M. Dalacqua being very ill, his daughter Barbara gave me my lesson. When it was over, she seized an opportunity of slipping a letter into my pocket, and immediately disappeared, so that I had no chance of refusing. The letter was addressed to me, and expressed feelings of the warmest gratitude1. She only desired me to inform her lover that her father had spoken to her again, and that most likely he would engage a new servant as soon as he had recovered from his illness, and she concluded her letter by assuring me that she never would implicate3 me in this business.
Her father was compelled to keep his bed for a fortnight, and Barbara continued to give me my lesson every day. I felt for her an interest which, from me towards a young and pretty girl, was, indeed, quite a new sentiment. It was a feeling of pity, and I was proud of being able to help and comfort her. Her eyes never rested upon mine, her hand never met mine, I never saw in her toilet the slightest wish to please me. She was very pretty, and I knew she had a tender, loving nature; but nothing interfered4 with the respect and the regard which I was bound in honour and in good faith to feel towards her, and I was proud to remark that she never thought me capable of taking advantage of her weakness or of her position.
When the father had recovered he dismissed his servant and engaged another. Barbara entreated6 me to inform her friend of the circumstance, and likewise of her hope to gain the new servant to their interests, at least sufficiently7 to secure the possibility of carrying on some correspondence. I promised to do so, and as a mark of her gratitude she took my hand to carry it to her lips, but quickly withdrawing it I tried to kiss her; she turned her face away, blushing deeply. I was much pleased with her modesty8.
Barbara having succeeded in gaining the new servant over, I had nothing more to do with the intrigue9, and I was very glad of it, for I knew my interference might have brought evil on my own head. Unfortunately, it was already too late.
I seldom visited Don Gaspar; the study of the French language took up all my mornings, and it was only in the morning that I could see him; but I called every evening upon Father Georgi, and, although I went to him only as one of his ‘proteges’, it gave me some reputation. I seldom spoke2 before his guests, yet I never felt weary, for in his circle his friends would criticise10 without slandering11, discuss politics without stubbornness, literature without passion, and I profited by all. After my visit to the sagacious monk13, I used to attend the assembly of the cardinal14, my master, as a matter of duty. Almost every evening, when she happened to see me at her card-table, the beautiful marchioness would address to me a few gracious words in French, and I always answered in Italian, not caring to make her laugh before so many persons. My feelings for her were of a singular kind. I must leave them to the analysis of the reader. I thought that woman charming, yet I avoided her; it was not because I was afraid of falling in love with her; I loved Lucrezia, and I firmly believed that such an affection was a shield against any other attachment15, but it was because I feared that she might love me or have a passing fancy for me. Was it self-conceit or modesty, vice16 or virtue17? Perhaps neither one nor the other.
One evening she desired the Abbe Gama to call me to her; she was standing18 near the cardinal, my patron, and the moment I approached her she caused me a strange feeling of surprise by asking me in Italian a question which I was far from anticipating:
“How did you like Frascati?”
“Very much, madam; I have never seen such a beautiful place.”
“But your company was still more beautiful, and your vis-a-vis was very smart.”
I only bowed low to the marchioness, and a moment after Cardinal Acquaviva said to me, kindly19,
“You are astonished at your adventure being known?”
“No, my lord; but I am surprised that people should talk of it. I could not have believed Rome to be so much like a small village.”
“The longer you live in Rome,” said his eminence21, “the more you will find it so. You have not yet presented yourself to kiss the foot of our Holy Father?”
“Not yet, my lord.”
“Then you must do so.”
I bowed in compliance22 to his wishes.
The Abbe Gama told me to present myself to the Pope on the morrow, and he added,
“Of course you have already shewn yourself in the Marchioness G.‘s palace?”
“No, I have never been there.”
“You astonish me; but she often speaks to you!”
“I have no objection to go with you.”
“I never visit at her palace.”
“Yet she speaks to you likewise.”
“Yes, but. . . . You do not know Rome; go alone; believe me, you ought to go.”
“Will she receive me?”
“You are joking, I suppose. Of course it is out of the question for you to be announced. You will call when the doors are wide open to everybody. You will meet there all those who pay homage23 to her.”
“Will she see me?”
“No doubt of it.”
On the following day I proceeded to Monte-Cavallo, and I was at once led into the room where the Pope was alone. I threw myself on my knees and kissed the holy cross on his most holy slipper24. The Pope enquiring25 who I was, I told him, and he answered that he knew me, congratulating me upon my being in the service of so eminent26 a cardinal. He asked me how I had succeeded in gaining the cardinal’s favour; I answered with a faithful recital27 of my adventures from my arrival at Martorano. He laughed heartily28 at all I said respecting the poor and worthy29 bishop30, and remarked that, instead of trying to address him in Tuscan, I could speak in the Venetian dialect, as he was himself speaking to me in the dialect of Bologna. I felt quite at my ease with him, and I told him so much news and amused him so well that the Holy Father kindly said that he would be glad to see me whenever I presented myself at Monte-Cavallo. I begged his permission to read all forbidden books, and he granted it with his blessing32, saying that I should have the permission in writing, but he forgot it.
Benedict XIV, was a learned man, very amiable33, and fond of a joke. I saw him for the second time at the Villa20 Medicis. He called me to him, and continued his walk, speaking of trifling34 things. He was then accompanied by Cardinal Albani and the ambassador from Venice. A man of modest appearance approached His Holiness, who asked what he required; the man said a few words in a low voice, and, after listening to him, the Pope answered, “You are right, place your trust in God;” and he gave him his blessing. The poor fellow went away very dejected, and the Holy Father continued his walk.
“This man,” I said, “most Holy Father, has not been pleased with the answer of Your Holiness.”
“Why?”
“Because most likely he had already addressed himself to God before he ventured to apply to you; and when Your Holiness sends him to God again, he finds himself sent back, as the proverb says, from Herod to Pilate.”
The Pope, as well as his two companions, laughed heartily; but I kept a serious countenance35.
“I cannot,” continued the Pope, “do any good without God’s assistance.”
“Very true, Holy Father; but the man is aware that you are God’s prime minister, and it is easy to imagine his trouble now that the minister sends him again to the master. His only resource is to give money to the beggars of Rome, who for one ‘bajocco’ will pray for him. They boast of their influence before the throne of the Almighty36, but as I have faith only in your credit, I entreat5 Your Holiness to deliver me of the heat which inflames37 my eyes by granting me permission to eat meat.”
“Eat meat, my son.”
“Holy Father, give me your blessing.”
He blessed me, adding that I was not dispensed38 from fasting.
That very evening, at the cardinal’s assembly, I found that the news of my dialogue with the Pope was already known. Everybody was anxious to speak to me. I felt flattered, but I was much more delighted at the joy which Cardinal Acquaviva tried in vain to conceal39.
As I wished not to neglect Gama’s advice, I presented myself at the mansion40 of the beautiful marchioness at the hour at which everyone had free access to her ladyship. I saw her, I saw the cardinal and a great many abbes; but I might have supposed myself invisible, for no one honoured me with a look, and no one spoke to me. I left after having performed for half an hour the character of a mute. Five or six days afterwards, the marchioness told me graciously that she had caught a sight of me in her reception-rooms.
“I was there, it is true, madam; but I had no idea that I had had the honour to be seen by your ladyship.”
“Oh! I see everybody. They tell me that you have wit.”
“If it is not a mistake on the part of your informants, your ladyship gives me very good news.”
“Oh! they are excellent judges.”
“Then, madam, those persons must have honoured me with their conversation; otherwise, it is not likely that they would have been able to express such an opinion.”
“No doubt; but let me see you often at my receptions.”
Our conversation had been overheard by those who were around; his excellency the cardinal told me that, when the marchioness addressed herself particularly to me in French, my duty was to answer her in the same language, good or bad. The cunning politician Gama took me apart, and remarked that my repartees were too smart, too cutting, and that, after a time, I would be sure to displease41. I had made considerable progress in French; I had given up my lessons, and practice was all I required. I was then in the habit of calling sometimes upon Lucrezia in the morning, and of visiting in the evening Father Georgi, who was acquainted with the excursion to Frascati, and had not expressed any dissatisfaction.
