Precisely1 at twelve o’clock the peotta landed me at Ponte di Lago Oscuro, and I immediately took a post-chaise to reach Ferrara in time for dinner. I put up at St. Mark’s Hotel. I was following the waiter up the stairs, when a joyful2 uproar3, which suddenly burst from a room the door of which was open, made me curious to ascertain4 the cause of so much mirth. I peeped into the room, and saw some twelve persons, men and women, seated round a well-supplied table. It was a very natural thing, and I was moving on, when I was stopped by the exclamation5, “Ah, here he is!” uttered by the pretty voice of a woman, and at the same moment, the speaker, leaving the table, came to me with open arms and embraced me, saying,
“Quick, quick, a seat for him near me; take his luggage to his room.”
A young man came up, and she said to him, “Well, I told you he would arrive to-day?”
She made me sit near her at the table, after I had been saluted6 by all the guests who had risen to do me honour.
“My dear cousin,” she said, addressing me, “you must be hungry;” and as she spoke7 she squeezed my foot under the table. “Here is my intended husband whom I beg to introduce to you, as well as my father and mother-in-law. The other guests round the table are friends of the family. But, my dear cousin, tell me why my mother has not come with you?”
At last I had to open my lips!
“Your mother, my dear cousin, will be here in three or four days, at the latest.”
I thought that my newly-found cousin was unknown to me, but when I looked at her with more attention, I fancied I recollected9 her features. She was the Catinella, a dancer of reputation, but I had never spoken to her before. I easily guessed that she was giving me an impromptu10 part in a play of her own composition, and I was to be a ‘deux ex machina’. Whatever is singular and unexpected has always attracted me, and as my cousin was pretty, I lent myself most willingly to the joke, entertaining no doubt that she would reward me in an agreeable manner. All I had to do was to play my part well, but without implicating11 myself. Therefore, pretending to be very hungry, I gave her the opportunity of speaking and of informing me by hints of what I had to know, in order not to make blunders. Understanding the reason of my reserve, she afforded me the proof of her quick intelligence by saying sometimes to one person, sometimes to the other, everything it was necessary for me to know. Thus I learnt that the wedding could not take place until the arrival of her mother, who was to bring the wardrobe and the diamonds of my cousin. I was the precentor going to Turin to compose the music of the opera which was to be represented at the marriage of the Duke of Savoy. This last discovery pleased me greatly, because I saw that I should have no difficulty in taking my departure the next morning, and I began to enjoy the part I had to play. Yet, if I had not reckoned upon the reward, I might very well have informed the honourable12 company that my false cousin was mad, but, although Catinella was very near thirty, she was very pretty and celebrated13 for her intrigues14; that was enough, and she could turn me round her little finger.
The future mother-in-law was seated opposite, and to do me honour she filled a glass and offered it to me. Already identified with my part in the comedy, I put forth15 my hand to take the glass, but seeing that my hand was somewhat bent16, she said to me,
“What is the matter with your hand, sir?”
“Nothing serious, madam; only a slight sprain17 which a little rest will soon cure.”
At these words, Catinella, laughing heartily18, said that she regretted the accident because it would deprive her friends of the pleasure they would have enjoyed in hearing me play the harpsichord19.
“I am glad to find it a laughing matter, cousin.”
“I laugh, because it reminds me of a sprained20 ankle which I once feigned21 to have in order not to dance.”
After coffee, the mother-in-law, who evidently understood what was proper, said that most likely my cousin wanted to talk with me on family matters, and that we ought to be left alone.
Every one of the guests left the room.
As soon as I was alone with her in my room, which was next to her own she threw herself on a sofa, and gave way to a most immoderate fit of laughter.
“Although I only know you by name,” she said to me, “I have entire confidence in you, but you will do well to go away to-morrow. I have been here for two months without any money. I have nothing but a few dresses and some linen22, which I should have been compelled to sell to defray my expenses if I had not been lucky enough to inspire the son of the landlord with the deepest love. I have flattered his passion by promising23 to become his wife, and to bring him as a marriage portion twenty thousand crowns’ worth of diamonds which I am supposed to have in Venice, and which my mother is expected to bring with her. But my mother has nothing and knows nothing of the affair, therefore she is not likely to leave Venice.”
