Arrived, for the first time, in the capital of Austria, at the age of eight-and-twenty, well provided with clothes, but rather short of money — a circumstance which made it necessary for me to curtail1 my expenses until the arrival of the proceeds of a letter of exchange which I had drawn2 upon M. de Bragadin. The only letter of recommendation I had was from the poet Migliavacca, of Dresden, addressed to the illustrious Abbe Metastasio, whom I wished ardently5 to know. I delivered the letter the day after my arrival, and in one hour of conversation I found him more learned than I should have supposed from his works. Besides, Metastasio was so modest that at first I did not think that modesty6 natural, but it was not long before I discovered that it was genuine, for when he recited something of his own composition, he was the first to call the attention of his hearers to the important parts or to the fine passages with as much simplicity7 as he would remark the weak ones. I spoke8 to him of his tutor Gravina, and as we were on that subject he recited to me five or six stanzas9 which he had written on his death, and which had not been printed. Moved by the remembrance of his friend, and by the sad beauty of his own poetry, his eyes were filled with tears, and when he had done reciting the stanzas he said, in a tone of touching10 simplicity,‘Ditemi il vero, si puo air meglio’?
I answered that he alone had the right to believe it impossible. I then asked him whether he had to work a great deal to compose his beautiful poetry; he shewed me four or five pages which he had covered with erasures and words crossed and scratched out only because he had wished to bring fourteen lines to perfection, and he assured me that he had never been able to compose more than that number in one day. He confirmed my knowledge of a truth which I had found out before, namely, that the very lines which most readers believe to have flowed easily from the poet’s pen are generally those which he has had the greatest difficulty in composing.
“Which of your operas,” I enquired11, “do you like best?”
“‘Attilio Regolo; ma questo non vuol gia dire12 che sia il megliore’.”
“All your works have been translated in Paris into French prose, but the publisher was ruined, for it is not possible to read them, and it proves the elevation13 and the power of your poetry.”
“Several years ago, another foolish publisher ruined himself by a translation into French prose of the splendid poetry of Ariosto. I laugh at those who maintain that poetry can be translated into prose.”
“I am of your opinion.”
“And you are right.”
He told me that he had never written an arietta without composing the music of it himself, but that as a general rule he never shewed his music to anyone.
“The French,” he added, “entertain the very strange belief that it is possible to adapt poetry to music already composed.”
And he made on that subject this very philosophical14 remark:
“You might just as well say to a sculptor15, ‘Here is a piece of marble, make a Venus, and let her expression be shewn before the features are chiselled16.’”
I went to the Imperial Library, and was much surprised to meet De la Haye in the company of two Poles, and a young Venetian whom his father had entrusted17 to him to complete his education. I believed him to be in Poland, and as the meeting recalled interesting recollections I was pleased to see him. I embraced him repeatedly with real pleasure.
He told me that he was in Vienna on business, and that he would go to Venice during the summer. We paid one another several visits, and hearing that I was rather short of money he lent me fifty ducats, which I returned a short time after. He told me that Bavois was already lieutenant-colonel in the Venetian army, and the news afforded me great pleasure. He had been fortunate enough to be appointed adjutant-general by M. Morosini, who, after his return from his embassy in France, had made him Commissary of the Borders. I was delighted to hear of the happiness and success of two men who certainly could not help acknowledging me as the original cause of their good fortune. In Vienna I acquired the certainty of De la Haye being a Jesuit, but he would not let anyone allude18 to the subject.
Not knowing where to go, and longing19 for some recreation, I went to the rehearsal20 of the opera which was to be performed after Easter, and met Bodin, the first dancer, who had married the handsome Jeoffroi, whom I had seen in Turin. I likewise met in the same place Campioni, the husband of the beautiful Ancilla. He told me that he had been compelled to apply for a divorce because she dishonoured22 him too publicly. Campioni was at the same time a great dancer and a great gambler. I took up my lodgings23 with him.
In Vienna everything is beautiful; money was then very plentiful24, and luxury very great; but the severity of the empress made the worship of Venus difficult, particularly for strangers. A legion of vile25 spies, who were decorated with the fine title of Commissaries of Chastity, were the merciless tormentors of all the girls. The empress did not practise the sublime27 virtue28 of tolerance29 for what is called illegitimate love, and in her excessive devotion she thought that her persecutions of the most natural inclinations31 in man and woman were very agreeable to God. Holding in her imperial hands the register of cardinal32 sins, she fancied that she could be indulgent for six of them, and keep all her severity for the seventh, lewdness33, which in her estimation could not be forgiven.