Two days after the sort of command laid upon me by the marchioness, I presented myself at her reception. As soon as she saw me, she favoured me with a smile which I acknowledged by a deep reverence42; that was all. In a quarter of an hour afterwards I left the mansion. The marchioness was beautiful, but she was powerful, and I could not make up my mind to crawl at the feet of power, and, on that head, I felt disgusted with the manners of the Romans.
One morning towards the end of November the advocate, accompanied by Angelique’s intended, called on me. The latter gave me a pressing invitation to spend twenty-four hours at Tivoli with the friends I had entertained at Frascati. I accepted with great pleasure, for I had found no opportunity of being alone with Lucrezia since the Festival of St. Ursula. I promised to be at Donna Cecilia’s house at day-break with the same ‘is-a-vis’. It was necessary to start very early, because Tivoli is sixteen miles from Rome, and has so many objects of interest that it requires many hours to see them all. As I had to sleep out that night, I craved43 permission to do so from the cardinal himself, who, hearing with whom I was going, told me that I was quite right not to lose such an opportunity of visiting that splendid place in such good society.
The first dawn of day found me with my ‘vis-a-vis’ and four at the door of Donna Cecilia, who came with me as before. The charming widow, notwithstanding her strict morality, was delighted at my love for her daughter. The family rode in a large phaeton hired by Don Francisco, which gave room for six persons.
At half-past seven in the morning we made a halt at a small place where had been prepared, by Don Franciso’s orders, an excellent breakfast, which was intended to replace the dinner, and we all made a hearty44 meal, as we were not likely to find time for anything but supper at Tivoli. I wore on my finger the beautiful ring which Lucrezia had given me. At the back of the ring I had had a piece of enamel45 placed, on it was delineated a saduceus, with one serpent between the letters Alpha and Omega. This ring was the subject of conversation during breakfast, and Don Francisco, as well as the advocate, exerted himself in vain to guess the meaning of the hieroglyphs46; much to the amusement of Lucrezia, who understood the mysterious secret so well. We continued our road, and reached Tivoli at ten o’clock.
We began by visiting Don Francisco’s villa. It was a beautiful little house, and we spent the following six hours in examining together the antiquities47 of Tivoli. Lucrezia having occasion to whisper a few words to Don Francisco, I seized the opportunity of telling Angelique that after her marriage I should be happy to spend a few days of the fine season with her.
“Sir,” she answered, “I give you fair notice that the moment I become mistress in this house you will be the very first person to be excluded.”
“I feel greatly obliged to you, signora, for your timely notice.”
But the most amusing part of the affair was that I construed48 Angelique’s wanton insult into a declaration of love. I was astounded49. Lucrezia, remarking the state I was in, touched my arm, enquiring what ailed50 me. I told her, and she said at once,
“My darling, my happiness cannot last long; the cruel moment of our separation is drawing near. When I have gone, pray undertake the task of compelling her to acknowledge her error. Angelique pities me, be sure to avenge51 me.”
I have forgotten to mention that at Don Francisco’s villa I happened to praise a very pretty room opening upon the orange-house, and the amiable host, having heard me, came obligingly to me, and said that it should be my room that night. Lucrezia feigned52 not to hear, but it was to her Ariadne’s clue, for, as we were to remain altogether during our visit to the beauties of Tivoli, we had no chance of a tete-a-tete through the day.
I have said that we devoted53 six hours to an examination of the antiquities of Tivoli, but I am bound to confess here that I saw, for my part, very little of them, and it was only twenty-eight years later that I made a thorough acquaintance with the beautiful spot.
We returned to the villa towards evening, fatigued55 and very hungry, but an hour’s rest before supper — a repast which lasted two hours, the most delicious dishes, the most exquisite56 wines, and particularly the excellent wine of Tivoli — restored us so well that everybody wanted nothing more than a good bed and the freedom to enjoy the bed according to his own taste.
As everybody objected to sleep alone, Lucrezia said that she would sleep with Angelique in one of the rooms leading to the orange-house, and proposed that her husband should share a room with the young abbe, his brother-in-law, and that Donna Cecilia should take her youngest daughter with her.
The arrangement met with general approbation57, and Don Francisco, taking a candle, escorted me to my pretty little room adjoining the one in which the two sisters were to sleep, and, after shewing me how I could lock myself in, he wished me good night and left me alone.
Angelique had no idea that I was her near neighbour, but Lucrezia and I, without exchanging a single word on the subject, had perfectly58 understood each other.
I watched through the key-hole and saw the two sisters come into their room, preceded by the polite Don Francisco, who carried a taper59, and, after lighting60 a night-lamp, bade them good night and retired61. Then my two beauties, their door once locked, sat down on the sofa and completed their night toilet, which, in that fortunate climate, is similar to the costume of our first mother. Lucrezia, knowing that I was waiting to come in, told her sister to lie down on the side towards the window, and the virgin62, having no idea that she was exposing her most secret beauties to my profane63 eyes, crossed the room in a state of complete nakedness. Lucrezia put out the lamp and lay down near her innocent sister.
Happy moments which I can no longer enjoy, but the sweet remembrance of which death alone can make me lose! I believe I never undressed myself as quickly as I did that evening.
I open the door and fall into the arms of my Lucrezia, who says to her sister, “It is my angel, my love; never mind him, and go to sleep.”
What a delightful64 picture I could offer to my readers if it were possible for me to paint voluptuousnes in its most enchanting66 colours! What ecstasies67 of love from the very onset68! What delicious raptures69 succeed each other until the sweetest fatigue54 made us give way to the soothing71 influence of Morpheus!
The first rays of the sun, piercing through the crevices72 of the shutters74, wake us out of our refreshing75 slumbers76, and like two valorous knights77 who have ceased fighting only to renew the contest with increased ardour, we lose no time in giving ourselves up to all the intensity78 of the flame which consumes us.
“Oh, my beloved Lucrezia! how supremely79 happy I am! But, my darling, mind your sister; she might turn round and see us.”
“Fear nothing, my life; my sister is kind, she loves me, she pities me; do you not love me, my dear Angelique? Oh! turn round, see how happy your sister is, and know what felicity awaits you when you own the sway of love.”
Angelique, a young maiden80 of seventeen summers, who must have suffered the torments81 of Tantalus during the night, and who only wishes for a pretext82 to shew that she has forgiven her sister, turns round, and covering her sister with kisses, confesses that she has not closed her eyes through the night.
“Then forgive likewise, darling Angelique, forgive him who loves me, and whom I adore,” says Lucrezia.
Unfathomable power of the god who conquers all human beings!
“Angelique hates me,” I say, “I dare not. . . . ”
“No, I do not hate you!” answers the charming girl.
“Kiss her, dearest,” says Lucrezia, pushing me towards her sister, and pleased to see her in my arms motionless and languid.
But sentiment, still more than love, forbids me to deprive Lucrezia of the proof of my gratitude, and I turn to her with all the rapture70 of a beginner, feeling that my ardour is increased by Angelique’s ecstasy83, as for the first time she witnesses the amorous84 contest. Lucrezia, dying of enjoyment85, entreats86 me to stop, but, as I do not listen to her prayer, she tricks me, and the sweet Angelique makes her first sacrifice to the mother of love. It is thus, very likely, that when the gods inhabited this earth, the voluptuous65 Arcadia, in love with the soft and pleasing breath of Zephyrus, one day opened her arms, and was fecundated.
Lucrezia was astonished and delighted, and covered us both with kisses. Angelique, as happy as her sister, expired deliciously in my arms for the third time, and she seconded me with so much loving ardour, that it seemed to me I was tasting happiness for the first time.
Phoebus had left the nuptial87 couch, and his rays were already diffusing88 light over the universe; and that light, reaching us through the closed shutters, gave me warning to quit the place; we exchanged the most loving adieus, I left my two divinities and retired to my own room. A few minutes afterwards, the cheerful voice of the advocate was heard in the chamber89 of the sisters; he was reproaching them for sleeping too long! Then he knocked at my door, threatening to bring the ladies to me, and went away, saying that he would send me the hair-dresser.
After many ablutions and a careful toilet, I thought I could skew my face, and I presented myself coolly in the drawing-room. The two sisters were there with the other members of our society, and I was delighted with their rosy90 cheeks. Lucrezia was frank and gay, and beamed with happiness; Angelique, as fresh as the morning dew, was more radiant than usual, but fidgety, and carefully avoided looking me in the face. I saw that my useless attempts to catch her eyes made her smile, and I remarked to her mother, rather mischievously91, that it was a pity Angelique used paint for her face. She was duped by this stratagem92, and compelled me to pass a handkerchief over her face, and was then obliged to look at me. I offered her my apologies, and Don Francisco appeared highly pleased that the complexion93 of his intended had met with such triumph.