“But, tell me, lovely madcap, what will be the end of this extravaganza? I am afraid it will take a tragic24 turn at the last.”
“You are mistaken; it will remain a comedy, and a very amusing one, too. I am expecting every hour the arrival of Count Holstein, brother of the Elector of Mainz. He has written to me from Frankfort; he has left that city, and must by this time have reached Venice. He will take me to the Fair of Reggio, and if my intended takes it into his head to be angry, the count will thrash him and pay my bill, but I am determined25 that he shall be neither thrashed nor paid. As I go away, I have only to whisper in his ear that I will certainly return, and it will be all right. I know my promise to become his wife as soon as I come back will make him happy.”
“That’s all very well! You are as witty26 as a cousin of Satan, but I shall not wait your return to marry you; our wedding must take place at once.”
“What folly27! Well, wait until this evening.”
“Not a bit of it, for I can almost fancy I hear the count’s carriage. If he should not arrive, we can continue the sport during the night.”
“Do you love me?”
“To distraction28! but what does it matter? However, your excellent comedy renders you worthy29 of adoration30. Now, suppose we do not waste our time.”
“You are right: it is an episode, and all the more agreeable for being impromptu.”
I can well recollect8 that I found it a delightful31 episode. Towards evening all the family joined us again, a walk was proposed, and we were on the point of going out, when a carriage drawn32 by six post- horses noisily entered the yard. Catinella looked through the window, and desired to be left alone, saying that it was a prince who had come to see her. Everybody went away, she pushed me into my room and locked me in. I went to the window, and saw a nobleman four times as big as myself getting out of the carriage. He came upstairs, entered the room of the intended bride, and all that was left to me was the consolation33 of having seized fortune by the forelock, the pleasure of hearing their conversation, and a convenient view, through a crevice34 in the partition, of what Catinella contrived35 to do with that heavy lump of flesh. But at last the stupid amusement wearied me, for it lasted five hours, which were employed in amorous36 caresses37, in packing Catinella’s rags, in loading them on the carriage, in taking supper, and in drinking numerous bumpers38 of Rhenish wine. At midnight the count left the hotel, carrying away with him the beloved mistress of the landlord’s son.
No one during those long hours had come to my room, and I had not called. I was afraid of being discovered, and I did not know how far the German prince would have been pleased if he had found out that he had an indiscreet witness of the heavy and powerless demonstrations39 of his tenderness, which were a credit to neither of the actors, and which supplied me with ample food for thoughts upon the miseries40 of mankind.
After the departure of the heroine, catching41 through the crevice a glimpse of the abandoned lover, I called out to him to unlock my door. The poor silly fellow told me piteously that, Catinella having taken the key with her, it would be necessary to break the door open. I begged him to have it done at once, because I was hungry. As soon as I was out of my prison I had my supper, and the unfortunate lover kept me company. He told me that Catinella had found a moment to promise him that she would return within six weeks, that she was shedding tears in giving him that assurance, and that she had kissed him with great tenderness.
“Has the prince paid her expenses?”
“Not at all. We would not have allowed him to do it, even if he had offered. My future wife would have felt offended, for you can have no idea of the delicacy42 of her feelings.”
“What does your father say of her departure?”
“My father always sees the worst side of everything; he says that she will never come back, and my mother shares his opinion rather than mine. But you, signor maestro, what do you think?”
“That if she has promised to return, she will be sure to keep her word.”
“Of course; for if she did not mean to come back, she would not have given me her promise.”
“Precisely; I call that a good argument.”