“One can ignore pride,” she would say, “for dignity wears the same garb34. Avarice35 is fearful, it is true; but one might be mistaken about it, because it is often very like economy. As for anger, it is a murderous disease in its excess, but murder is punishable with death. Gluttony is sometimes nothing but epicurism36, and religion does not forbid that sin; for in good company it is held a valuable quality; besides, it blends itself with appetite, and so much the worse for those who die of indigestion. Envy is a low passion which no one ever avows37; to punish it in any other way than by its own corroding38 venom39, I would have to torture everybody at Court; and weariness is the punishment of sloth40. But lust4 is a different thing altogether; my chaste41 soul could not forgive such a sin, and I declare open war against it. My subjects are at liberty to think women handsome as much as they please; women may do all in their power to appear beautiful; people may entertain each other as they like, because I cannot forbid conversation; but they shall not gratify desires on which the preservation42 of the human race depends, unless it is in the holy state of legal marriage. Therefore, all the miserable43 creatures who live by the barter44 of their caresses45 and of the charms given to them by nature shall be sent to Temeswar. I am aware that in Rome people are very indulgent on that point, and that, in order to prevent another greater crime (which is not prevented), every cardinal has one or more mistresses, but in Rome the climate requires certain concessions46 which are not necessary here, where the bottle and the pipe replace all pleasures. (She might have added, and the table, for the Austrians are known to be terrible eaters.)
“I will have no indulgence either for domestic disorders47, for the moment I hear that a wife is unfaithful to her husband, I will have her locked up, in spite of all, in spite of the generally received opinion that the husband is the real judge and master of his wife; that privilege cannot be granted in my kingdom where husbands are by far too indifferent on that subject. Fanatic48 husbands may complain as much as they please that I dishonour21 them by punishing their wives; they are dishonoured already by the fact of the woman’s infidelity.”
“But, madam, dishonour rises in reality only from the fact of infidelity being made public; besides, you might be deceived, although you are empress.”
“I know that, but that is no business of yours, and I do not grant you the right of contradicting me.”
Such is the way in which Maria Teresa would have argued, and notwithstanding the principle of virtue from which her argument had originated, it had ultimately given birth to all the infamous50 deeds which her executioners, the Commissaries of Chastity, committed with impunity51 under her name. At every hour of the day, in all the streets of Vienna, they carried off and took to prison the poor girls who happened to live alone, and very often went out only to earn an honest living. I should like to know how it was possible to know that a girl was going to some man to get from him consolations52 for her miserable position, or that she was in search of someone disposed to offer her those consolations? Indeed, it was difficult. A spy would follow them at a distance. The police department kept a crowd of those spies, and as the scoundrels wore no particular uniform, it was impossible to know them; as a natural consequence, there was a general distrust of all strangers. If a girl entered a house, the spy who had followed her, waited for her, stopped her as she came out, and subjected her to an interrogatory. If the poor creature looked uneasy, if she hesitated in answering in such a way as to satisfy the spy, the fellow would take her to prison; in all cases beginning by plundering53 her of whatever money or jewellery she carried about her person, and the restitution54 of which could never be obtained. Vienna was, in that respect a true den3 of privileged thieves. It happened to me one day in Leopoldstadt that in the midst of some tumult55 a girl slipped in my hand a gold watch to secure it from the clutches of a police-spy who was pressing upon her to take her up. I did not know the poor girl, whom I was fortunate enough to see again one month afterwards. She was pretty, and she had been compelled to more than one sacrifice in order to obtain her liberty. I was glad to be able to hand her watch back to her, and although she was well worthy56 of a man’s attention I did not ask her for anything to reward my faithfulness. The only way in which girls could walk unmolested in the streets was to go about with their head bent57 down with beads58 in hand, for in that case the disgusting brood of spies dared not arrest them, because they might be on their way to church, and Maria Teresa would certainly have sent to the gallows59 the spy guilty of such a mistake.
Those low villains60 rendered a stay in Vienna very unpleasant to foreigners, and it was a matter of the greatest difficulty to gratify the slightest natural want without running the risk of being annoyed. One day as I was standing49 close to the wall in a narrow street, I was much astonished at hearing myself rudely addressed by a scoundrel with a round wig61, who told me that, if I did not go somewhere else to finish what I had begun, he would have me arrested!
“And why, if you please?”
“Because, on your left, there is a woman who can see you.”
