 nature, I required a mistress like Bettina, who knew how to satisfy my love without wearing it out. I still retained some feelings of purity, and I entertained the deepest veneration188 for Angela. She was in my eyes the very palladium of Cecrops. Still very innocent, I felt some disinclination towards women, and I was simple enough to be jealous of even their husbands.
Angela would not grant me the slightest favour, yet she was no flirt189; but the fire beginning in me parched190 and withered191 me. The pathetic entreaties192 which I poured out of my heart had less effect upon her than upon two young sisters, her companions and friends: had I not concentrated every look of mine upon the heartless girl, I might have discovered that her friends excelled her in beauty and in feeling, but my prejudiced eyes saw no one but Angela. To every outpouring of my love she answered that she was quite ready to become my wife, and that such was to be the limit of my wishes; when she condescended194 to add that she suffered as much as I did myself, she thought she had bestowed195 upon me the greatest of favours.
Such was the state of my mind, when, in the first days of autumn, I received a letter from the Countess de Mont-Real with an invitation to spend some time at her beautiful estate at Pasean. She expected many guests, and among them her own daughter, who had married a Venetian nobleman, and who had a great reputation for wit and beauty, although she had but one eye; but it was so beautiful that it made up for the loss of the other. I accepted the invitation, and Pasean offering me a constant round of pleasures, it was easy enough for me to enjoy myself, and to forget for the time the rigours of the cruel Angela.
I was given a pretty room on the ground floor, opening upon the gardens of Pasean, and I enjoyed its comforts without caring to know who my neighbours were.
The morning after my arrival, at the very moment I awoke, my eyes were delighted with the sight of the charming creature who brought me my coffee. She was a very young girl, but as well formed as a young person of seventeen; yet she had scarcely completed her fourteenth year. The snow of her complexion, her hair as dark as the raven’s wing, her black eyes beaming with fire and innocence196, her dress composed only of a chemise and a short petticoat which exposed a well-turned leg and the prettiest tiny foot, every detail I gathered in one instant presented to my looks the most original and the most perfect beauty I had ever beheld197. I looked at her with the greatest pleasure, and her eyes rested upon me as if we had been old acquaintances.
“How did you find your bed?” she asked.
“Very comfortable; I am sure you made it. Pray, who are you?”
“I am Lucie, the daughter of the gate-keeper: I have neither brothers nor sisters, and I am fourteen years old. I am very glad you have no servant with you; I will be your little maid, and I am sure you will be pleased with me.”
Delighted at this beginning, I sat up in my bed and she helped me to put on my dressing-gown, saying a hundred things which I did not understand. I began to drink my coffee, quite amazed at her easy freedom, and struck with her beauty, to which it would have been impossible to remain indifferent. She had seated herself on my bed, giving no other apology for that liberty than the most delightful smile.
I was still sipping198 my coffee, when Lucie’s parents came into my room. She did not move from her place on the bed, but she looked at them, appearing very proud of such a seat. The good people kindly scolded her, begged my forgiveness in her favour, and Lucie left the room to attend to her other duties. The moment she had gone her father and mother began to praise their daughter.
“She is,” they said, “our only child, our darling pet, the hope of our old age. She loves and obeys us, and fears God; she is as clean as a new pin, and has but one fault.”
“What is that?”
“She is too young.”
“That is a charming fault which time will mend”
I was not long in ascertaining199 that they were living specimens201 of honesty, of truth, of homely202 virtues203, and of real happiness. I was delighted at this discovery, when Lucie returned as gay as a lark204, prettily205 dressed, her hair done in a peculiar206 way of her own, and with well-fitting shoes. She dropped a simple courtesy before me, gave a couple of hearty207 kisses to both her parents, and jumped on her father knees. I asked her to come and sit on my bed, but she answered that she could not take such a liberty now that she was dressed, The simplicity208, artlessness, and innocence of the answer seemed to me very enchanting209, and brought a smile on my lips. I examined her to see whether she was prettier in her new dress or in the morning’s negligee, and I decided in favour of the latter. To speak the truth, Lucie was, I thought, superior in everything, not only to Angela, but even to Bettina.