I had for my supper what was left of the meal prepared by the count’s cook, and I drank a bottle of excellent Rhenish wine which Catinella had juggled43 away to treat her intended husband, and which the worthy fellow thought could not have a better destination than to treat his future cousin. After supper I took post-horses and continued my journey, assuring the unhappy, forlorn lover that I would do all I could to persuade my cousin to come back very soon. I wanted to pay my bill, but he refused to receive any money. I reached Bologna a few minutes after Catinella, and put up at the same hotel, where I found an opportunity of telling her all her lover had said. I arrived in Reggio before her, but I could not speak to her in that city, for she was always in the company of her potent44 and impotent lord. After the fair, during which nothing of importance occurred to me, I left Reggio with my friend Baletti and we proceeded to Turin, which I wanted to see, for the first time I had gone to that city with Henriette I had stopped only long enough to change horses.
I found everything beautiful in Turin, the city, the court, the theatre, and the women, including the Duchess of Savoy, but I could not help laughing when I was told that the police of the city was very efficient, for the streets were full of beggars. That police, however, was the special care of the king, who was very intelligent; if we are to believe history, but I confess that I laughed when I saw the ridiculous face of that sovereign.
I had never seen a king before in my life, and a foolish idea made me suppose that a king must be preeminent45 — a very rare being — by his beauty and the majesty46 of his appearance, and in everything superior to the rest of men. For a young Republican endowed with reason, my idea was not, after all, so very foolish, but I very soon got rid of it when I saw that King of Sardinia, ugly, hump-backed, morose47 and vulgar even in his manners. I then realized that it was possible to be a king without being entirely48 a man.
I saw L’Astrua and Gafarello, those two magnificent singers on the stage, and I admired the dancing of La Geofroi, who married at that time a worthy dancer named Bodin.
During my stay in Turin, no amorous fancy disturbed the peace of my soul, except an accident which happened to me with the daughter of my washerwoman, and which increased my knowledge in physics in a singular manner. That girl was very pretty, and, without being what might be called in love with her, I wished to obtain her favours. Piqued49 at my not being able to obtain an appointment from her, I contrived one day to catch her at the bottom of a back staircase by which she used to come to my room, and, I must confess, with the intention of using a little violence, if necessary.
Having concealed50 myself for that purpose at the time I expected her, I got hold of her by surprise, and, half by persuasion51, half by the rapidity of my attack, she was brought to a right position, and I lost no time in engaging in action. But at the first movement of the connection a loud explosion somewhat cooled my ardour, the more so that the young girl covered her face with her hands as if she wished to hide her shame. However, encouraging her with a loving kiss, I began again. But, a report, louder even than the first, strikes at the same moment my ear and my nose. I continue; a third, a fourth report, and, to make a long matter short, each movement gives an explosion with as much regularity52 as a conductor making the time for a piece of music!
This extraordinary phenomenon, the confusion of the poor girl, our position — everything, in fact, struck me as so comical, that I burst into the most immoderate laughter, which compelled me to give up the undertaking53. Ashamed and confused, the young girl ran away, and I did nothing to hinder her. After that she never had the courage to present herself before me. I remained seated on the stairs for a quarter of an hour after she had left me, amused at the funny character of a scene which even now excites my mirth. I suppose that the young girl was indebted for her virtue54 to that singular disease, and most likely, if it were common to all the fair sex, there would be fewer gallant55 women, unless we had different organs; for to pay for one moment of enjoyment56 at the expense both of the hearing and of the smell is to give too high a price.
Baletti, being in a hurry to reach Paris, where great preparations were being made for the birth of a Duke of Burgundy — for the duchess was near the time of her delivery — easily persuaded me to shorten my stay in Turin. We therefore left that city, and in five days we arrived at Lyons, where I stayed about a week.
Lyons is a very fine city in which at that time there were scarcely three or four noble houses opened to strangers; but, in compensation, there were more than a hundred hospitable57 ones belonging to merchants, manufacturers, and commission agents, amongst whom was to be found an excellent society remarkable58 for easy manners, politeness, frankness, and good style, without the absurd pride to be met with amongst the nobility in the provinces, with very few honourable exceptions. It is true that the standard of good manners is below that of Paris, but one soon gets accustomed to it. The wealth of Lyons arises from good taste and low prices, and Fashion is the goddess to whom that city owes its prosperity. Fashion alters every year, and the stuff, to which the fashion of the day gives a value equal, say to thirty, is the next year reduced to fifteen or twenty, and then it is sent to foreign countries where it is bought up as a novelty.
