In walking home, however, he felt a languor4, a depression, a weakness in his limbs, a difficulty of breathing, and an inward burning heat, which he would willingly have attributed entirely5 to the wine, to late hours, to the season. He uttered not a syllable6 the whole way; and the first word was, when they reached the house, to order Griso to light him to his room. When they were there, Griso observed the wild and heated look of his master’s face, his eyes almost starting from their sockets7, and peculiarly brilliant: he kept, therefore, at a distance; for, in these circumstances every ragamuffin was obliged to look for himself, as the saying is, with a medical eye.
‘I’m well, you see,’ said Don Rodrigo, who read in Griso’s action the thoughts which were passing in his mind. ‘I’m very well; but I’ve taken . . . I’ve taken, perhaps, a little too much to drink. There was some capital wine! . . . But with a good night’s sleep, it will go off. I’m very sleepy . . . Take that light away from before my eyes, it dazzles me . . . it teases me! . . . ’
‘It’s all the effects of the wine,’ said Griso, still keeping at a distance; ‘but lie down quickly, for sleep will do you good.’
‘You’re right; if I can sleep . . . After all, I’m well enough. Put that little bell close by my bed, if I should want anything in the night: and be on the watch, you know, perchance you should hear me ring. But I shan’t want anything . . . Take away that cursed light directly,’ resumed he, while Griso executed the order, approaching him as little as possible. ‘The ——! it plagues me excessively!’ Griso then took the light, and wishing his master good night, took a hasty departure, while Rodrigo buried himself under the bedclothes.
But the counterpane seemed to him like a mountain. He threw it off, and tried to compose himself to rest; for, in fact, he was dying of sleep. But scarcely had he closed his eyes, when he awoke again with a start, as if some wickedly disposed person were giving him a shake; and he felt an increase of burning heat, an increase of delirium8. His thoughts recurred9 to the season, the wine, and his debauchery; he would gladly have given them the blame of all; but there was constantly substituted, of its own accord, for these ideas, that which was then associated with all, which entered, so to say, by every sense, which had been introduced into all the conversations at the banquet, since it was much easier to turn it into ridicule10 than to get out of its reach — the pestilence.
After a long battle, he at length fell asleep, and began to dream the most gloomy and disquieting11 dreams in the world. He went on from one thing to another, till he seemed to find himself in a large church, in the first ranks, in the midst of a great crowd of people; there he was wondering how he had got there, how the thought had ever entered his head, particularly at such a time; and he felt in his heart excessively vexed12. He looked at the bystanders; they had all pale, emaciated13 countenances15, with staring and glistening16 eyes, and hanging lips; their garments were tattered17, and falling to pieces; and through the rents appeared livid spots, and swellings. ‘Make room, you rabble18!’ he fancied he cried, looking towards the door, which was far, far away; and accompanying the cry with a threatening expression of countenance14, but without moving a limb; nay19, even drawing up his body to avoid coming in contact with those polluted creatures, who crowded only too closely upon him on every side. But not one of the senseless beings seemed to move, nor even to have heard him; nay, they pressed still more upon him; and, above all, it felt as if some one of them with his elbow, or whatever it might be, was pushing against his left side, between the heart and the armpit, where he felt a painful and, as it were, heavy pressure. And if he writhed20 himself to get rid of this uneasy feeling, immediately a fresh unknown something began to prick21 him in the very same place. Enraged22, he attempted to lay his hand on his sword and then it seemed as if the thronging23 of the multitude had raised it up level with his chest, and that it was the hilt of it which pressed so in that spot; and the moment he touched it he felt a still sharper stitch. He cried out, panted, and would have uttered a still louder cry, when behold24! all these faces turned in one direction. He looked the same way, perceived a pulpit, and saw slowly rising above its edge something round, smooth, and shining; then rose, and distinctly appeared, a bald head; then two eyes, a face, a long and white beard, and the upright figure of a friar, visible above the sides down to the girdle; it was friar Cristoforo. Darting26 a look around upon his audience, he seemed to Don Rodrigo to fix his gaze on him, at the same time raising his hand in exactly the attitude he had assumed in that room on the ground floor in his palace. Don Rodrigo then himself lifted up his hand in fury, and made an effort, as if to throw himself forward and grasp that arm extended in the air; a voice, which had been vainly and secretly struggling in his throat, burst forth27 in a great howl; and he awoke. He dropped the arm he had in reality uplifted, strove, with some difficulty, to recover the right meaning of everything, and to open his eyes, for the light of the already advanced day gave him no less uneasiness than that of the candle had done; recognized his bed and his chamber28; understood that all had been a dream; the church, the people, the friar, all had vanished — all, but one thing — that pain in his left side. Together with this, he felt a frightful29 acceleration30 of palpitation at the heart, a noise and humming in his ears, a raging fire within, and a weight in all his limbs, worse than when he lay down. He hesitated a little before looking at the spot that pained him; at length, he uncovered it, and glanced at it with a shudder31:— there was a hideous32 spot, of a livid purple hue33.