After breakfast we took a walk through the garden, and, finding myself alone with Lucrezia, I expostulated tenderly with her for having almost thrown her sister in my arms.
“Do not reproach me,” she said, “when I deserve praise. I have brought light into the darkness of my charming sister’s soul; I have initiated94 her in the sweetest of mysteries, and now, instead of pitying me, she must envy me. Far from having hatred95 for you, she must love you dearly, and as I am so unhappy as to have to part from you very soon, my beloved, I leave her to you; she will replace me.”
“Ah, Lucrezia! how can I love her?”
“Is she not a charming girl?”
“No doubt of it; but my adoration96 for you is a shield against any other love. Besides Don Francisco must, of course, entirely97 monopolize98 her, and I do not wish to cause coolness between them, or to ruin the peace of their home. I am certain your sister is not like you, and I would bet that, even now, she upbraids99 herself for having given way to the ardour of her temperament:”
“Most likely; but, dearest, I am sorry to say my husband expects to obtain judgment100 in the course of this week, and then the short instants of happiness will for ever be lost to me.”
This was sad news indeed, and to cause a diversion at the breakfast- table I took much notice of the generous Don Francisco, and promised to compose a nuptial song for his wedding-day, which had been fixed101 for the early part of January.
We returned to Rome, and for the three hours that she was with me in my vis-a-vis, Lucrezia had no reason to think that my ardour was at all abated102. But when we reached the city I was rather fatigued, and proceeded at once to the palace.
Lucrezia had guessed rightly; her husband obtained his judgment three or four days afterwards, and called upon me to announce their departure for the day after the morrow; he expressed his warm friendship for me, and by his invitation I spent the two last evenings with Lucrezia, but we were always surrounded by the family. The day of her departure, wishing to cause her an agreeable surprise, I left Rome before them and waited for them at the place where I thought they would put up for the night, but the advocate, having been detained by several engagements, was detained in Rome, and they only reached the place next day for dinner. We dined together, we exchanged a sad, painful farewell, and they continued their journey while I returned to Rome.
After the departure of this charming woman, I found myself in sort of solitude103 very natural to a young man whose heart is not full of hope.
I passed whole days in my room, making extracts from the French letters written by the cardinal, and his eminence was kind enough to tell me that my extracts were judiciously104 made, but that he insisted upon my not working so hard. The beautiful marchioness was present when he paid me that compliment.
Since my second visit to her, I had not presented myself at her house; she was consequently rather cool to me, and, glad of an opportunity of making me feel her displeasure, she remarked to his eminence that very likely work was a consolation105 to me in the great void caused by the departure of Donna Lucrezia.
“I candidly106 confess, madam, that I have felt her loss deeply. She was kind and generous; above all, she was indulgent when I did not call often upon her. My friendship for her was innocent.”
“I have no doubt of it, although your ode was the work of a poet deeply in love.”
“Oh!” said the kindly cardinal, “a poet cannot possibly write without professing107 to be in love.”
“But,” replied the marchioness, “if the poet is really in love, he has no need of professing a feeling which he possesses.”
As she was speaking, the marchioness drew out of her pocket a paper which she offered to his eminence.
“This is the ode,” she said, “it does great honour to the poet, for it is admitted to be a masterpiece by all the literati in Rome, and Donna Lucrezia knows it by heart.”
The cardinal read it over and returned it, smiling, and remarking that, as he had no taste for Italian poetry, she must give herself the pleasure of translating it into French rhyme if she wished him to admire it.
“I only write French prose,” answered the marchioness, “and a prose translation destroys half the beauty of poetry. I am satisfied with writing occasionally a little Italian poetry without any pretension108 to poetical109 fame”
Those words were accompanied by a very significant glance in my direction.
“I should consider myself fortunate, madam, if I could obtain the happiness of admiring some of your poetry.”
“Here is a sonnet110 of her ladyship’s,” said Cardinal S. C.
I took it respectfully, and I prepared to read it, but the amiable marchioness told me to put it in my pocket and return it to the cardinal the next day, although she did not think the sonnet worth so much trouble. “If you should happen to go out in the morning,” said Cardinal S. C., “you could bring it back, and dine with me.” Cardinal Aquaviva immediately answered for me: “He will be sure to go out purposely.”
With a deep reverence, which expressed my thanks, I left the room quietly and returned to my apartment, very impatient to read the sonnet. Yet, before satisfying my wish, I could not help making some reflections on the situation. I began to think myself somebody since the gigantic stride I had made this evening at the cardinal’s assembly. The Marchioness de G. had shewn in the most open way the interest she felt in me, and, under cover of her grandeur111, had not hesitated to compromise herself publicly by the most flattering advances. But who would have thought of disapproving112? A young abbe like me, without any importance whatever, who could scarcely pretend to her high protection! True, but she was precisely113 the woman to grant it to those who, feeling themselves unworthy of it, dared not shew any pretensions114 to her patronage115. On that head, my modesty must be evident to everyone, and the marchioness would certainly have insulted me had she supposed me capable of sufficient vanity to fancy that she felt the slightest inclination116 for me. No, such a piece of self-conceit was not in accordance with my nature. Her cardinal himself had invited me to dinner. Would he have done so if he had admitted the possibility of the beautiful marchioness feeling anything for me? Of course not, and he gave me an invitation to dine with him only because he had understood, from the very words of the lady, that I was just the sort of person with whom they could converse117 for a few hours without any risk; to be sure, without any risk whatever. Oh, Master Casanova! do you really think so?
Well, why should I put on a mask before my readers? They may think me conceited118 if they please, but the fact of the matter is that I felt sure of having made a conquest of the marchioness. I congratulated myself because she had taken the first, most difficult, and most important step. Had she not done so, I should never have dared-to lay siege to her even in the most approved fashion; I should never have even ventured to dream of winning her. It was only this evening that I thought she might replace Lucrezia. She was beautiful, young, full of wit and talent; she was fond of literary pursuits, and very powerful in Rome; what more was necessary? Yet I thought it would be good policy to appear ignorant of her inclination for me, and to let her suppose from the very next day that I was in love with her, but that my love appeared to me hopeless. I knew that such a plan was infallible, because it saved her dignity. It seemed to me that Father Georgi himself would be compelled to approve such an undertaking119, and I had remarked with great satisfaction that Cardinal Acquaviva had expressed his delight at Cardinal S. C.‘s invitation — an honour which he had never yet bestowed120 on me himself. This affair might have very important results for me.
I read the marchioness’s sonnet, and found it easy, flowing, and well written. It was composed in praise of the King of Prussia, who had just conquered Silesia by a masterly stroke. As I was copying it, the idea struck me to personify Silesia, and to make her, in answer to the sonnet, bewail that Love (supposed to be the author of the sonnet of the marchioness) could applaud the man who had conquered her, when that conqueror121 was the sworn enemy of Love.
It is impossible for a man accustomed to write poetry to abstain122 when a happy subject smiles upon his delighted imagination. If he attempted to smother123 the poetical flame running through his veins124 it would consume him. I composed my sonnet, keeping the same rhymes as in the original, and, well pleased with my muse31, I went to bed.
The next morning the Abbe Gama came in just as I had finished recopying my sonnet, and said he would breakfast with me. He complimented me upon the honour conferred on me by the invitation of Cardinal S. C.
“But be prudent125,” he added, “for his eminence has the reputation of being jealous:”
I thanked him for his friendly advice, taking care to assure him that I had nothing to fear, because I did not feel the slightest inclination for the handsome marchioness.
Cardinal S. C. received me with great kindness mingled126 with dignity, to make me realize the importance of the favour he was bestowing127 upon me.
“What do you think,” he enquired128, “of the sonnet?”
“Monsignor, it is perfectly written, and, what is more, it is a charming composition. Allow me to return it to you with my thanks.”
“She has much talent. I wish to shew you ten stanzas130 of her composition, my dear abbe, but you must promise to be very discreet131 about it.”
“Your eminence may rely on me.”