The hair-dresser made his appearance, and the honest family left my room. When I was dressed I went to meet the countess and her amiable210 daughter. The day passed off very pleasantly, as is generally the case in the country, when you are amongst agreeable people.
In the morning, the moment my eyes were opened,
I rang the bell, and pretty Lucie came in, simple and natural as before, with her easy manners and wonderful remarks. Her candour, her innocence shone brilliantly all over her person. I could not conceive how, with her goodness, her virtue and her intelligence, she could run the risk of exciting me by coming into my room alone, and with so much familiarity. I fancied that she would not attach much importance to certain slight liberties, and would not prove over- scrupulous211, and with that idea I made up my mind to shew her that I fully understood her. I felt no remorse212 of conscience on the score of her parents, who, in my estimation, were as careless as herself; I had no dread of being the first to give the alarm to her innocence, or to enlighten her mind with the gloomy light of malice213, but, unwilling either to be the dupe of feeling or to act against it, I resolved to reconnoitre the ground. I extend a daring hand towards her person, and by an involuntary movement she withdraws, blushes, her cheerfulness disappears, and, turning her head aside as if she were in search of something, she waits until her agitation214 has subsided215. The whole affair had not lasted one minute. She came back, abashed216 at the idea that she had proved herself rather knowing, and at the dread of having perhaps given a wrong interpretation217 to an action which might have been, on my part, perfectly218 innocent, or the result of politeness. Her natural laugh soon returned, and, having rapidly read in her mind all I have just described, I lost no time in restoring her confidence, and, judging that I would venture too much by active operations, I resolved to employ the following morning in a friendly chat during which I could make her out better.
In pursuance of that plan, the next morning, as we were talking, I told her that it was cold, but that she would not feel it if she would lie down near me.
“Shall I disturb you?” she said.
“No; but I am thinking that if your mother happened to come in, she would be angry.”
“Mother would not think of any harm.”
“Come, then. But Lucie, do you know what danger you are exposing yourself to?”
“Certainly I do; but you are good, and, what is more, you are a priest.”
“Come; only lock the door.”
“No, no, for people might think. . . . I do not know what.” She laid down close by me, and kept on her chatting, although I did not understand a word of what she said, for in that singular position, and unwilling to give way to my ardent desires, I remained as still as a log.
Her confidence in her safety, confidence which was certainly not feigned, worked upon my feelings to such an extent that I would have been ashamed to take any advantage of it. At last she told me that nine o’clock had struck, and that if old Count Antonio found us as we were, he would tease her with his jokes. “When I see that man,” she said, “I am afraid and I run away.” Saying these words, she rose from the bed and left the room.
I remained motionless for a long while, stupefied, benumbed, and mastered by the agitation of my excited senses as well as by my thoughts. The next morning, as I wished to keep calm, I only let her sit down on my bed, and the conversation I had with her proved without the shadow of a doubt that her parents had every reason to idolize her, and that the easy freedom of her mind as well as of her behaviour with me was entirely owing to her innocence and to her purity. Her artlessness, her vivacity219, her eager curiosity, and the bashful blushes which spread over her face whenever her innocent or jesting remarks caused me to laugh, everything, in fact, convinced me that she was an angel destined220 to become the victim of the first libertine who would undertake to seduce221 her. I felt sufficient control over my own feelings to resist any attempt against her virtue which my conscience might afterwards reproach me with. The mere222 thought of taking advantage of her innocence made me shudder223, and my self-esteem was a guarantee to her parents, who abandoned her to me on the strength of the good opinion they entertained of me, that Lucie’s honour was safe in my hands. I thought I would have despised myself if I had betrayed the trust they reposed224 in me. I therefore determined to conquer my feelings, and, with perfect confidence in the victory, I made up my mind to wage war against myself, and to be satisfied with her presence as the only reward of my heroic efforts. I was not yet acquainted with the axiom that “as long as the fighting lasts, victory remains225 uncertain.”