The man saw himself lost; the terror of death seized him, and, with perhaps still stronger feeling, the terror of becoming the prey34 of monatti, of being carried off, of being thrown into the Lazzaretto. And as he deliberated on the way of avoiding this horrible fate, he felt his thoughts become more perplexed35 and obscure; he felt the moment drawing near that would leave him only consciousness enough to reduce him to despair. He grasped the bell, and shook it violently. Griso, who was on the alert, immediately answered its summons. He stood at some distance from the bed, gazed attentively36 at his master, and was at once convinced of what he had conjectured37 the night before.
‘Griso!’ said Don Rodrigo, with difficulty, raising himself, and sitting up in his bed, ‘you have always been my trusty servant.’
‘Yes, Signor.’
‘I have always dealt well by you.’
‘Of your bounty38.’
‘I think I may trust you . . . ’
‘The ——!’
‘I am ill, Griso.’
‘I had perceived it.’
‘If I recover, I will heap upon you more favours than I have ever yet done.’
Griso made no answer, and stood waiting to see to what all these preambles39 would lead.
‘I will not trust myself to anybody but you,’ resumed Don Rodrigo; ‘do me a kindness, Griso.’
‘Command me,’ said he, replying with this usual formula to that unusual one.
‘Do you know where the surgeon, Chiodo, lives?’
‘I know very well.’
‘He is a worthy40 man, who, if he is paid, will conceal41 the sick. Go and find him; tell him I will give him four, six scudi a visit; more, if he demands more. Tell him to come here directly; and do the thing cleverly, so that nobody may observe it.’
‘Well thought of,’ said Griso; ‘I go, and return.’
‘Listen, Griso; give a drop of water first. I am so parched42 with thirst, I can bear it no longer.’
‘Signor, no,’ replied Griso; ‘nothing without the doctor’s leave. These are ticklish43 complaints, there is no time to be lost. Keep quiet — in the twinkling of an eye I’ll be here with Chiodo.’
So saying, he went out, impatiently shutting the door behind him.
Don Rodrigo lay down, and accompanied him, in imagination, to Chiodo’s house, counting the steps, calculating the time. Now and then he would turn to look at his left side, but quickly averted44 his face with a shudder. After some time, he began to listen eagerly for the surgeon’s arrival; and this effort of attention suspended his sense of illness, and kept his thoughts in some degree of order. All of a sudden, he heard a distant sound, which seemed, however, to come from the rooms, not the street. He listened still more intently; he heard it louder, more quickly repeated; and with it a trampling45 of footsteps. A horrid46 suspicion rushed into his mind. He sat up, and gave still greater attention; he heard a dead sound in the next room as if a weight were being cautiously set down. He threw his legs out of bed, as if to get up; peeped at the door, saw it open, and beheld47 before his eyes, and advancing towards him, two ragged48 and filthy49 red dresses, two ill-looking faces — in one word, two monatti. He distinguished50, too, half of Griso’s face, who, hidden behind the almost closed door, remained there on the lookout51.
‘Ah, infamous52 traitor53! . . . Begone, you rascal54! Biondino! Carlotto! help! I’m murdered!’ shouted Don Rodrigo. He thrust one hand under the bolster55 in search of a pistol; grasped it; drew it out; but, at his first cry, the monatti had rushed up to the bed; the foremost is upon him before he can do anything further; he wrenches56 the pistol out of his hand, throws it to a distance, forces him to lie down again, and keeps him there, crying with a grin of fury mingled57 with contempt, ‘Ah, villain58! against the monatti! against the officers of the Board! against those who perform works of mercy!’