He opened his bureau and brought forth132 the stanzas of which he was the subject. I read them, found them well written, but devoid133 of enthusiasm; they were the work of a poet, and expressed love in the words of passion, but were not pervaded134 by that peculiar135 feeling by which true love is so easily discovered. The worthy cardinal was doubtless guilty of a very great indiscretion, but self-love is the cause of so many injudicious steps! I asked his eminence whether he had answered the stanzas.
“No,” he replied, “I have not; but would you feel disposed to lend me your poetical pen, always under the seal of secrecy137?”
“As to secrecy, monsignor, I promise it faithfully; but I am afraid the marchioness will remark the difference between your style and mine.”
“She has nothing of my composition,” said the cardinal; “I do not think she supposes me a fine poet, and for that reason your stanzas must be written in such a manner that she will not esteem138 them above my abilities.”
“I will write them with pleasure, monsignor, and your eminence can form an opinion; if they do not seem good enough to be worthy of you, they need not be given to the marchioness.”
“That is well said. Will you write them at once?”
“What! now, monsignor? It is not like prose.”
“Well, well! try to let me have them to-morrow.”
We dined alone, and his eminence complimented me upon my excellent appetite, which he remarked was as good as his own; but I was beginning to understand my eccentric host, and, to flatter him, I answered that he praised me more than I deserved, and that my appetite was inferior to his. The singular compliment delighted him, and I saw all the use I could make of his eminence.
Towards the end of the dinner, as we were conversing139, the marchioness made her appearance, and, as a matter of course, without being announced. Her looks threw me into raptures; I thought her a perfect beauty. She did not give the cardinal time to meet her, but sat down near him, while I remained standing, according to etiquette140.
Without appearing to notice me, the marchioness ran wittily141 over various topics until coffee was brought in. Then, addressing herself to me, she told me to sit down, just as if she was bestowing charity upon me.
“By-the-by, abbe,” she said, a minute after, “have you read my sonnet?”
“Yes, madam, and I have had the honour to return it to his eminence. I have found it so perfect that I am certain it must have cost you a great deal of time.”
“Time?” exclaimed the cardinal; “Oh! you do not know the marchioness.”
“Monsignor,” I replied, “nothing can be done well without time, and that is why I have not dared to chew to your eminence an answer to the sonnet which I have written in half an hour.”
“Let us see it, abbe,” said the marchioness; “I want to read it.”
“Answer of Silesia to Love.” This title brought the most fascinating blushes on her countenance. “But Love is not mentioned in the sonnet,” exclaimed the cardinal. “Wait,” said the marchioness, “we must respect the idea of the poet:”
She read the sonnet over and over, and thought that the reproaches addressed by Silesia to Love were very just. She explained my idea to the cardinal, making him understand why Silesia was offended at having been conquered by the King of Prussia.
“Ah, I see, I see!” exclaimed the cardinal, full of joy; “Silesia is a woman. . . . and the King of Prussia. . . . Oh! oh! that is really a fine idea!” And the good cardinal laughed heartily for more than a quarter of an hour. “I must copy that sonnet,” he added, “indeed I must have it.”
“The abbe,” said the obliging marchioness, “will save you the trouble: I will dictate142 it to him.”
I prepared to write, but his eminence suddenly exclaimed, “My dear marchioness, this is wonderful; he has kept the same rhymes as in your own sonnet: did you observe it?”
The beautiful marchioness gave me then a look of such expression that she completed her conquest. I understood that she wanted me to know the cardinal as well as she knew him; it was a kind of partnership143 in which I was quite ready to play my part.
As soon as I had written the sonnet under the charming woman’s dictation, I took my leave, but not before the cardinal had told me that he expected me to dinner the next day.
I had plenty of work before me, for the ten stanzas I had to compose were of the most singular character, and I lost no time in shutting myself up in my room to think of them. I had to keep my balance between two points of equal difficulty, and I felt that great care was indispensable. I had to place the marchioness in such a position that she could pretend to believe the cardinal the author of the stanzas, and, at the same time, compel her to find out that I had written them, and that I was aware of her knowing it. It was necessary to speak so carefully that not one expression should breathe even the faintest hope on my part, and yet to make my stanzas blaze with the ardent144 fire of my love under the thin veil of poetry. As for the cardinal, I knew well enough that the better the stanzas were written, the more disposed he would be to sign them. All I wanted was clearness, so difficult to obtain in poetry, while a little doubtful darkness would have been accounted sublime145 by my new Midas. But, although I wanted to please him, the cardinal was only a secondary consideration, and the handsome marchioness the principal object.
As the marchioness in her verses had made a pompous146 enumeration147 of every physical and moral quality of his eminence, it was of course natural that he should return the compliment, and here my task was easy. At last having mastered my subject well, I began my work, and giving full career to my imagination and to my feelings I composed the ten stanzas, and gave the finishing stroke with these two beautiful lines from Ariosto:
Le angelicche bellezze nate al cielo
Non si ponno celar sotto alcum velo.
Rather pleased with my production, I presented it the next day to the cardinal, modestly saying that I doubted whether he would accept the authorship of so ordinary a composition. He read the stanzas twice over without taste or expression, and said at last that they were indeed not much, but exactly what he wanted. He thanked me particularly for the two lines from Ariosto, saying that they would assist in throwing the authorship upon himself, as they would prove to the lady for whom they were intended that he had not been able to write them without borrowing. And, as to offer me some consolation, he told me that, in recopying the lines, he would take care to make a few mistakes in the rhythm to complete the illusion.
We dined earlier than the day before, and I withdrew immediately after dinner so as to give him leisure to make a copy of the stanzas before the arrival of the lady.
The next evening I met the marchioness at the entrance of the palace, and offered her my arm to come out of her carriage. The instant she alighted, she said to me,
“If ever your stanzas and mine become known in Rome, you may be sure of my enmity.”
“Madam, I do not understand what you mean.”
“I expected you to answer me in this manner,” replied the marchioness, “but recollect148 what I have said.”
I left her at the door of the reception-room, and thinking that she was really angry with me, I went away in despair. “My stanzas,” I said to myself, “are too fiery149; they compromise her dignity, and her pride is offended at my knowing the secret of her intrigue with Cardinal S. C. Yet, I feel certain that the dread150 she expresses of my want of discretion136 is only feigned, it is but a pretext to turn me out of her favour. She has not understood my reserve! What would she have done, if I had painted her in the simple apparel of the golden age, without any of those veils which modesty imposes upon her sex!” I was sorry I had not done so. I undressed and went to bed. My head was scarcely on the pillow when the Abbe Gama knocked at my door. I pulled the door-string, and coming in, he said,
“My dear sir, the cardinal wishes to see you, and I am sent by the beautiful marchioness and Cardinal S. C., who desire you to come down.”
“I am very sorry, but I cannot go; tell them the truth; I am ill in bed.”
As the abbe did not return, I judged that he had faithfully acquitted151 himself of the commission, and I spent a quiet night. I was not yet dressed in the morning, when I received a note from Cardinal S. C. inviting152 me to dinner, saying that he had just been bled, and that he wanted to speak to me: he concluded by entreating153 me to come to him early, even if I did not feel well.
The invitation was pressing; I could not guess what had caused it, but the tone of the letter did not forebode anything unpleasant. I went to church, where I was sure that Cardinal Acquaviva would see me, and he did. After mass, his eminence beckoned154 to me.
“Are you truly ill?” he enquired.
“No, monsignor, I was only sleepy.”
“I am very glad to hear it; but you are wrong, for you are loved. Cardinal S. C. has been bled this morning.”
“I know it, monsignor. The cardinal tells me so in this note, in which he invites me to dine with him, with your excellency’s permission.”
“Certainly. But this is amusing! I did not know that he wanted a third person.”
“Will there be a third person?”
“I do not know, and I have no curiosity about it.”
The cardinal left me, and everybody imagined that his eminence had spoken to me of state affairs.
I went to my new Maecenas, whom I found in bed.
“I am compelled to observe strict diet,” he said to me; “I shall have to let you dine alone, but you will not lose by it as my cook does not know it. What I wanted to tell you is that your stanzas are, I am afraid, too pretty, for the marchioness adores them. If you had read them to me in the same way that she does, I could never have made up my mind to offer them.” “But she believes them to be written by your eminence?”
“Of course.”
“That is the essential point, monsignor.”
“Yes; but what should I do if she took it into her head to compose some new stanzas for me?”