I lifted up my head, and I saw on the fourth story, a woman who, with the telescope she had applied62 to her eye, could have told whether I was a Jew or a Christian63. I obeyed, laughing heartily64, and related the adventure everywhere; but no one was astonished, because the same thing happened over and over again every day.
In order to study the manners and habits of the people, I took my meals in all sorts of places. One day, having gone with Campioni to dine at “The Crawfish,” I found, to my great surprise, sitting at the table d’hote, that Pepe il Cadetto, whose acquaintance I had made at the time of my arrest in the Spanish army, and whom I had met afterwards in Venice and in Lyons, under the name of Don Joseph Marcati. Campioni, who had been his partner in Lyons, embraced him, talked with him in private, and informed me that the man had resumed his real name, and that he was now called Count Afflisio. He told me that after dinner there would be a faro bank in which I would have an interest, and he therefore requested me not to play. I accepted the offer. Afflisio won: a captain of the name of Beccaxia threw the cards at his face — a trifle to which the self-styled count was accustomed, and which did not elicit65 any remark from him. When the game was over, we repaired to the coffee-room, where an officer of gentlemanly appearance, staring at me, began to smile, but not in an offensive manner.
“Sir,” I asked him, politely, “may I ask why you are laughing?”
“It makes me laugh to see that you do not recognize me.”
“I have some idea that I have seen you somewhere, but I could not say where or when I had that honour.”
“Nine years ago, by the orders of the Prince de Lobkowitz, I escorted you to the Gate of Rimini.”
“You are Baron66 Vais:”
“Precisely.”
We embraced one another; he offered me his friendly services, promising67 to procure68 me all the pleasure he could in Vienna. I accepted gratefully, and the same evening he presented me to a countess, at whose house I made the acquaintance of the Abbe Testagrossa, who was called Grosse-Tete by everybody. He was minister of the Duke of Modem69, and great at Court because he had negotiated the marriage of the arch-duke with Beatrice d’Este. I also became acquainted there with the Count of Roquendorf and Count Sarotin, and with several noble young ladies who are called in Germany frauleins, and with a baroness70 who had led a pretty wild life, but who could yet captivate a man. We had supper, and I was created baron. It was in vain that I observed that I had no title whatever: “You must be something,” I was told, “and you cannot be less than baron. You must confess yourself to be at least that, if you wish to be received anywhere in Vienna.”
“Well, I will be a baron, since it is of no importance.”
The baroness was not long before she gave me to understand that she felt kindly71 disposed towards me, and that she would receive my attentions with pleasure; I paid her a visit the very next day. “If you are fond of cards,” she said, “come in the evening.” At her house I made the acquaintance of several gamblers, and of three or four frauleins who, without any dread72 of the Commissaries of Chastity, were devoted73 to the worship of Venus, and were so kindly disposed that they were not afraid of lowering their nobility by accepting some reward for their kindness — a circumstance which proved to me that the Commissaries were in the habit of troubling only the girls who did not frequent good houses.
The baroness invited me to introduce, all my friends, so I brought to her house Vais, Campioni, and Afflisio. The last one played, held the bank, won; and Tramontini, with whom I had become acquainted, presented him to his wife, who was called Madame Tasi. It was through her that Afflisio made the useful acquaintance of the Prince of Saxe-Hildburghausen. This introduction was the origin of the great fortune made by that contrabrand count, because Tramontini, who had become his partner in all important gambling74 transactions, contrived75 to obtain for him from the prince the rank of captain in the service of their imperial and royal majesties76, and in less than three weeks Afflisio wore the uniform and the insignia of his grade. When I left Vienna he possessed77 one: hundred thousand florins. Their majesties were fond of gambling but not of punting. The emperor had a creature of his own to hold the bank. He was a kind, magnificent, but not extravagant78, prince. I saw him in his grand imperial costume, and I was surprised to see him dressed in the Spanish fashion. I almost fancied I had before my eyes Charles V. of Spain, who had established that etiquette79 which was still in existence, although after him no emperor had been a Spaniard, and although Francis I. had nothing in common with that nation.
In Poland, some years afterwards, I saw the same caprice at the coronation of Stanislas Augustus Poniatowski, and the old palatine noblemen almost broke their hearts at the sight of that costume; but they had to shew as good a countenance80 as they could, for under Russian despotism the only privilege they enjoyed was that of resignation.