As I enjoyed her conversation much, a natural instinct prompted me to tell her that she would afford me great pleasure if she could come earlier in the morning, and even wake me up if I happened to be asleep, adding, in order to give more weight to my request, that the less I slept the better I felt in health. In this manner I contrived to spend three hours instead of two in her society, although this cunning contrivance of mine did not prevent the hours flying, at least in my opinion, as swift as lightning.
Her mother would often come in as we were talking, and when the good woman found her sitting on my bed she would say nothing, only wondering at my kindness. Lucie would then cover her with kisses, and the kind old soul would entreat193 me to give her child lessons of goodness, and to cultivate her mind; but when she had left us Lucie did not think herself more unrestrained, and whether in or out of her mother’s presence, she was always the same without the slightest change.
If the society of this angelic child afforded me the sweetest delight, it also caused me the most cruel suffering. Often, very often, when her face was close to my lips, I felt the most ardent temptation to smother226 her with kisses, and my blood was at fever heat when she wished that she had been a sister of mine. But I kept sufficient command over myself to avoid the slightest contact, for I was conscious that even one kiss would have been the spark which would have blown up all the edifice227 of my reserve. Every time she left me I remained astounded228 at my own victory, but, always eager to win fresh laurels229, I longed for the following morning, panting for a renewal230 of this sweet yet very dangerous contest.
At the end of ten or twelve days, I felt that there was no alternative but to put a stop to this state of things, or to become a monster in my own eyes; and I decided for the moral side of the question all the more easily that nothing insured me success, if I chose the second alternative. The moment I placed her under the obligation to defend herself Lucie would become a heroine, and the door of my room being open, I might have been exposed to shame and to a very useless repentance. This rather frightened me. Yet, to put an end to my torture, I did not know what to decide. I could no longer resist the effect made upon my senses by this beautiful girl, who, at the break of day and scarcely dressed, ran gaily231 into my room, came to my bed enquiring232 how I had slept, bent233 familiarly her head towards me, and, so to speak, dropped her words on my lips. In those dangerous moments I would turn my head aside; but in her innocence she would reproach me for being afraid when she felt herself so safe, and if I answered that I could not possibly fear a child, she would reply that a difference of two years was of no account.
Standing88 at bay, exhausted234, conscious that every instant increased the ardour which was devouring235 me, I resolved to entreat from herself the discontinuance of her visits, and this resolution appeared to me sublime and infallible; but having postponed236 its execution until the following morning, I passed a dreadful night, tortured by the image of Lucie, and by the idea that I would see her in the morning for the last time. I fancied that Lucie would not only grant my prayer, but that she would conceive for me the highest esteem. In the morning, it was barely day-light, Lucie beaming, radiant with beauty, a happy smile brightening her pretty mouth, and her splendid hair in the most fascinating disorder238, bursts into my room, and rushes with open arms towards my bed; but when she sees my pale, dejected, and unhappy countenance239, she stops short, and her beautiful face taking an expression of sadness and anxiety:
“What ails240 you?” she asks, with deep sympathy.
“I have had no sleep through the night:”
“And why?”
“Because I have made up my mind to impart to you a project which, although fraught241 with misery242 to myself, will at least secure me your esteem.”
“But if your project is to insure my esteem it ought to make you very cheerful. Only tell me, reverend sir, why, after calling me ‘thou’ yesterday, you treat me today respectfully, like a lady? What have I done? I will get your coffee, and you must tell me everything after you have drunk it; I long to hear you”
She goes and returns, I drink the coffee, and seeing that my countenance remains grave she tries to enliven me, contrives243 to make me smile, and claps her hands for joy. After putting everything in order, she closes the door because the wind is high, and in her anxiety not to lose one word of what I have to say, she entreats244 artlessly a little place near me. I cannot refuse her, for I feel almost lifeless.