“You would answer through the same pen, for you can dispose of me night and day, and rely upon the utmost secrecy.”
“I beg of you to accept this small present; it is some negrillo snuff from Habana, which Cardinal Acquaviva has given me.”
The snuff was excellent, but the object which contained it was still better. It was a splendid gold-enamelled box. I received it with respect, and with the expression of the deepest gratitude.
If his eminence did not know how to write poetry, at least he knew how to be generous, and in a delicate manner, and that science is, at least in my estimation, superior to the other for a great nobleman.
At noon, and much to my surprise, the beautiful marchioness made her appearance in the most elegant morning toilet.
“If I had known you were in good company,” she said to the cardinal, “I would not have come.”
“I am sure, dear marchioness, you will not find our dear abbe in the way.”
“No, for I believe him to be honest and true.”
I kept at a respectful distance, ready to go away with my splendid snuff-box at the first jest she might hurl155 at me.
The cardinal asked her if she intended to remain to dinner.
“Yes,” she answered; “but I shall not enjoy my dinner, for I hate to eat alone.”
“If you would honour him so far, the abbe would keep you company.”
She gave me a gracious look, but without uttering one word.
This was the first time I had anything to do with a woman of quality, and that air of patronage, whatever kindness might accompany it, always put me out of temper, for I thought it made love out of the question. However, as we were in the presence of the cardinal, I fancied that she might be right in treating me in that fashion.
The table was laid out near the cardinal’s bed, and the marchioness, who ate hardly anything, encouraged me in my good appetite.
“I have told you that the abbe is equal to me in that respect,” said S. C.
“I truly believe,” answered the marchioness, “that he does not remain far behind you; but,” added she with flattery, “you are more dainty in your tastes.”
“Would her ladyship be so good as to tell me in what I have appeared to her to be a mere156 glutton157? For in all things I like only dainty and exquisite morsels158.”
“Explain what you mean by saying in all things,” said the cardinal. Taking the liberty of laughing, I composed a few impromptu159 verses in which I named all I thought dainty and exquisite. The marchioness applauded, saying that she admired my courage.
“My courage, madam, is due to you, for I am as timid as a hare when I am not encouraged; you are the author of my impromptu.”
“I admire you. As for myself, were I encouraged by Apollo himself, I could not compose four lines without paper and ink.”
“Only give way boldly to your genius, madam, and you will produce poetry worthy of heaven.”
“That — is my opinion, too,” said the cardinal. “I entreat you to give me permission to skew your ten stanzas to the abbe.”
“They are not very good, but I have no objection provided it remains160 between us.”
The cardinal gave me, then, the stanzas composed by the marchioness, and I read them aloud with all the expression, all the feeling necessary to such reading.
“How well you have read those stanzas!” said the marchioness; “I can hardly believe them to be my own composition; I thank you very much. But have the goodness to give the benefit of your reading to the stanzas which his eminence has written in answer to mine. They surpass them much.”
“Do not believe it, my dear abbe,” said the cardinal, handing them to me. “Yet try not to let them lose anything through your reading.”
There was certainly no need of his eminence enforcing upon me such a recommendation; it was my own poetry. I could not have read it otherwise than in my best style, especially when I had before me the beautiful woman who had inspired them, and when, besides, Bacchus was in me giving courage to Apollo as much as the beautiful eyes of the marchioness were fanning into an ardent blaze the fire already burning through my whole being.
I read the stanzas with so much expression that the cardinal was enraptured161, but I brought a deep carnation162 tint163 upon the cheeks of the lovely marchioness when I came to the description of those beauties which the imagination of the poet is allowed to guess at, but which I could not, of course, have gazed upon. She snatched the paper from my hands with passion, saying that I was adding verses of my own; it was true, but I did not confess it. I was all aflame, and the fire was scorching164 her as well as me.
The cardinal having fallen asleep, she rose and went to take a seat on the balcony; I followed her. She had a rather high seat; I stood opposite to her, so that her knee touched the fob-pocket in which was my watch. What a position! Taking hold gently of one of her hands, I told her that she had ignited in my soul a devouring165 flame, that I adored her, and that, unless some hope was left to me of finding her sensible to my sufferings, I was determined166 to fly away from her for ever.
“Yes, beautiful marchioness, pronounce my sentence.”
“I fear you are a libertine167 and an unfaithful lover.”
“I am neither one nor the other.”
With these words I folded her in my arms, and I pressed upon her lovely lips, as pure as a rose, an ardent kiss which she received with the best possible grace. This kiss, the forerunner168 of the most delicious pleasures, had imparted to my hands the greatest boldness; I was on the point of. . . . but the marchioness, changing her position, entreated me so sweetly to respect her, that, enjoying new voluptuousness169 through my very obedience170, I not only abandoned an easy victory, but I even begged her pardon, which I soon read in the most loving look.
She spoke of Lucrezia, and was pleased with my discretion. She then alluded171 to the cardinal, doing her best to make me believe that there was nothing between them but a feeling of innocent friendship. Of course I had my opinion on that subject, but it was my interest to appear to believe every word she uttered. We recited together lines from our best poets, and all the time she was still sitting down and I standing before her, with my looks rapt in the contemplation of the most lovely charms, to which I remained insensible in appearance, for I had made up my mind not to press her that evening for greater favours than those I had already received.
The cardinal, waking from his long and peaceful siesta172, got up and joined us in his night-cap, and good-naturedly enquired whether we had not felt impatient at his protracted173 sleep. I remained until dark and went home highly pleased with my day’s work, but determined to keep my ardent desires in check until the opportunity for complete victory offered itself.
From that day, the charming marchioness never ceased to give me the marks of her particular esteem, without the slightest constraint174; I was reckoning upon the carnival175, which was close at hand, feeling certain that the more I should spare her delicacy176, the more she would endeavour to find the opportunity of rewarding my loyalty177, and of crowning with happiness my loving constancy. But fate ordained178 otherwise; Dame179 Fortune turned her back upon me at the very moment when the Pope and Cardinal Acquaviva were thinking of giving me a really good position.
The Holy Father had congratulated me upon the beautiful snuff-box presented to me by Cardinal S. C., but he had been careful never to name the marchioness. Cardinal Acquaviva expressed openly his delight at his brother-cardinal having given me a taste of his negrillo snuff in so splendid an envelope; the Abbe Gama, finding me so forward on the road to success, did not venture to counsel me any more, and the virtuous180 Father Georgi gave me but one piece of advice- namely, to cling to the lovely marchioness and not to make any other acquaintances.
Such was my position-truly a brilliant one, when, on Christmas Day, the lover of Barbara Dalacqua entered my room, locked the door, and threw himself on the sofa, exclaiming that I saw him for the last time.
“I only come to beg of you some good advice.”
“On what subject can I advise you?”
“Take this and read it; it will explain everything.”
It was a letter from his mistress; the contents were these:
“I am pregnant of a child, the pledge of our mutual181 love; I can no longer have any doubt of it, my beloved, and I forewarn you that I have made up my mind to quit Rome alone, and to go away to die where it may please God, if you refuse to take care of me and save me. I would suffer anything, do anything, rather than let my father discover the truth.”
“If you are a man of honour,” I said, “you cannot abandon the poor girl. Marry her in spite of your father, in spite of her own, and live together honestly. The eternal Providence182 of God will watch over you and help you in your difficulties:”
My advice seemed to bring calm to his mind, and he left me more composed.
At the beginning of January, 1744, he called again, looking very cheerful. “I have hired,” he said, “the top floor of the house next to Barbara’s dwelling183; she knows it, and to-night I will gain her apartment through one of the windows of the garret, and we will make all our arrangements to enable me to carry her off. I have made up my mind; I have decided184 upon taking her to Naples, and I will take with us the servant who, sleeping in the garret, had to be made a confidante of.”
“God speed you, my friend!”
A week afterwards, towards eleven o’clock at night, he entered my room accompanied by an abbe.
“What do you want so late?”
“I wish to introduce you to this handsome abbe.”
I looked up, and to my consternation185 I recognized Barbara.
“Has anyone seen you enter the house?” I enquired.
“No; and if we had been seen, what of it? It is only an abbe. We now pass every night together.”
“I congratulate you.”
“The servant is our friend; she has consented to follow us, and all our arrangements are completed.”
“I wish you every happiness. Adieu. I beg you to leave me.”