‘Hold him fast till we carry him off,’ said his companion, going towards a trunk. Griso then entered, and began with him to force open the lock.
‘Scoundrel!’ howled Don Rodrigo, looking at him from under the fellow who held him down, and writhing59 himself under the grasp of his sinewy60 arms. ‘First let me kill that infamous rascal!’ said he to the monatti, ‘and afterwards do with me what you will.’ Then he began to shout with loud cries to his other servants: but in vain he called; for the abominable61 Griso had sent them all off with pretended orders from their master himself, before going to propose to the monatti, to come on this expedition, and divide the spoil.
‘Be quiet, will you,’ said the villain who held him down upon the bed to the unfortunate Don Rodrigo. And turning his face to the two who were seizing the booty, he cried to them, ‘Do your work like honest fellows.’
‘You! you!’ roared Don Rodrigo to Griso, whom he beheld busying himself in breaking open, taking out money and clothes, and dividing them. “You! after! . . . Ah, fiend of hell! I may still recover! I may still recover!’ Griso spoke62 not, nor, more than he could help, even turned in the direction whence these words proceeded.
‘Hold him fast,’ said the other monatto; ‘he’s frantic63.’
The miserable64 being became so indeed. After one last and more violent effort of cries and contortions65, he suddenly sank down senseless in a swoon; he still, however, stared fixedly67, as if spellbound; and from time to time gave a feeble struggle, or uttered a kind of howl.
The monatti took him, one by the feet and the other by the shoulders, and went to deposit him on a hand-barrow which they had left in the adjoining room; afterwards one returned to fetch the booty; and then, taking up their miserable burden, they carried all away.
Griso remained behind to select in haste whatever more might be of use to him; and making them up into a bundle, took his departure. He had carefully avoided touching69 the monatti, or being touched by them; but in the last hurry of plunder70, he had taken from the bed-side his master’s clothes and shaken them, without thinking of anything but of seeing whether there were money in them. He was forced to think of it, however, the next day; for, while making merry in a public-house, he was suddenly seized with a cold shiver, his eyes became clouded, his strength failed him, and he sank to the ground. Abandoned by his companions, he fell into the hands of the monatti, who, despoiling71 him of whatever he had about him worth having, threw him upon a car, on which he expired before reaching the Lazzaretto, whither his master had been carried.
Leaving the latter, for the present, in this abode72 of suffering, we must now go in search of another, whose history would never have been blended with his, if it had not been forced upon him whether he would or not; indeed we may safely say, that neither one nor the other would have had any history at all:— I mean Renzo, whom we left in the new silk-mill under the assumed name of Antonio Rivolta.
He had been there about five or six months, if I am not mistaken, when, enmity having been openly declared between the Republic and the King of Spain, and therefore every apprehension73 of ill-offices and trouble from that quarter having ceased, Bortolo eagerly went to fetch him away, and take him again into his own employment, both because he was fond of him, and because Renzo, being naturally intelligent, and skilful74 in the trade, was of great use to the factotum75 in a manufactory, without ever being able to aspire76 at that office himself, from his inability to write. As this reason weighed with him in some measure, we were obliged, therefore, to mention it. Perhaps the reader would rather have had a more ideal Bortolo: but what can I say? he must imagine one for himself; We describe him as he was.