I then begin a faithful recital245 of the fearful state in which her beauty has thrown me, and a vivid picture of all the suffering I have experienced in trying to master my ardent wish to give her some proof of my love; I explain to her that, unable to endure such torture any longer, I see no other safety but in entreating246 her not to see me any more. The importance of the subject, the truth of my love, my wish to present my expedient247 in the light of the heroic effort of a deep and virtuous passion, lend me a peculiar eloquence. I endeavour above all to make her realize the fearful consequences which might follow a course different to the one I was proposing, and how miserable we might be.
At the close of my long discourse Lucie, seeing my eyes wet with tears, throws off the bed-clothes to wipe them, without thinking that in so doing she uncovers two globes, the beauty of which might have caused the wreck248 of the most experienced pilot. After a short silence, the charming child tells me that my tears make her very unhappy, and that she had never supposed that she could cause them.
“All you have just told me,” she added, “proves the sincerity249 of your great love for me, but I cannot imagine why you should be in such dread of a feeling which affords me the most intense pleasure. You wish to banish me from your presence because you stand in fear of your love, but what would you do if you hated me? Am I guilty because I have pleased you? If it is a crime to have won your affection, I can assure you that I did not think I was committing a criminal action, and therefore you cannot conscientiously250 punish me. Yet I cannot conceal164 the truth; I am very happy to be loved by you. As for the danger we run, when we love, danger which I can understand, we can set it at defiance251, if we choose, and I wonder at my not fearing it, ignorant as I am, while you, a learned man, think it so terrible. I am astonished that love, which is not a disease, should have made you ill, and that it should have exactly the opposite effect upon me. Is it possible that I am mistaken, and that my feeling towards you should not be love? You saw me very cheerful when I came in this morning; it is because I have been dreaming all night, but my dreams did not keep me awake; only several times I woke up to ascertain200 whether my dream was true, for I thought I was near you; and every time, finding that it was not so, I quickly went to sleep again in the hope of continuing my happy dream, and every time I succeeded. After such a night, was it not natural for me to be cheerful this morning? My dear abbe, if love is a torment for you I am very sorry, but would it be possible for you to live without love? I will do anything you order me to do, but, even if your cure depended upon it, I would not cease to love you, for that would be impossible. Yet if to heal your sufferings it should be necessary for you to love me no more, you must do your utmost to succeed, for I would much rather see you alive without love, than dead for having loved too much. Only try to find some other plan, for the one you have proposed makes me very miserable. Think of it, there may be some other way which will be less painful. Suggest one more practicable, and depend upon Lucie’s obedience252.”
These words, so true, so artless, so innocent, made me realize the immense superiority of nature’s eloquence over that of philosophical intellect. For the first time I folded this angelic being in my arms, exclaiming, “Yes, dearest Lucie, yes, thou hast it in thy power to afford the sweetest relief to my devouring pain; abandon to my ardent kisses thy divine lips which have just assured me of thy love.”
An hour passed in the most delightful silence, which nothing interrupted except these words murmured now and then by Lucie, “Oh, God! is it true? is it not a dream?” Yet I respected her innocence, and the more readily that she abandoned herself entirely and without the slightest resistance. At last, extricating253 herself gently from my arms, she said, with some uneasiness, “My heart begins to speak, I must go;” and she instantly rose. Having somewhat rearranged her dress she sat down, and her mother, coming in at that moment, complimented me upon my good looks and my bright countenance, and told Lucie to dress herself to attend mass. Lucie came back an hour later, and expressed her joy and her pride at the wonderful cure she thought she had performed upon me, for the healthy appearance I was then shewing convinced her of my love much better than the pitiful state in which she had found me in the morning. “If your complete happiness,” she said, “rests in my power, be happy; there is nothing that I can refuse you.”
The moment she left me, still wavering between happiness and fear, I understood that I was standing on the very brink254 of the abyss, and that nothing but a most extraordinary determination could prevent me from falling headlong into it.