Three or four days after that visit, as I was walking with the Abbe Gama towards the Villa Medicis, he told me deliberately186 that there would be an execution during the night in the Piazza187 di Spagna.
“What kind of execution?”
“The bargello or his lieutenant188 will come to execute some ‘ordine santissimo’, or to visit some suspicious dwelling in order to arrest and carry off some person who does not expect anything of the sort.”
“How do you know it?”
“His eminence has to know it, for the Pope would not venture to encroach upon his jurisdiction189 without asking his permission.”
“And his eminence has given it?”
“Yes, one of the Holy Father’s auditors190 came for that purpose this morning.”
“But the cardinal might have refused?”
“Of course; but such a permission is never denied.”
“And if the person to be arrested happened to be under the protection of the cardinal — what then?”
“His eminence would give timely warning to that person.”
We changed the conversation, but the news had disturbed me. I fancied that the execution threatened Barbara and her lover, for her father’s house was under the Spanish jurisdiction. I tried to see the young man but I could not succeed in meeting him, and I was afraid lest a visit at his home or at M. Dalacqua’s dwelling might implicate me. Yet it is certain that this last consideration would not have stopped me if I had been positively192 sure that they were threatened; had I felt satisfied of their danger, I would have braved everything.
About midnight, as I was ready to go to bed, and just as I was opening my door to take the key from outside, an abbe rushed panting into my room and threw himself on a chair. It was Barbara; I guessed what had taken place, and, foreseeing all the evil consequences her visit might have for me, deeply annoyed and very anxious, I upbraided193 her for having taken refuge in my room, and entreated her to go away.
Fool that I was! Knowing that I was only ruining myself without any chance of saving her, I ought to have compelled her to leave my room, I ought to have called for the servants if she had refused to withdraw. But I had not courage enough, or rather I voluntarily obeyed the decrees of destiny.
When she heard my order to go away, she threw herself on her knees, and melting into tears, she begged, she entreated my pity!
Where is the heart of steel which is not softened194 by the tears, by the prayers of a pretty and unfortunate woman? I gave way, but I told her that it was ruin for both of us.
“No one,” she replied, “has seen me, I am certain, when I entered the mansion and came up to your room, and I consider my visit here a week ago as most fortunate; otherwise, I never could have known which was your room.”
“Alas! how much better if you had never come! But what has become of your lover?”
“The ‘sbirri’ have carried him off, as well as the servant. I will tell you all about it. My lover had informed me that a carriage would wait to-night at the foot of the flight of steps before the Church of Trinita del Monte, and that he would be there himself. I entered his room through the garret window an hour ago. There I put on this disguise, and, accompanied by the servant, proceeded to meet him. The servant walked a few yards before me, and carried a parcel of my things. At the corner of the street, one of the buckles195 of my shoes being unfastened, I stopped an instant, and the servant went on, thinking that I was following her. She reached the carriage, got into it, and, as I was getting nearer, the light from a lantern disclosed to me some thirty sbirri; at the same instant, one of them got on the driver’s box and drove off at full speed, carrying off the servant, whom they must have mistaken for me, and my lover who was in the coach awaiting me. What could I do at such a fearful moment? I could not go back to my father’s house, and I followed my first impulse which brought me here. And here I am! You tell me that my presence will cause your ruin; if it is so, tell me what to do; I feel I am dying; but find some expedient196 and I am ready to do anything, even to lay my life down, rather than be the cause of your ruin.”
But she wept more bitterly than ever.
Her position was so sad that I thought it worse even than mine, although I could almost fancy I saw ruin before me despite my innocence197.
“Let me,” I said, “conduct you to your father; I feel sure of obtaining your pardon.”
But my proposal only enhanced her fears.
“I am lost,” she exclaimed; “I know my father. Ah! reverend sir, turn me out into the street, and abandon me to my miserable198 fate.”
No doubt I ought to have done so, and I would have done it if the consciousness of what was due to my own interest had been stronger than my feeling of pity. But her tears! I have often said it, and those amongst my readers who have experienced it, must be of the same opinion; there is nothing on earth more irresistible199 than two beautiful eyes shedding tears, when the owner of those eyes is handsome, honest, and unhappy. I found myself physically200 unable to send her away.
“My poor girl,” I said at last, “when daylight comes, and that will not be long, for it is past midnight, what do you intend to do?”
“I must leave the palace,” she replied, sobbing201. “In this disguise no one can recognize me; I will leave Rome, and I will walk straight before me until I fall on the ground, dying with grief and fatigue.”
With these words she fell on the floor. She was choking; I could see her face turn blue; I was in the greatest distress202.
I took off her neck-band, unlaced her stays under the abbe’s dress, I threw cold water in her face, and I finally succeeded in bringing her back to consciousness.
The night was extremely cold, and there was no fire in my room. I advised her to get into my bed, promising203 to respect her.
“Alas! reverend sir, pity is the only feeling with which I can now inspire anyone.”
And, to speak the truth I was too deeply moved, and, at the same time, too full of anxiety, to leave room in me for any desire. Having induced her to go to bed, and her extreme weakness preventing her from doing anything for herself, I undressed her and put her to bed, thus proving once more that compassion204 will silence the most imperious requirements of nature, in spite of all the charms which would, under other circumstances, excite to the highest degree the senses of a man. I lay down near her in my clothes, and woke her at day-break. Her strength was somewhat restored, she dressed herself alone, and I left my room, telling her to keep quiet until my return. I intended to proceed to her father’s house, and to solicit205 her pardon, but, having perceived some suspicious-looking men loitering about the palace, I thought it wise to alter my mind, and went to a coffeehouse.
I soon ascertanied that a spy was watching my movements at a distance; but I did not appear to notice him, and having taken some chocolate and stored a few biscuits in my pocket, I returned towards the palace, apparently206 without any anxiety or hurry, always followed by the same individual. I judged that the bargello, having failed in his project, was now reduced to guesswork, and I was strengthened in that view of the case when the gate-keeper of the palace told me, without my asking any question, as I came in, that an arrest had been attempted during the night, and had not succeeded. While he was speaking, one of the auditors of the Vicar-General called to enquire129 when he could see the Abby Gama. I saw that no time was to be lost, and went up to my room to decide upon what was to be done.
I began by making the poor girl eat a couple of biscuits soaked in some Canary wine, and I took her afterwards to the top story of the palace, where, leaving her in a not very decent closet which was not used by anyone, I told her to wait for me.
My servant came soon after, and I ordered him to lock the door of my room as soon as he finished cleaning it, and to bring me the key at the Abbe Gama’s apartment, where I was going. I found Gama in conversation with the auditor191 sent by the Vicar-General. As soon as he had dismissed him, he came to me, and ordered his servant to serve the chocolate. When we were left alone he gave me an account of his interview with the auditor, who had come to entreat his eminence to give orders to turn out of his palace a person who was supposed to have taken refuge in it about midnight. “We must wait,” said the abbe, “until the cardinal is visible, but I am quite certain that, if anyone has taken refuge here unknown to him, his eminence will compel that person to leave the palace.” We then spoke of the weather and other trifles until my servant brought my key. Judging that I had at least an hour to spare, I bethought myself of a plan which alone could save Barbara from shame and misery207.
Feeling certain that I was unobserved, I went up to my poor prisoner and made her write the following words in French:
“I am an honest girl, monsignor, though I am disguised in the dress of an abbe. I entreat your eminence to allow me to give my name only to you and in person. I hope that, prompted by the great goodness of your soul, your eminence will save me from dishonour208.” I gave her the necessary instructions, as to sending the note to the cardinal, assuring her that he would have her brought to him as soon as he read it.
“When you are in his presence,” I added, “throw yourself on your knees, tell him everything without any concealment209, except as regards your having passed the night in my room. You must be sure not to mention that circumstance, for the cardinal must remain in complete ignorance of my knowing anything whatever of this intrigue. Tell him that, seeing your lover carried off, you rushed to his palace and ran upstairs as far as you could go, and that after a most painful night Heaven inspired you with the idea of writing to him to entreat his pity. I feel certain that, one way or the other, his eminence will save you from dishonour, and it certainly is the only chance you have of being united to the man you love so dearly.”