The manufacturers of Lyons give high salaries to designers of talent; in that lies the secret of their success. Low prices come from Competition — a fruitful source of wealth, and a daughter of Liberty. Therefore, a government wishing to establish on a firm basis the prosperity of trade must give commerce full liberty; only being careful to prevent the frauds which private interests, often wrongly understood, might invent at the expense of public and general interests. In fact, the government must hold the scales, and allow the citizens to load them as they please.
In Lyons I met the most famous courtezan of Venice. It was generally admitted that her equal had never been seen. Her name was Ancilla. Every man who saw her coveted59 her, and she was so kindly60 disposed that she could not refuse her favours to anyone; for if all men loved her one after the other, she returned the compliment by loving them all at once, and with her pecuniary61 advantages were only a very secondary consideration.
Venice has always been blessed with courtezans more celebrated by their beauty than their wit. Those who were most famous in my younger days were Ancilla and another called Spina, both the daughters of gondoliers, and both killed very young by the excesses of a profession which, in their eyes, was a noble one. At the age of twenty-two, Ancilla turned a dancer and Spina became a singer. Campioni, a celebrated Venetian dancer, imparted to the lovely Ancilla all the graces and the talents of which her physical perfections were susceptible62, and married her. Spina had for her master a castrato who succeeded in making of her only a very ordinary singer, and in the absence of talent she was compelled, in order to get a living, to make the most of the beauty she had received from nature.
I shall have occasion to speak again of Ancilla before her death. She was then in Lyons with her husband; they had just returned from England, where they had been greatly applauded at the Haymarket Theatre. She had stopped in Lyons only for her pleasure, and, the moment she shewed herself, she had at her feet the most brilliant young men of the town, who were the slaves of her slightest caprice. Every day parties of pleasure, every evening magnificent suppers, and every night a great faro bank. The banker at the gaming table was a certain Don Joseph Marratti, the same man whom I had known in the Spanish army under the name of Don Pepe il Cadetto, and a few years afterwards assumed the name of Afflisio, and came to such a bad end. That faro bank won in a few days three hundred thousand francs. In a capital that would not have been considered a large sum, but in a commercial and industrial city like Lyons it raised the alarm amongst the merchants, and the Ultramontanes thought of taking their leave.
It was in Lyons that a respectable individual, whose acquaintance I made at the house of M. de Rochebaron, obtained for me the favour of being initiated63 in the sublime65 trifles of Freemasonry. I arrived in Paris a simple apprentice66; a few months after my arrival I became companion and master; the last is certainly the highest degree in Freemasonry, for all the other degrees which I took afterwards are only pleasing inventions, which, although symbolical67, add nothing to the dignity of master.
No one in this world can obtain a knowledge of everything, but every man who feels himself endowed with faculties68, and can realize the extent of his moral strength, should endeavour to obtain the greatest possible amount of knowledge. A well-born young man who wishes to travel and know not only the world, but also what is called good society, who does not want to find himself, under certain circumstances, inferior to his equals, and excluded from participating in all their pleasures, must get himself initiated in what is called Freemasonry, even if it is only to know superficially what Freemasonry is. It is a charitable institution, which, at certain times and in certain places, may have been a pretext69 for criminal underplots got up for the overthrow70 of public order, but is there anything under heaven that has not been abused? Have we not seen the Jesuits, under the cloak of our holy religion, thrust into the parricidal71 hand of blind enthusiasts72 the dagger73 with which kings were to be assassinated74! All men of importance, I mean those whose social existence is marked by intelligence and merit, by learning or by wealth, can be (and many of them are) Freemasons: is it possible to suppose that such meetings, in which the initiated, making it a law never to speak, ‘intra muros’, either of politics, or of religions, or of governments, converse75 only concerning emblems76 which are either moral or trifling77; is it possible to suppose, I repeat, that those meetings, in which the governments may have their own creatures, can offer dangers sufficiently78 serious to warrant the proscriptions of kings or the excommunications of Popes?