I remained at Pasean until the end of September, and the last eleven nights of my stay were passed in the undisturbed possession of Lucie, who, secure in her mother’s profound sleep, came to my room to enjoy in my arms the most delicious hours. The burning ardour of my love was increased by the abstinence to which I condemned myself, although Lucie did everything in her power to make me break through my determination. She could not fully enjoy the sweetness of the forbidden fruit unless I plucked it without reserve, and the effect produced by our constantly lying in each other’s arms was too strong for a young girl to resist. She tried everything she could to deceive me, and to make me believe that I had already, and in reality, gathered the whole flower, but Bettina’s lessons had been too efficient to allow me to go on a wrong scent59, and I reached the end of my stay without yielding entirely to the temptation she so fondly threw in my way. I promised her to return in the spring; our farewell was tender and very sad, and I left her in a state of mind and of body which must have been the cause of her misfortunes, which, twenty years after, I had occasion to reproach myself with in Holland, and which will ever remain upon my conscience.
A few days after my return to Venice, I had fallen back into all my old habits, and resumed my courtship of Angela in the hope that I would obtain from her, at least, as much as Lucie had granted to me. A certain dread which to-day I can no longer trace in my nature, a sort of terror of the consequences which might have a blighting255 influence upon my future, prevented me from giving myself up to complete enjoyment83. I do not know whether I have ever been a truly honest man, but I am fully aware that the feelings I fostered in my youth were by far more upright than those I have, as I lived on, forced myself to accept. A wicked philosophy throws down too many of these barriers which we call prejudices.
The two sisters who were sharing Angela’s embroidery lessons were her intimate friends and the confidantes of all her secrets. I made their acquaintance, and found that they disapproved256 of her extreme reserve towards me. As I usually saw them with Angela and knew their intimacy257 with her, I would, when I happened to meet them alone, tell them all my sorrows, and, thinking only of my cruel sweetheart, I never was conceited enough to propose that these young girls might fall in love with me; but I often ventured to speak to them with all the blazing inspiration which was burning in me — a liberty I would not have dared to take in the presence of her whom I loved. True love always begets258 reserve; we fear to be accused of exaggeration if we should give utterance259 to feelings inspired, by passion, and the modest lover, in his dread of saying too much, very often says too little.
The teacher of embroidery, an old bigot, who at first appeared not to mind the attachment I skewed for Angela, got tired at last of my too frequent visits, and mentioned them to the abbe, the uncle of my fair lady. He told me kindly one day that I ought not to call at that house so often, as my constant visits might be wrongly construed260, and prove detrimental261 to the reputation of his niece. His words fell upon me like a thunder-bolt, but I mastered my feelings sufficiently to leave him without incurring262 any suspicion, and I promised to follow his good advice.
Three or four days afterwards, I paid a visit to the teacher of embroidery, and, to make her believe that my visit was only intended for her, I did not stop one instant near the young girls; yet I contrived to slip in the hand of the eldest263 of the two sisters a note enclosing another for my dear Angela, in which I explained why I had been compelled to discontinue my visits, entreating her to devise some means by which I could enjoy the happiness of seeing her and of conversing with her. In my note to Nanette, I only begged her to give my letter to her friend, adding that I would see them again the day after the morrow, and that I trusted to her to find an opportunity for delivering me the answer. She managed it all very cleverly, and, when I renewed my visit two days afterwards, she gave me a letter without attracting the attention of anyone. Nanette’s letter enclosed a very short note from Angela, who, disliking letter-writing, merely advised me to follow, if I could, the plan proposed by her friend. Here is the copy of the letter written by Nanette, which I have always kept, as well as all other letters which I give in these Memoirs264:
“There is nothing in the world, reverend sir, that I would not readily do for my friend. She visits at our house every holiday, has supper with us, and sleeps under our roof. I will suggest the best way for you to make the acquaintance of Madame Orio, our aunt; but, if you obtain an introduction to her, you must be very careful not to let her suspect your preference for Angela, for our aunt would certainly object to her house being made a place of rendezvous to facilitate your interviews with a stranger to her family. Now for the plan I propose, and in the execution of which I will give you every assistance in my power. Madame Orio, although a woman of good station in life, is not wealthy, and she wishes to have her name entered on the list of noble widows who receive the bounties265 bestowed by the Confraternity of the Holy Sacrament, of which M. de Malipiero is president. Last Sunday, Angela mentioned that you are in the good graces of that nobleman, and that the best way to obtain his patronage266 would be to ask you to entreat it in her behalf. The foolish girl added that you were smitten267 with me, that all your visits to our mistress of embroidery were made for my special benefit and for the sake of entertaining me, and that I would find it a very easy task to interest you in her favour. My aunt answered that, as you are a priest, there was no fear of any harm, and she told me to write to you with an invitation to call on her; I refused. The procurator Rosa, who is a great favourite of my aunt’s, was present; he approved of my refusal, saying that the letter ought to be written by her and not by me, that it was for my aunt to beg the honour of your visit on business of real importance, and that, if there was any truth in the report of your love for me, you would not fail to come. My aunt, by his advice, has therefore written the letter which you will find at your house. If you wish to meet Angela, postpone237 your visit to us until next Sunday. Should you succeed in obtaining M. de Malipiero’s good will in favour of my aunt, you will become the pet of the household, but you must forgive me if I appear to treat you with coolness, for I have said that I do not like you. I would advise you to make love to my aunt, who is sixty years of age; M. Rosa will not be jealous, and you will become dear to everyone. For my part, I will manage for you an opportunity for some private conversation with Angela, and I will do anything to convince you of my friendship. Adieu.”
This plan appeared to me very well conceived, and, having the same evening received Madame Orio’s letter, I called upon her on the following day, Sunday. I was welcomed in a very friendly manner, and the lady, entreating me to exert in her behalf my influence with M. de Malipiero, entrusted268 me with all the papers which I might require to succeed. I undertook to do my utmost, and I took care to address only a few words to Angela, but I directed all my gallant269 attentions to Nanette, who treated me as coolly as could be. Finally, I won the friendship of the old procurator Rosa, who, in after years, was of some service to me.
I had so much at stake in the success of Madame Orio’s petition, that I thought of nothing else, and knowing all the power of the beautiful Therese Imer over our amorous senator, who would be but too happy to please her in anything, I determined to call upon her the next day, and I went straight to her room without being announced. I found her alone with the physician Doro, who, feigning270 to be on a professional visit, wrote a prescription271, felt her pulse, and went off. This Doro was suspected of being in love with Therese; M. de Malipiero, who was jealous, had forbidden Therese to receive his visits, and she had promised to obey him. She knew that I was acquainted with those circumstances, and my presence was evidently unpleasant to her, for she had certainly no wish that the old man should hear how she kept her promise. I thought that no better opportunity could be found of obtaining from her everything I wished.
I told her in a few words the object of my visit, and I took care to add that she could rely upon my discretion, and that I would not for the world do her any injury. Therese, grateful for this assurance, answered that she rejoiced at finding an occasion to oblige me, and, asking me to give her the papers of my protege, she shewed me the certificates and testimonials of another lady in favour of whom she had undertaken to speak, and whom, she said, she would sacrifice to the person in whose behalf I felt interested. She kept her word, for the very next day she placed in my hands the brevet, signed by his excellency as president of the confraternity. For the present, and with the expectation of further favours, Madame Orio’s name was put down to share the bounties which were distributed twice a year.
Nanette and her sister Marton were the orphan272 daughters of a sister of Madame Orio. All the fortune of the good lady consisted in the house which was her dwelling, the first floor being let, and in a pension given to her by her brother, member of the council of ten. She lived alone with her two charming nieces, the eldest sixteen, and the youngest fifteen years of age. She kept no servant, and only employed an old woman, who, for one crown a month, fetched water, and did the rough work. Her only friend was the procurator Rosa; he had, like her, reached his sixtieth year, and expected to marry her as soon as he should become a widower273.
The two sisters slept together on the third floor in a large bed, which was likewise shared by Angela every Sunday.