She promised to follow ‘my instructions faithfully, and, coming down, I had my hair dressed and went to church, where the cardinal saw me. I then went out and returned only for dinner, during which the only subject of conversation was the adventure of the night. Gama alone said nothing, and I followed his example, but I understood from all the talk going on round the table that the cardinal had taken my poor Barbara under his protection. That was all I wanted, and thinking that I had nothing more to fear I congratulated myself, in petto, upon my stratagem, which had, I thought, proved a master-stroke. After dinner, finding myself alone with Gama, I asked him what was the meaning of it all, and this is what he told me:
“A father, whose name I do not know yet, had requested the assistance of the Vicar-General to prevent his son from carrying off a young girl, with whom he intended to leave the States of the Church; the pair had arranged to meet at midnight in this very square, and the Vicar, having previously210 obtained the consent of our cardinal, as I told you yesterday, gave orders to the bargello to dispose his men in such a way as to catch the young people in the very act of running away, and to arrest them. The orders were executed, but the ‘sbirri’ found out, when they returned to the bargello, that they had met with only a half success, the woman who got out of the carriage with the young man not belonging to that species likely to be carried off. Soon afterwards a spy informed the bargello that, at the very moment the arrest was executed, he had seen a young abbe run away very rapidly and take refuge in this palace, and the suspicion immediately arose that it might be the missing young lady in the disguise of an ecclesiastic211. The bargello reported to the Vicar-General the failure of his men, as well as the account given by the spy, and the Prelate, sharing the suspicion of the police, sent to his eminence, our master, requesting him to have the person in question, man or woman, turned out of the palace, unless such persons should happen to be known to his excellency, and therefore above suspicion. Cardinal Acquaviva was made acquainted with these circumstances at nine this morning through the auditor you met in my room, and he promised to have the person sent away unless she belonged to his household.
“According to his promise, the cardinal ordered the palace to be searched, but, in less than a quarter of an hour, the major-domo received orders to stop, and the only reason for these new instructions must be this:
“I am told by the major-domo that at nine o’clock exactly a very handsome, young abbe, whom he immediately judged to be a girl in disguise, asked him to deliver a note to his eminence, and that the cardinal, after reading it, had desired the said abbe be brought to his apartment, which he has not left since. As the order to stop searching the palace was given immediately after the introduction of the abbe to the cardinal, it is easy enough to suppose that this ecclesiastic is no other than the young girl missed by the police, who took refuge in the palace in which she must have passed the whole night.”
“I suppose,” said I, “that his eminence will give her up to-day, if not to the bargello, at least to the Vicar-General.”
“No, not even to the Pope himself,” answered Gama. “You have not yet a right idea of the protection of our cardinal, and that protection is evidently granted to her, since the young person is not only in the palace of his eminence, but also in his own apartment and under his own guardianship212.”
The whole affair being in itself very interesting, my attention could not appear extraordinary to Gama, however suspicious he might be naturally, and I was certain that he would not have told me anything if he had guessed the share I had taken in the adventure, and the interest I must have felt in it.
The next day, Gama came to my room with a radiant countenance, and informed me that the Cardinal-Vicar was aware of the ravisher being my friend, and supposed that I was likewise the friend of the girl, as she was the daughter of my French teacher. “Everybody,” he added, “is satisfied that you knew the whole affair, and it is natural to suspect that the poor girl spent the night in your room. I admire your prudent reserve during our conversation of yesterday. You kept so well on your guard that I would have sworn you knew nothing whatever of the affair.”
“And it is the truth,” I answered, very seriously; “I have only learned all the circumstances from you this moment. I know the girl, but I have not seen her for six weeks, since I gave up my French lessons; I am much better acquainted with the young man, but he never confided213 his project to me. However, people may believe whatever they please. You say that it is natural for the girl to have passed the night in my room, but you will not mind my laughing in the face of those who accept their own suppositions as realities.”
“That, my dear friend,” said the abbe, “is one of the vices73 of the Romans; happy those who can afford to laugh at it; but this slander12 may do you harm, even in the mind of our cardinal.”
As there was no performance at the Opera that night, I went to the cardinal’s reception; I found no difference towards me either in the cardinal’s manners, or in those of any other person, and the marchioness was even more gracious than usual.
After dinner, on the following day, Gama informed me that the cardinal had sent the young girl to a convent in which she would be well treated at his eminence’s expense, and that he was certain that she would leave it only to become the wife of the young doctor.
“I should be very happy if it should turn out so,” I replied; “for they are both most estimable people.”
Two days afterwards, I called upon Father Georgi, and he told me, with an air of sorrow, that the great news of the day in Rome was the failure of the attempt to carry off Dalacqua’s daughter, and that all the honour of the intrigue was given to me, which displeased214 him much. I told him what I had already told Gama, and he appeared to believe me, but he added that in Rome people did not want to know things as they truly were, but only as they wished them to be.
“It is known, that you have been in the habit of going every morning to Dalacqua’s house; it is known that the young man often called on you; that is quite enough. People do not care, to know the circumstances which might counteract215 the slander, but only those, likely to give it new force for slander is vastly relished216 in the Holy City. Your innocence will not prevent the whole adventure being booked to your account, if, in forty years time you were proposed as pope in the conclave217.”
During the following days the fatal adventure began to cause me more annoyance218 than I could express, for everyone mentioned it to me, and I could see clearly that people pretended to believe what I said only because they did not dare to do otherwise. The marchioness told me jeeringly219 that the Signora Dalacqua had contracted peculiar obligations towards me, but my sorrow was very great when, during the last days of the carnival, I remarked that Cardinal Acquaviva’s manner had become constrained220, although I was the only person who observed the change.
The noise made by the affair was, however, beginning to subside221, when, in the first days of Lent, the cardinal desired me to come to his private room, and spoke as follows
“The affair of the girl Dalacqua is now over; it is no longer spoken of, but the verdict of the public is that you and I have profited by the clumsiness of the young man who intended to carry her off. In reality I care little for such a verdict, for, under similar circumstances, I should always act in a similar manner, and I do not wish to know that which no one can compel you to confess, and which, as a man of honour, you must not admit. If you had no previous knowledge of the intrigue, and had actually turned the girl out of your room (supposing she did come to you), you would have been guilty of a wrong and cowardly action, because you would have sealed her misery for the remainder of her days, and it would not have caused you to escape the suspicion of being an accomplice222, while at the same time it would have attached to you the odium of dastardly treachery. Notwithstanding all I have just said, you can easily imagine that, in spite of my utter contempt for all gossiping fools, I cannot openly defy them. I therefore feel myself compelled to ask you not only to quit my service, but even to leave Rome. I undertake to supply you with an honourable223 pretext for your departure, so as to insure you the continuation of the respect which you may have secured through the marks of esteem I have bestowed upon you. I promise you to whisper in the ear of any person you may choose, and even to inform everybody, that you are going on an important mission which I have entrusted224 to you. You have only to name the country where you want to go; I have friends everywhere, and can recommend you to such purpose that you will be sure to find employment. My letters of recommendation will be in my own handwriting, and nobody need know where you are going. Meet me to-morrow at the Villa Negroni, and let me know where my letters are to be addressed. You must be ready to start within a week. Believe me, I am sorry to lose you; but the sacrifice is forced upon me by the most absurd prejudice. Go now, and do not let me witness your grief.”
He spoke the last words because he saw my eyes filling with tears, and he did not give me time to answer. Before leaving his room, I had the strength of mind to compose myself, and I put on such an air of cheerfulness that the Abbe Gama, who took me to his room to drink some coffee, complimented me upon my happy looks.
“I am sure,” he said, “that they are caused by the conversation you have had with his eminence.”
“You are right; but you do not know the sorrow at my heart which I try not to shew outwardly.”
“What sorrow?”
“I am afraid of failing in a difficult mission which the cardinal has entrusted me with this morning. I am compelled to conceal how little confidence I feel in myself in order not to lessen225 the good opinion his eminence is pleased to entertain of me.”
“If my advice can be of any service to you, pray dispose of me; but you are quite right to chew yourself calm and cheerful. Is it any business to transact226 in Rome?”
“No; it is a journey I shall have to undertake in a week or ten days.”
“Which way?”
“Towards the west.”
“Oh! I am not curious to know.”