The Emperor Francis I. was, handsome, and would have looked so under the hood81 of a monk82 as well as under an imperial crown. He had every possible consideration for his wife, and allowed her to get the state into debt, because he possessed the art of becoming himself the creditor83 of the state. He favoured commerce because it filled his coffers. He was rather addicted84 to gallantry, and the empress, who always called him master feigned85 not to notice it, because she did not want the world to know that her charms could no longer captivate her royal spouse86, and the more so that the beauty of her numerous family was generally admired. All the archduchesses except the eldest87 seemed to me very handsome; but amongst the sons I had the opportunity of seeing only the eldest, and I thought the expression of his face bad and unpleasant, in spite of the contrary opinion of Abbe Grosse-Tete, who prided himself upon being a good physiognomist.
“What do you see,” he asked me one day, “on the countenance of that prince?”
“Self-conceit and suicide.”
It was a prophecy, for Joseph II. positively88 killed himself, although not wilfully89, and it was his self-conceit which prevented him from knowing it. He was not wanting in learning, but the knowledge which he believed himself to possess destroyed the learning which he had in reality. He delighted in speaking to those who did not know how to answer him, whether because they were amazed at his arguments, or because they pretended to be so; but he called pedants90, and avoided all persons, who by true reasoning pulled down the weak scaffolding of his arguments. Seven years ago I happened to meet him at Luxemburg, and he spoke to me with just contempt of a man who had exchanged immense sums of money, and a great deal of debasing meanness against some miserable parchments, and he added —
“I despise men who purchase nobility.”
“Your majesty91 is right, but what are we to think of those who sell it?”
After that question he turned his back upon me, and hence forth92 he thought me unworthy of being spoken to.
The great passion of that king was to see those who listened to him laugh, whether with sincerity93 or with affectation, when he related something; he could narrate94 well and amplify95 in a very amusing manner all the particulars of an anecdote96; but he called anyone who did not laugh at his jests a fool, and that was always the person who understood him best. He gave the preference to the opinion of Brambilla, who encouraged his suicide, over that of the physicians who were directing him according to reason. Nevertheless, no one ever denied his claim to great courage; but he had no idea whatever of the art of government, for he had not the slightest knowledge of the human heart, and he could neither dissemble nor keep a secret; he had so little control over his own countenance that he could not even conceal97 the pleasure he felt in punishing, and when he saw anyone whose features did not please him, he could not help making a wry98 face which disfigured him greatly.
Joseph II. sank under a truly cruel disease, which left him until the last moment the faculty99 of arguing upon everything, at the same time that he knew his death to be certain. This prince must have felt the misery100 of repenting101 everything he had done and of seeing the impossibility of undoing102 it, partly because it was irreparable, partly because if he had undone103 through reason what he had done through senselessness, he would have thought himself dishonoured, for he must have clung to the last to the belief of the infallibility attached to his high birth, in spite of the state of languor104 of his soul which ought to have proved to him the weakness and the fallibility of his nature. He had the greatest esteem105 for his brother, who has now succeeded him, but he had not the courage to follow the advice which that brother gave him. An impulse worthy of a great soul made him bestow106 a large reward upon the physician, a man of intelligence, who pronounced his sentence of death, but a completely opposite weakness had prompted him, a few months before, to load with benefits the doctors and the quack107 who made him believe that they had cured him. He must likewise have felt the misery of knowing that he would not be regretted after his death — a grievous thought, especially for a sovereign. His niece, whom he loved dearly, died before him, and, if he had had the affection of those who surrounded him, they would have spared him that fearful information, for it was evident that his end was near at hand, and no one could dread his anger for having kept that event from him.
Although very much pleased with Vienna and with the pleasures I enjoyed with the beautiful frauleins, whose acquaintance I had made at the house of the baroness, I was thinking of leaving that agreeable city, when Baron Vais, meeting me at Count Durazzo’s wedding, invited me to join a picnic at Schoenbrunn. I went, and I failed to observe the laws of temperance; the consequence was that I returned to Vienna with such a severe indigestion that in twenty-four hours I was at the point of death.
I made use of the last particle of intelligence left in me by the disease to save my own life. Campioni, Roquendorf and Sarotin were by my bedside. M. Sarotin, who felt great friendship for me, had brought a physician, although I had almost positively declared that I would not see one. That disciple108 of Sangrado, thinking that he could allow full sway to the despotism of science, had sent for a surgeon, and they were going to bleed me against my will. I was half-dead; I do not know by what strange inspiration I opened my eyes, and I saw a man, standing lancet in hand and preparing to open the vein109.
“No, no!” I said.