In reality such proceedings79 miss the end for which they are undertaken, and the Pope, in spite of his infallibility, will not prevent his persecutions from giving Freemasonry an importance which it would perhaps have never obtained if it had been left alone. Mystery is the essence of man’s nature, and whatever presents itself to mankind under a mysterious appearance will always excite curiosity and be sought, even when men are satisfied that the veil covers nothing but a cypher.
Upon the whole, I would advise all well-born young men, who intend to travel, to become Freemasons; but I would likewise advise them to be careful in selecting a lodge80, because, although bad company cannot have any influence while inside of the lodge, the candidate must guard against bad acquaintances.
Those who become Freemasons only for the sake of finding out the secret of the order, run a very great risk of growing old under the trowel without ever realizing their purpose. Yet there is a secret, but it is so inviolable that it has never been confided81 or whispered to anyone. Those who stop at the outward crust of things imagine that the secret consists in words, in signs, or that the main point of it is to be found only in reaching the highest degree. This is a mistaken view: the man who guesses the secret of Freemasonry, and to know it you must guess it, reaches that point only through long attendance in the lodges82, through deep thinking, comparison, and deduction83. He would not trust that secret to his best friend in Freemasonry, because he is aware that if his friend has not found it out, he could not make any use of it after it had been whispered in his ear. No, he keeps his peace, and the secret remains84 a secret.
Everything done in a lodge must be secret; but those who have unscrupulously revealed what is done in the lodge, have been unable to reveal that which is essential; they had no knowledge of it, and had they known it, they certainly would not have unveiled the mystery of the ceremonies.
The impression felt in our days by the non-initiated is of the same nature as that felt in former times by those who were not initiated in the mysteries enacted85 at Eleusis in honour of Ceres. But the mysteries of Eleusis interested the whole of Greece, and whoever had attained86 some eminence87 in the society of those days had an ardent88 wish to take a part in those mysterious ceremonies, while Freemasonry, in the midst of many men of the highest merit, reckons a crowd of scoundrels whom no society ought to acknowledge, because they are the refuse of mankind as far as morality is concerned.
In the mysteries of Ceres, an inscrutable silence was long kept, owing to the veneration89 in which they were held. Besides, what was there in them that could be revealed? The three words which the hierophant said to the initiated? But what would that revelation have come to? Only to dishonour90 the indiscreet initiate64, for they were barbarous words unknown to the vulgar. I have read somewhere that the three sacred words of the mysteries of Eleusis meant: Watch, and do no evil. The sacred words and the secrets of the various masonic degrees are about as criminal.
The initiation91 in the mysteries of Eleusis lasted nine days. The ceremonies were very imposing92, and the company of the highest. Plutarch informs us that Alcibiades was sentenced to death and his property confiscated93, because he had dared to turn the mysteries into ridicule94 in his house. He was even sentenced to be cursed by the priests and priestesses, but the curse was not pronounced because one of the priestesses opposed it, saying:
“I am a priestess to bless and not to curse!”
Sublime words! Lessons of wisdom and of morality which the Pope despises, but which the Gospel teaches and which the Saviour95 prescribes.
In our days nothing is important, and nothing is sacred, for our cosmopolitan96 philosophers.
Botarelli publishes in a pamphlet all the ceremonies of the Freemasons, and the only sentence passed on him is:
“He is a scoundrel. We knew that before!”
A prince in Naples, and M. Hamilton in his own house, perform the miracle of St. Januarius; they are, most likely, very merry over their performance, and many more with them. Yet the king wears on his royal breast a star with the following device around the image of St. Januarius: ‘In sanguine97 foedus’. In our days everything is inconsistent, and nothing has any meaning. Yet it is right to go ahead, for to stop on the road would be to go from bad to worse.
We left Lyons in the public diligence, and were five days on our road to Paris. Baletti had given notice of his departure to his family; they therefore knew when to expect him. We were eight in the coach and our seats were very uncomfortable, for it was a large oval in shape, so that no one had a corner. If that vehicle had been built in a country where equality was a principle hallowed by the laws, it would not have been a bad illustration. I thought it was absurd, but I was in a foreign country, and I said nothing. Besides, being an Italian, would it have been right for me not to admire everything which was French, and particularly in France? — Example, an oval diligence: I respected the fashion, but I found it detestable, and the singular motion of that vehicle had the same effect upon me as the rolling of a ship in a heavy sea. Yet it was well hung, but the worst jolting98 would have disturbed me less.