As soon as I found myself in possession of the deed for Madame Orio, I hastened to pay a visit to the mistress of embroidery, in order to find an opportunity of acquainting Nanette with my success, and in a short note which I prepared, I informed her that in two days I would call to give the brevet to Madame Orio, and I begged her earnestly not to forget her promise to contrive63 a private interview with my dear Angela.
When I arrived, on the appointed day, at Madame Orio’s house, Nanette, who had watched for my coming, dexterously274 conveyed to my hand a billet, requesting me to find a moment to read it before leaving the house. I found Madame Orio, Angela, the old procurator, and Marton in the room. Longing99 to read the note, I refused the seat offered to me, and presenting to Madame Orio the deed she had so long desired, I asked, as my only reward, the pleasure of kissing her hand, giving her to understand that I wanted to leave the room immediately.
“Oh, my dear abbe!” said the lady, “you shall have a kiss, but not on my hand, and no one can object to it, as I am thirty years older than you.”
She might have said forty-five without going much astray. I gave her two kisses, which evidently satisfied her, for she desired me to perform the same ceremony with her nieces, but they both ran away, and Angela alone stood the brunt of my hardihood. After this the widow asked me to sit down.
“I cannot, Madame.”
“Why, I beg?”
“I have —.”
“I understand. Nanette, shew the way.”
“Dear aunt, excuse me.”
“Well, then, Marton.”
“Oh! dear aunt, why do you not insist upon my sister obeying your orders?”
“Alas! madame, these young ladies are quite right. Allow me to retire.”
“No, my dear abbe, my nieces are very foolish; M. Rosa, I am sure, will kindly.”
The good procurator takes me affectionately by the hand, and leads me to the third story, where he leaves me. The moment I am alone I open my letter, and I read the following:
“My aunt will invite you to supper; do not accept. Go away as soon as we sit down to table, and Marton will escort you as far as the street door, but do not leave the house. When the street door is closed again, everyone thinking you are gone, go upstairs in the dark as far as the third floor, where you must wait for us. We will come up the moment M. Rosa has left the house, and our aunt has gone to bed. Angela will be at liberty to grant you throughout the night a tete-a-tete which, I trust, will prove a happy one.”
Oh! what joy-what gratitude for the lucky chance which allowed me to read this letter on the very spot where I was to expect the dear abject275 of my love! Certain of finding my way without the slightest difficulty, I returned to Madame Orio’s sitting-room276, overwhelmed with happiness.
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1
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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2
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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3
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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4
tonsure
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| n.削发；v.剃 | |
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5
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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6
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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7
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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8
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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9
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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10
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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11
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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12
epicure
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| n.行家，美食家 | |
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13
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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14
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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15
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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16
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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17
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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18
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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19
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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20
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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21
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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22
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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23
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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24
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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25
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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26
lauded
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| v.称赞，赞美( laud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27
maxims
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| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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28
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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29
hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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30
lewd
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| adj.淫荡的 | |
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31
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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32
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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33
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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34
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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35
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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36
superannuated
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| adj.老朽的，退休的；v.因落后于时代而废除，勒令退学 | |
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37
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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38
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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39
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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40
precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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41
precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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42
enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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44
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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45
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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46
accruing
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| v.增加( accrue的现在分词 )；（通过自然增长）产生；获得；（使钱款、债务）积累 | |
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47
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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48
disparagement
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| n.轻视，轻蔑 | |
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49
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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50
notary
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| n.公证人，公证员 | |
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51
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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52
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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53
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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54
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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55
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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56
anathema
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| n.诅咒；被诅咒的人(物)，十分讨厌的人(物) | |
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57
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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58
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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59
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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60
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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61
slovenliness
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62
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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63
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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64
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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65
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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66
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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67
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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68
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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69
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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71
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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72
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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73
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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74
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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75
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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76
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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77
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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78
sheared
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| v.剪羊毛( shear的过去式和过去分词 )；切断；剪切 | |
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79
shearing
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| n.剪羊毛，剪取的羊毛v.剪羊毛( shear的现在分词 )；切断；剪切 | |
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80
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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81
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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82
enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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83
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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84
virulent
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| adj.有毒的，有恶意的，充满敌意的 | |
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85
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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86
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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87
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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88
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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89
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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90
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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91
candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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92
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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93
broach
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| v.开瓶，提出(题目) | |
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94
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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95
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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96
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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97
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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98
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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99
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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100
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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101
heresies
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| n.异端邪说，异教( heresy的名词复数 ) | |
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102
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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103
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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105
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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106
quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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107
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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108
dissertation
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| n.（博士学位）论文，学术演讲，专题论文 | |
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109
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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110
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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111
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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112
libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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113
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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114
disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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115
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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116
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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117
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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118
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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119
penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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120
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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121
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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122
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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123
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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124
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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125
untoward
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| adj.不利的，不幸的，困难重重的 | |
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126
intimidate
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| vt.恐吓，威胁 | |
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127