From that time Renzo continued to work with him. More than once or twice, and especially after having received one of those charming letters from Agnese, he had felt a great fancy to enlist77 as a soldier, and make an end of it; nor were opportunities wanting; for just during that interval78, the Republic often stood in need of men. The temptation had sometimes been the more pressing to Renzo, because they even talked of invading the Milanese; and it naturally appeared to him that it would be a fine thing to return in the guise79 of a conqueror80 to his own home, to see Lucia again, and for once come to an explanation with her. But, by clever management, Bortolo had always contrived81 to divert him from the resolution. ‘If they have to go there,’ he would say, ‘they can go well enough without you, and you can go there afterwards at your convenience; if they come back with a broken head, won’t it be better to have been out of the fray82? There won’t be wanting des-perate fellows on the highway for robberies. And before they set foot there! . . . As for me, I am somewhat incredulous; these fellows bark; but let them; the Milanese is not a mouthful to be so easily swallowed. Spain is concerned in it, my dear fellow; do you know what it is to deal with Spain? St. Mark is strong enough at home: but it will take something more than that. Have patience; ar’n’t you well off here? . . . I know what you would say to me; but if it be decreed above that the thing succeed, rest assured it will succeed better by your playing no fooleries. Some saint will help you. Believe me, it’s no business of yours. Do you think it would suit you to leave winding83 silk to go and murder? What would you do among such a set of people? It requires men who are made for it.’
At other times Renzo resolved to go secretly, disguised, and under a false name. But from this project, too, Bortolo always contrived to divert him with arguments that may be too easily conjectured.
The plague having afterwards broken out in the Milanese territory, and even, as we have said, on the confines of the Bergamascan, it was not long before it extended itself hither, and . . . be not dismayed, for I am not going to give another history of this: if any one wishes it, it may be found in a work by one Lorenzo Ghirardelli, written by public order; a scarce and almost unknown work, however, although it contains, perhaps, more fully68 than all the rest put together, the most celebrated84 descriptions of pestilences85: on so many things does the celebrity86 of books depend! What I would say is, that Renzo also took the plague, and cured himself, that is to say, he did nothing; he was at the point of death, but his good constitution conquered the strength of the malady87: in a few days he was out of danger. With the return of life, its cares, its wishes, hopes, recollections, and designs, were renewed with double poignancy88 and vigour89; which is equivalent to saying that he thought more than ever of Lucia. What had become of her, during the time that life was, as it were, an exception? And at so short a distance from her, could he learn nothing? And to remain, God knew how long! in such a state of uncertainty90! And even when this should be removed, when all danger being over, he should learn that Lucia still survived; there would always remain that other knot, that obscurity about the vow91. — I’ll go myself; I’ll go and learn about everything at once — said he to himself, and he said it before he was again in a condition to steady himself upon his feet. — Provided she lives! Ah, if she lives! I’ll find her, that I will; I’ll hear once from her own lips what this promise is, I’ll make her see that it cannot hold good, and I’ll bring her away with me, her, and that poor Agnese, if she’s living! who has always wished me well, and I’m sure she does so still. The capture! aha! the survivors92 have something else to think about now. People go about safely, even here, who have on them . . . Will there have been a safe-conduct only for bailiffs? And at Milan, everybody says that there are other disturbances93 there. If I let so good an opportunity pass —(the plague! Only see how that revered94 instinct of referring and making subservient95 everything to ourselves, may sometimes lead us to apply words!)— I may never have such another! —
It is well to hope, my good Renzo. Scarcely could he drag himself about, when he set off in search of Bortolo, who had so far succeeded in escaping the pestilence, and was still kept in reserve. He did not go into the house, but, calling to him from the street, made him come to the window.
‘Aha!’ said Bortolo: ‘you’ve escaped it, then! It’s well for you!’
‘I’m still rather weak in my limbs, you see, but as to the danger, it’s all over.’
‘Ay, I’d gladly be in your shoes. It used to be everything to say, “I’m well;” but now it counts for very little. He who is able to say, “I’m better,” can indeed say something!’
Renzo expressed some good wishes for his cousin, and imparted to him his resolution.
‘Go, this time, and Heaven prosper96 you!’ replied he. ‘Try to avoid justice, as I shall try to avoid the contagion97; and, if it be God’s will that things should go well with us both, we shall meet again.’
‘Oh, I shall certainly come back: God grant I may not come alone! Well; we will hope.’
‘Come back in company; for, if God wills, we will all work together, and make up a good party. I only hope you may find me alive, and that this odious98 epidemic99 may have come to an end!’
‘We shall see each other again, we shall see each other again; we must see each other again!’
‘I repeat, God grant it!’