And I languidly withdrew my arm; but the tormentor26 wishing, as the physician expressed it, to restore me to life in spite of myself, got hold of my arm again. I suddenly felt my strength returning. I put my hand forward, seized one of my pistols, fired, and the ball cut off one of the locks of his hair. That was enough; everybody ran away, with the exception of my servant, who did not abandon me, and gave me as much water as I wanted to drink. On the fourth day I had recovered my usual good health.
That adventure amused all the idlers of Vienna for several days, and Abbe Grosse-Tete assured me that if I had killed the poor surgeon, it would not have gone any further, because all the witnesses present in my room at the time would have declared that he wanted to use violence to bleed me, which made it a case of legitimate30 self- defence. I was likewise told by several persons that all the physicians in Vienna were of opinion that if I had been bled I should have been a dead man; but if drinking water had not saved me, those gentlemen would certainly not have expressed the same opinion. I felt, however, that I had to be careful, and not to fall ill in the capital of Austria, for it was likely that I should not have found a physician without difficulty. At the opera, a great many persons wished after that to make my acquaintance, and I was looked upon as a man who had fought, pistol in hand, against death. A miniature- painter named Morol, who was subject to indigestions and who was at last killed by one, had taught me his system which was that, to cure those attacks, all that was necessary was to drink plenty of water and to be patient. He died because he was bled once when he could not oppose any resistance.
My indigestion reminded me of a witty110 saying of a man who was not much in the habit of uttering many of them; I mean M. de Maisonrouge, who was taken home one day almost dying from a severe attack of indigestion: his carriage having been stopped opposite the Quinze- Vingts by some obstruction111, a poor man came up and begged alms, saying,
“Sir, I am starving.”
“Eh! what are you complaining of?” answered Maisonrouge, sighing deeply; “I wish I was in your place, you rogue112!”
At that time I made the acquaintance of a Milanese dancer, who had wit, excellent manners, a literary education, and what is more — great beauty. She received very good society, and did the honours of her drawing-room marvellously well. I became acquainted at her house with Count Christopher Erdodi, an amiable113, wealthy and generous man; and with a certain Prince Kinski who had all the grace of a harlequin. That girl inspired me with love, but it was in vain, for she was herself enamoured of a dancer from Florence, called Argiolini. I courted her, but she only laughed at me, for an actress, if in love with someone, is a fortress114 which cannot be taken, unless you build a bridge of gold, and I was not rich. Yet I did not despair, and kept on burning my incense115 at her feet. She liked my society because she used to shew me the letters she wrote, and I was very careful to admire her style. She had her own portrait in miniature, which was an excellent likeness116. The day before my departure, vexed117 at having lost my time and my amorous118 compliments, I made up my mind to steal that portrait — a slight compensation for not having won the original. As I was taking leave of her, I saw the portrait within my reach, seized it, and left Vienna for Presburg, where Baron Vais had invited me to accompany him and several lovely frauleins on a party of pleasure.
When we got out of the carriages, the first person I tumbled upon was the Chevalier de Talvis, the protector of Madame Conde-Labre, whom I had treated so well in Paris. The moment he saw me, he came up and told me that I owed him his revenge.
“I promise to give it to you, but I never leave one pleasure for another,” I answered; “we shall see one another again.”
“That is enough. Will you do me the honour to introduce me to these ladies?”
“Very willingly, but not in the street.”
We went inside of the hotel and he followed us. Thinking that the man, who after all was as brave as a French chevalier, might amuse us, I presented him to my friends. He had been staying at the same hotel for a couple of days, and he was in mourning. He asked us if we intended to go to the prince-bishop119’s ball; it was the first news we had of it. Vais answered affirmatively.
“One can attend it,” said Talvis, “without being presented, and that is why we intend to go, for I am not known to anybody here.”
He left us, and the landlord, having come in to receive our orders, gave us some particulars respecting the ball. Our lovely frauleins expressing a wish to attend it, we made up our minds to gratify them.
We were not known to anyone, and were rambling120 through the apartments, when we arrived before a large table at which the prince- bishop was holding a faro bank. The pile of gold that the noble prelate had before him could not have been less than thirteen or fourteen thousand florins. The Chevalier de Talvis was standing between two ladies to whom he was whispering sweet words, while the prelate was shuffling121 the cards.
The prince, looking at the chevalier, took it into his head to ask him, in a most engaging manner to risk a card.
“Willingly, my lord,” said Talvis; “the whole of the bank upon this card.”
“Very well,” answered the prelate, to shew that he was not afraid.