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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128
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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129
patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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130
narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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131
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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132
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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133
scourer
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| 洗擦者，洗刷物品 | |
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134
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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135
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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136
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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137
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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138
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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139
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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140
ceded
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| v.让给，割让，放弃( cede的过去式 ) | |
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141
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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142
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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143
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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144
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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145
depreciate
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| v.降价，贬值，折旧 | |
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146
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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147
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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148
prodigality
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| n.浪费，挥霍 | |
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149
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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150
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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151
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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152
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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153
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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154
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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155
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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156
carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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157
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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158
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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159
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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160
bracelets
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| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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161
slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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162
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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163
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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164
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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165
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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166
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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167
gondola
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| n.威尼斯的平底轻舟；飞船的吊船 | |
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168
heralded
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| v.预示( herald的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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169
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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170
glutton
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| n.贪食者，好食者 | |
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171
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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172
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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173
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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174
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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175
wondrously
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| adv.惊奇地，非常，极其 | |
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176
tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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177
variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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178
iris
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| n.虹膜，彩虹 | |
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179
pensioner
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| n.领养老金的人 | |
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180
specify
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| vt.指定，详细说明 | |
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181
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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182
ostracism
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| n.放逐；排斥 | |
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183
abeyance
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| n.搁置，缓办，中止，产权未定 | |
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184
platonic
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| adj.精神的；柏拉图（哲学）的 | |
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185
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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186
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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187
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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188
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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189
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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190
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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191
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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192
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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193
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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194
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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195
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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196
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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197
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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198
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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199
ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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200
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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201
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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202
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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203
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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204
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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205
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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206
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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207
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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208
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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209
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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210
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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211
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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212
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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213
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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214
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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215
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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216
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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217
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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218
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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219
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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220
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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221
seduce
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| vt.勾引，诱奸，诱惑，引诱 | |
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222
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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223
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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224
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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225
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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226
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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227
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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228
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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229
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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230
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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231
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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232
enquiring
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| a.爱打听的，显得好奇的 | |
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233
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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234
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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235
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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236
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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237
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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238
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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239
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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240
ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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241
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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242
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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243
contrives
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的第三人称单数 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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244
entreats
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的第三人称单数 ) | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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246
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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247
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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248
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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249
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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251
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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252
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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253
extricating
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的现在分词 ) | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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255
blighting
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| 使凋萎( blight的现在分词 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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256
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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257
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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258
begets
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| v.为…之生父( beget的第三人称单数 )；产生，引起 | |
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259
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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construed
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| v.解释（陈述、行为等）( construe的过去式和过去分词 )；翻译，作句法分析 | |
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261
detrimental
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| adj.损害的，造成伤害的 | |
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262
incurring
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| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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263
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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bounties
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| （由政府提供的）奖金( bounty的名词复数 )； 赏金； 慷慨； 大方 | |
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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268
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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feigning
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| 假装，伪装( feign的现在分词 )； 捏造（借口、理由等） | |
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271
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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272
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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273
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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274
dexterously
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| adv.巧妙地，敏捷地 | |
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275
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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276
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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