For several days Renzo practised taking a little exercise, to assay100 and recruit his strength; and no sooner did he deem himself capable of performing the journey, than he prepared to set out. Under his clothes he buckled102 a girdle round his waist, containing those fifty scudi upon which he had never laid a finger, and which he had never confided103 to any one, not even to Bortolo; he took a few more pence with him, which he had saved day after day, by living very economically; put under his arm a small bundle of clothes, and in his pocket a character, with the name of Antonio Rivolta, which had been very willingly given him by his second master; in one pocket of his trowsers he placed a large knife, the least that an honest man could carry in those days; and set off on his peregrinations, on the last day of August, three days after Don Rodrigo had been carried to the Lazzaretto. He took the way towards Lecco, wishing, before venturing himself in Milan, to pass through his village, where he hoped to find Agnese alive, and to begin by learning from her some of the many things he so ardently104 longed to know.
The few who had recovered from the pestilence were, among the rest of the population, indeed like a privileged class. A great proportion of the others languished105 or died; and those who had been hitherto untouched by the contagion lived in constant apprehension of it. They walked cautiously and warily106 about, with measured steps, gloomy looks, and haste at once and hesitation107: for everything might be a weapon against them to inflict108 a mortal wound. These, on the contrary, almost certain of safety (for to have the plague twice was rather a prodigious109 than a rare instance), went about in the midst of the contagion, freely and boldly, like the knights110 during one part of the middle ages; who, encased in steel, wherever steel might be, and mounted on chargers, themselves defended as impenetrably as possible, went rambling111 about at hazard (whence their glorious denomination112 of knights-errant), among a poor pedestrian herd113 of burghers and villagers, who, to repel114 and ward1 off their blows, had nothing on them but rags. Beautiful, sapient115, and useful profession! a profession fit to make the first figure in a treatise116 on political economy!
With such security, tempered, however, by the anxiety with which our readers are acquainted, and by the frequent spectacle and perpetual contemplation of the universal calamity117, Renzo pursued his homeward way, under a beautiful sky and through a beautiful country, but meeting nothing, after passing wide tracts118 of most mournful solitude119, but some wandering shadow rather than a living being, or corpses120 carried to the grave, unhonoured by funeral rites121, unaccompanied by the funeral dirge122. About noon he stopped in a little wood, to eat a mouthful of bread and meat which he had brought with him. Of fruit, he had only too much at his command the whole length of the way — figs123, peaches, plums, and apples at will; he had only to enter a vineyard, and extend his arm to gather them from the branches, or to pick them up from the ground, which was thickly strewn with them; for the year was extraordinarily124 abundant in fruit of every kind, and there was scarcely any one to take any care of it. The grapes even hid themselves beneath the leaves, and were left for the use of the first comer.
Towards evening he discovered his own village. At this sight, though he must have been prepared for it, he felt his heart begin to beat violently; he was at once assailed125 by a host of mournful recollections and presentiments126: he seemed to hear ringing in his ears those inauspicious tolls127 of the bell which had, as it were, accompanied and followed him in his flight from the village; and, at the same time, he heard, so to say, the deathlike silence which actually reigned128 around. He experienced still stronger agitation129 on entering the churchyard; and worse still awaited him at the end of his walk; for the spot he had fixed66 upon as his resting-place, was the dwelling130 which he had once been accustomed to call Lucia’s cottage. Now it could not be, at the best, more than Agnese’s; and the only favour he begged of Heaven was, that he might find her living and in health. And in this cottage he proposed asking for a bed, rightly conjecturing131 that his own would no longer be a place of abode for anything but rats and polecats.
To reach that point, therefore, without passing through the village, he took a little by-path that ran behind it, the very one along which he had gone, in good company, on that notorious night when he tried to surprise the Curate. About half-way stood, on one side, his own house, and on the other, his vineyard; so that he could enter both for a moment in passing, to see a little how his own affairs were going on.
He looked forward, as he pursued his way, anxious, and at the same time afraid, to meet with any one; and after a few paces, he saw a man seated in his shirt on the ground, resting his back against a hedge of jessamine, in the attitude of an idiot; and from this, and afterwards from his countenance, he thought it was that poor simpleton Gervase, who had gone as the second witness in his ill-fated expedition. But going a little nearer, he perceived that it was, instead, the sprightly132 Tonio, who had brought his brother with him on that occasion. The contagion, robbing him at once of mental as well as bodily vigour, had developed in his look and every action the slight and veiled germ of likeness133 which he bore to his half-witted brother.