As the diligence undulates in the rapidity of its pace, it has been called a gondola99, but I was a judge of gondolas100, and I thought that there was no family likeness101 between the coach and the Venetian boats which, with two hearty102 rowers, glide103 along so swiftly and smoothly104. The effect of the movement was that I had to throw up whatever was on my stomach. My travelling companions thought me bad company, but they did not say so. I was in France and among Frenchmen, who know what politeness is. They only remarked that very likely I had eaten too much at my supper, and a Parisian abbe, in order to excuse me, observed that my stomach was weak. A discussion arose.
“Gentlemen,” I said, in my vexation, and rather angrily, “you are all wrong, for my stomach is excellent, and I have not had any supper.”
Thereupon an elderly man told me, with a voice full of sweetness, that I ought not to say that the gentlemen were wrong, though I might say that they were not right, thus imitating Cicero, who, instead of declaring to the Romans that Catilina and the other conspirators105 were dead, only said that they had lived.
“Is it not the same thing?”
“I beg your pardon, sir, one way of speaking is polite, the other is not.” And after treating me to a long dissection106 on politeness, he concluded by saying, with a smile, “I suppose you are an Italian?”
“Yes, I am, but would you oblige me by telling me how you have found it out?”
“Oh! I guessed it from the attention with which you have listened to my long prattle107.”
Everybody laughed, and, I, much pleased with his eccentricity108, began to coax109 him. He was the tutor of a young boy of twelve or thirteen years who was seated near him. I made him give me during the journey lessons in French politeness, and when we parted he took me apart in a friendly manner, saying that he wished to make me a small present.
“What is it?”
“You must abandon, and, if I may say so, forget, the particle ‘non’, which you use frequently at random110. ‘Non’ is not a French word; instead of that unpleasant monosyllable, say, ‘Pardon’. ‘Non’ is equal to giving the lie: never say it, or prepare yourself to give and to receive sword-stabs every moment.”
“I thank you, monsieur, your present is very precious, and I promise you never to say non again.”
During the first fortnight of my stay in Paris, it seemed to me that I had become the most faulty man alive, for I never ceased begging pardon. I even thought, one evening at the theatre, that I should have a quarrel for having begged somebody’s pardon in the wrong place. A young fop, coming to the pit, trod on my foot, and I hastened to say,
“Your pardon, sir.”
“Sir, pardon me yourself.”
“No, yourself.”
“Yourself!”
“Well, sir, let us pardon and embrace one another!” The embrace put a stop to the discussion.
One day during the journey, having fallen asleep from fatigue111 in the inconvenient112 gondola, someone pushed my arm.
“Ah, sir! look at that mansion113!”
“I see it; what of it?”
“Ah! I pray you, do you not find it. . . . ”
“I find nothing particular; and you?”
“Nothing wonderful, if it were not situated114 at a distance of forty leagues from Paris. But here! Ah! would my ‘badauds’ of Parisians believe that such a beautiful mansion can be found forty leagues distant from the metropolis115? How ignorant a man is when he has never travelled!”
“You are quite right.”
That man was a Parisian and a ‘badaud’ to the backbone116, like a Gaul in the days of Caesar.
But if the Parisians are lounging about from morning till night, enjoying everything around them, a foreigner like myself ought to have been a greater ‘badaud’ than they! The difference between us was that, being accustomed to see things such as they are, I was astonished at seeing them often covered with a mask which changed their nature, while their surprise often arose from their suspecting what the mask concealed.