I went out alone and took a walk in the Villa Borghese, where I spent two hours wrapped in dark despair. I liked Rome, I was on the high road to fortune, and suddenly I found myself in the abyss, without knowing where to go, and with all my hopes scattered227 to the winds. I examined my conduct, I judged myself severely228, I could not find myself guilty of any crime save of too much kindness, but I perceived how right the good Father Georgi had been. My duty was not only to take no part in the intrigue of the two love, but also to change my French teacher the moment I beard of it; but this was like calling in a doctor after death has struck the patient. Besides, young as I was, having no experience yet of misfortune, and still less of the wickedness of society, it was very difficult for me to have that prudence229 which a man gains only by long intercourse230 with the world.
“Where shall I go?” This was the question which seemed to me impossible of solution. I thought of it all through the night, and through the morning, but I thought in vain; after Rome, I was indifferent where I went to!
In the evening, not caring for any supper, I had gone to my room; the Abbe Gama came to me with a request from the cardinal not to accept any invitation to dinner for the next day, as he wanted to speak to me. I therefore waited upon his eminence the next day at the Villa Negroni; he was walking with his secretary, whom he dismissed the moment he saw me. As soon as we were alone, I gave him all the particulars of the intrigue of the two lovers, and I expressed in the most vivid manner the sorrow I felt at leaving his service.
“I have no hope of success,” I added, “for I am certain that Fortune will smile upon me only as long as I am near your eminence.”
For nearly an hour I told him all the grief with which my heart was bursting, weeping bitterly; yet I could not move him from his decision. Kindly, but firmly he pressed me to tell him to what part of Europe I wanted to go, and despair as much as vexation made me name Constantinople.
“Constantinople!” he exclaimed, moving back a step or two.
“Yes, monsignor, Constantinople,” I repeated, wiping away my tears.
The prelate, a man of great wit, but a Spaniard to the very back- bone, after remaining silent a few minutes, said, with a smile,
“I am glad you have not chosen Ispahan, as I should have felt rather embarrassed. When do you wish to go?”
“This day week, as your eminence has ordered me.”
“Do you intend to sail from Naples or from Venice?”
“From Venice.”
“I will give you such a passport as will be needed, for you will find two armies in winter-quarters in the Romagna. It strikes me that you may tell everybody that I sent you to Constantinople, for nobody will believe you.”
This diplomatic suggestion nearly made me smile. The cardinal told me that I should dine with him, and he left me to join his secretary.
When I returned to the palace, thinking of the choice I had made, I said to myself, “Either I am mad, or I am obeying the impulse of a mysterious genius which sends me to Constantinople to work out my fate.” I was only astonished that the cardinal had so readily accepted my choice. “Without any doubt,” I thought, “he did not wish me to believe that he had boasted of more than he could achieve, in telling me that he had friends everywhere. But to whom can he recommend me in Constantinople? I have not the slightest idea, but to Constantinople I must go.”
I dined alone with his eminence; he made a great show of peculiar kindness and I of great satisfaction, for my self-pride, stronger even than my sorrow, forbade me to let anyone guess that I was in disgrace. My deepest grief was, however, to leave the marchioness, with whom I was in love, and from whom I had not obtained any important favour.
Two days afterwards, the cardinal gave me a passport for Venice, and a sealed letter addressed to Osman Bonneval, Pacha of Caramania, in Constantinople. There was no need of my saying anything to anyone, but, as the cardinal had not forbidden me to do it, I shewed the address on the letter to all my acquaintances.
The Chevalier de Lezze, the Venetian Ambassador, gave me a letter for a wealthy Turk, a very worthy man who had been his friend; Don Gaspar and Father Georgi asked me to write to them, but the Abbe Gams, laughed, and said he was quite sure I was not going to Constantinople.
I went to take my farewell of Donna Cecilia, who had just received a letter from Lucrezia, imparting the news that she would soon be a mother. I also called upon Angelique and Don Francisco, who had lately been married and had not invited me to the wedding.
When I called to take Cardinal Acquaviva’s final instructions he gave me a purse containing one hundred ounces, worth seven hundred sequins. I had three hundred more, so that my fortune amounted to one thousand sequins; I kept two hundred, and for the rest I took a letter of exchange upon a Ragusan who was established in Ancona. I left Rome in the coach with a lady going to Our Lady of Loretto, to fulfil a vow231 made during a severe illness of her daughter, who accompanied her. The young lady was ugly; my journey was a rather tedious one.
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1
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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2
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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3
implicate
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| vt.使牵连其中，涉嫌 | |
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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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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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9
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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10
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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11
slandering
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| [法]口头诽谤行为 | |
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slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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13
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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14
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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15
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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16
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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17
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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18
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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19
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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20
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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21
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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22
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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24
slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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enquiring
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| a.爱打听的，显得好奇的 | |
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26
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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28
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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31
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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32
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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33
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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34
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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35
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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36
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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37
inflames
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| v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的第三人称单数 ) | |
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38
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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39
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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40
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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41
displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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42
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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43
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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44
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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45
enamel
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| n.珐琅，搪瓷，瓷釉；(牙齿的)珐琅质 | |
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46
hieroglyphs
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| n.象形字（如古埃及等所用的）( hieroglyph的名词复数 )；秘密的或另有含意的书写符号 | |
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47
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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48
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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49
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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50
ailed
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| v.生病( ail的过去式和过去分词 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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51
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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52
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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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
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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55
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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56
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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57
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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58
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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59
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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60
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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61
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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62
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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63
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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64
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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65
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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66
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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67
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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68
onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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69
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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70
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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71
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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72
crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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73
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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74
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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75
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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76
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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77
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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78
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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79
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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80
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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81
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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82
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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83
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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84
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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85
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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86
entreats
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的第三人称单数 ) | |
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87
nuptial
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| adj.婚姻的，婚礼的 | |
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88
diffusing
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| （使光）模糊，漫射，漫散( diffuse的现在分词 )； （使）扩散； （使）弥漫； （使）传播 | |
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89
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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90
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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91
mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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92
stratagem
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| n.诡计，计谋 | |
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93
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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94
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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95
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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96
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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97
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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98
monopolize
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| v.垄断，独占，专营 | |
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99
upbraids
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的第三人称单数 ) | |
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100
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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101
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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102
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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103
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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104
judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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105
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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106
candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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107
professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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108
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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109
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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110
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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111
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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112
disapproving
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| adj.不满的，反对的v.不赞成( disapprove的现在分词 ) | |
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113
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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114
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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115
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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116
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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117
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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118
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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119
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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120
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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122
abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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123
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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124
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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125
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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126
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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127
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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128
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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129
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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130
stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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131
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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132
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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133
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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134
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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136
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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137
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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138
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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139
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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140
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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141
wittily
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| 机智地，机敏地 | |
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142
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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143
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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144
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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145
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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146
pompous
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|
| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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147
enumeration
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|
| n.计数，列举；细目；详表；点查 | |
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148
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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149
fiery
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|
| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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150
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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151
acquitted
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|
| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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152
inviting
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|
| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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153
entreating
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|
| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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154
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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155
hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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156
mere
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|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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157
glutton
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| n.贪食者，好食者 | |
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158
morsels
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|
| n.一口( morsel的名词复数 )；（尤指食物）小块，碎屑 | |
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159
impromptu
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|
| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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160
remains
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|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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161
enraptured
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|
| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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162
carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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163
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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164
scorching
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|
| adj. 灼热的 | |
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165
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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166
determined
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|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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167
libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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168
forerunner
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| n.前身，先驱（者），预兆，祖先 | |
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169
voluptuousness
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| n.风骚，体态丰满 | |
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170
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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171
alluded
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|
| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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172
siesta
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| n.午睡 | |
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173
protracted
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|
| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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174
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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175
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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176
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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177
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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178
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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179
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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180
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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181
mutual
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|
| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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182
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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183
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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184
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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185
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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186
deliberately
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|
| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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187
piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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188
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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189
jurisdiction
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| n.司法权，审判权，管辖权，控制权 | |
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190
auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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191
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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192
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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193
upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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194
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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195
buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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196
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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197
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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198
miserable
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|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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199
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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200
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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201
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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202
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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203
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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204
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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205
solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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206
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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207
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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208
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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209
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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210
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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211
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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212
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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213
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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214
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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215
counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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216
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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217
conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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218
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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219
jeeringly
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| adv.嘲弄地 | |
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220
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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221
subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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222
accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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225
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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226
transact
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| v.处理；做交易；谈判 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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228
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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