He dealt, Talvis won, and my lucky Frenchman, with the greatest coolness, filled his pockets with the prince’s gold. The bishop, astonished, and seeing but rather late how foolish he had been, said to the chevalier,
“Sir, if you had lost, how would you have managed to pay me?”
“My lord, that is my business.”
“You are more lucky than wise.”
“Most likely, my lord; but that is my business.”
Seeing that the chevalier was on the point of leaving, I followed him, and at the bottom of the stairs, after congratulating him, I asked him to lend me a hundred sovereigns. He gave them to me at once, assuring me that he was delighted to have it in his power to oblige me.
“I will give you my bill.”
“Nothing of the sort.”
I put the gold into my pocket, caring very little for the crowd of masked persons whom curiosity had brought around the lucky winner, and who had witnessed the transaction. Talvis went away, and I returned to the ball-room.
Roquendorf and Sarotin, who were amongst the guests, having heard that the chevalier had handed me some gold, asked me who he was. I gave them an answer half true and half false, and I told them that the gold I had just received was the payment of a sum I had lent him in Paris. Of course they could not help believing me, or at least pretending to do so.
When we returned to the inn, the landlord informed us that the chevalier had left the city on horseback, as fast as he could gallop122, and that a small traveling-bag was all his luggage. We sat down to supper, and in order to make our meal more cheerful, I told Vais and our charming frauleins the manner in which I had known Talvis, and how I had contrived to have my share of what he had won.
On our arrival in Vienna, the adventure was already known; people admired the Frenchman and laughed at the bishop. I was not spared by public rumour123, but I took no notice of it, for I did not think it necessary to defend myself. No one knew the Chevalier de Talvis, and the French ambassador was not even acquainted with his name. I do not know whether he was ever heard of again.
I left Vienna in a post-chaise, after I had said farewell to my friends, ladies and gentlemen, and on the fourth day I slept in Trieste. The next day I sailed for Venice, which I reached in the afternoon, two days before Ascension Day. After an absence of three years I had the happiness of embracing my beloved protector, M. de Bragadin, and his two inseparable friends, who were delighted to see me in good health and well equipped.
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curtail
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| vt.截短，缩短；削减 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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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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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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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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stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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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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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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chiselled
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| adj.凿过的，凿光的； （文章等）精心雕琢的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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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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18
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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19
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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20
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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21
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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22
dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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23
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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24
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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25
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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26
tormentor
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| n. 使苦痛之人, 使苦恼之物, 侧幕 =tormenter | |
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27
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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28
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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29
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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30
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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31
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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32
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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33
lewdness
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| n. 淫荡, 邪恶 | |
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34
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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35
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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36
epicurism
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| n.贪口福，美食主义 | |
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37
avows
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| v.公开声明，承认( avow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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38
corroding
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| 使腐蚀，侵蚀( corrode的现在分词 ) | |
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39
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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40
sloth
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| n.[动]树懒；懒惰，懒散 | |
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41
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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42
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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43
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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44
barter
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| n.物物交换，以货易货，实物交易 | |
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45
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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46
concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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47
disorders
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| n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 )；凌乱；骚乱；（身心、机能）失调 | |
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48
fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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49
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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50
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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51
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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52
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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53
plundering
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| 掠夺，抢劫( plunder的现在分词 ) | |
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54
restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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55
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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56
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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57
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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58
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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59
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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60
villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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61
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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62
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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63
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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64
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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65
elicit
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| v.引出,抽出,引起 | |
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66
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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67
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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68
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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69
modem
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| n.调制解调器 | |
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70
baroness
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| n.男爵夫人，女男爵 | |
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71
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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72
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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73
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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74
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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75
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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76
majesties
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| n.雄伟( majesty的名词复数 )；庄严；陛下；王权 | |
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77
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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78
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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79
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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80
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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81
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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82
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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83
creditor
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| n.债仅人，债主，贷方 | |
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84
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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85
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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86
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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87
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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88
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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89
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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90
pedants
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| n.卖弄学问的人，学究，书呆子( pedant的名词复数 ) | |
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91
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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92
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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93
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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94
narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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95
amplify
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| vt.放大，增强；详述，详加解说 | |
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96
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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97
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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98
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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99
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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100
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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101
repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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102
undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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103
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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104
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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105
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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106
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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107
quack
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| n.庸医；江湖医生；冒充内行的人；骗子 | |
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108
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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109
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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110
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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111
obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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112
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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113
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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114
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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115
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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116
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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117
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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118
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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119
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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120
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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121
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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122
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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123
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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