What delighted me, on my arrival in Paris, was the magnificent road made by Louis XV., the cleanliness of the hotels, the excellent fare they give, the quickness of the service, the excellent beds, the modest appearance of the attendant, who generally is the most accomplished117 girl of the house, and whose decency118, modest manners, and neatness, inspire the most shameless libertine119 with respect. Where is the Italian who is pleased with the effrontery120 and the insolence121 of the hotel-waiters in Italy? In my days, people did not know in France what it was to overcharge; it was truly the home of foreigners. True, they had the unpleasantness of often witnessing acts of odious122 despotism, ‘lettres de cachet’, etc.; it was the despotism of a king. Since that time the French have the despotism of the people. Is it less obnoxious123?
We dined at Fontainebleau, a name derived124 from Fontaine-belle-eau; and when we were only two leagues from Paris we saw a berlin advancing towards us. As it came near the diligence, my friend Baletti called out to the postillions to stop. In the berlin was his mother, who offered me the welcome given to an expected friend. His mother was the celebrated actress Silvia, and when I had been introduced to her she said to me;
“I hope, sir, that my son’s friend will accept a share of our family supper this evening.”
I accepted gratefully, sat down again in the gondola, Baletti got into the berlin with his mother, and we continued our journey.
On reaching Paris, I found a servant of Silvia’s waiting for me with a coach; he accompanied me to my lodging125 to leave my luggage, and we repaired to Baletti’s house, which was only fifty yards distant from my dwelling126.
Baletti presented me to his father, who was known under the name of Mario. Silvia and Mario were the stage names assumed by M. and Madame Baletti, and at that time it was the custom in France to call the Italian actors by the names they had on the stage. ‘Bon jour’, Monsieur Arlequin; ‘bon jour’, Monsieur Pantalon: such was the manner in which the French used to address the actors who personified those characters on the stage.
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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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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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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implicating
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| vt.牵涉，涉及（implicate的现在分词形式） | |
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12
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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13
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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14
intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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15
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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16
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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17
sprain
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| n.扭伤,扭筋 | |
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18
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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19
harpsichord
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| n.键琴（钢琴前身） | |
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20
sprained
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| v.&n. 扭伤 | |
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21
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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22
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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23
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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24
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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25
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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26
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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27
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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28
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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29
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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30
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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31
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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32
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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33
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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34
crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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35
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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36
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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37
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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38
bumpers
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| （汽车上的）保险杠，缓冲器( bumper的名词复数 ) | |
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39
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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40
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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41
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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42
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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43
juggled
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| v.歪曲( juggle的过去式和过去分词 )；耍弄；有效地组织；尽力同时应付（两个或两个以上的重要工作或活动） | |
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44
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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45
preeminent
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的 | |
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46
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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47
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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48
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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49
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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50
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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51
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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52
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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53
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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54
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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55
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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56
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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57
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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58
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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59
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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60
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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61
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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62
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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63
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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64
initiate
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| vt.开始，创始，发动；启蒙，使入门；引入 | |
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65
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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66
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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67
symbolical
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| a.象征性的 | |
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68
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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69
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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70
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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71
parricidal
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| adj.杀父母的，杀长上者 | |
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72
enthusiasts
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| n.热心人，热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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73
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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74
assassinated
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| v.暗杀( assassinate的过去式和过去分词 )；中伤；诋毁；破坏 | |
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75
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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76
emblems
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| n.象征，标记( emblem的名词复数 ) | |
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77
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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78
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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79
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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80
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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81
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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82
lodges
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| v.存放( lodge的第三人称单数 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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83
deduction
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| n.减除，扣除，减除额；推论，推理，演绎 | |
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84
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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85
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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87
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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88
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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89
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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90
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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91
initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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92
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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93
confiscated
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| 没收，充公( confiscate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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95
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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96
cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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97
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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98
jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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99
gondola
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| n.威尼斯的平底轻舟；飞船的吊船 | |
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100
gondolas
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| n.狭长小船( gondola的名词复数 )；货架（一般指商店，例如化妆品店）；吊船工作台 | |
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101
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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102
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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103
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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104
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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105
conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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106
dissection
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| n.分析；解剖 | |
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107
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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108
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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109
coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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110
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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111
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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112
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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113
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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114
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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115
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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116
backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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117
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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118
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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119
libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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120
effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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121
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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122
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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123
obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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124
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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125
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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126
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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