‘Oh Tonio!’ said Renzo, stopping before him, ‘is it you?’
Tonio raised his eyes, without moving his head.
‘Tonio, don’t you know me?’
‘Whoever has got it, has got it,’ answered Tonio, gazing at him with open mouth.
‘It’s on you, eh? poor Tonio: but don’t you know me again?’
‘Whoever has got it, has got it,’ replied he, with a kind of idiotic134 smile. Seeing he could draw nothing further from him, Renzo pursued his way, still more disconsolate135. Suddenly he saw, turning the corner, and advancing towards him, a black object, which he quickly recognized as Don Abbondio. He walked slowly, carrying his stick like one who is alternately carried by it; and the nearer he approached, the more plainly might it be discerned, in his pale and emaciated countenance, and in every look, that he, too, had to pass through his share of the storm. He looked askance at Renzo; it seemed, and it did not seem, like him; there was something like a stranger in his dress; but it was a stranger from the territory of Bergamo.
— It is he, and nobody else! — said he to himself, raising his hands to Heaven, with a motion of dissatisfied surprise, and the staff he carried in his right hand suddenly checked in its passage through the air; and his poor arms might be seen shaking in his sleeves, where once there was scarcely room for them. Renzo hastened to meet him, and made a low reverence136; for, although they had quitted each other in the way the reader knows, he was always, nevertheless, his Curate.
‘Are you here — you?’ exclaimed the latter.
‘I am indeed, as you see. Do you know anything of Lucia?’
‘What do you suppose I can know? I know nothing. She’s at Milan, if she’s still in this world. But you . . . ’
‘And Agnese, is she alive?’
‘She may be; but who do you suppose can tell? She’s not here. But . . . ’
‘Where is she?’
‘She’s gone to live at Valsassina, among her relations at Pasturo, you know; for they say the plague doesn’t make the havoc137 there it does here. But you, I say . . . ’
‘Oh, I’m very sorry. And Father Cristoforo? . . . ’
‘He’s been gone for some time. But . . . ’
‘I know that, they wrote and told me so much; but I want to know if he hasn’t yet returned to these parts.’
‘Nay; they’ve heard nothing further about him. But you . . . ’
‘I’m very sorry to hear this too.’
‘But you, I say, what, for Heaven’s sake, are you coming to do in this part of the world? Don’t you know about that affair of your apprehension?’
‘What does it matter? They’ve something else to think about. I was determined138 to come for once, and see about my affairs. And isn’t it well enough known? . . . ’
‘What would you see about, I wonder? for now there’s no longer anybody, or anything. And is it wise of you, with that business of your apprehension, to come hither exactly to your own village, into the wolf’s very mouth? Do as an old man advises you, who is obliged to have more judgment139 than you, and who speaks from the love he bears you; buckle101 on your shoes well, and set off, before any one sees you, to where you came from; and if you’ve been seen already, return only the more quickly. Do you think that this is the air for you? Don’t you know they’ve been to look for you? that they’ve ransacked140 everything, and turned all upside down? . . . ’
‘I know it too well, the scoundrels!’
‘But then . . . ’
‘But if I tell you I don’t care! And is that fellow alive yet? is he here?’
‘I tell you nobody’s here; I tell you, you musn’t think about things here; I tell you . . . ’
‘I ask if he’s here?’
‘Oh, sacred Heaven! Speak more quietly. Is it possible you’ve all that fieriness141 about you after so many things have happened?’
‘Is he here, or is he not?’
‘Well, well, he’s not here. But the plague, my son, the plague! Who would go travelling about in such times as these?’
‘If there was nothing else but the plague in this world . . . I mean for myself: I’ve had it, and am free.’
‘Indeed, indeed! what news is this? When one has escaped a danger of this sort, it seems to me he should thank Heaven, and . . . ’
‘And so I do.’
‘And not go to look for others, I say. Do as I advise.’
‘You’ve had it too, Signor Curate, if I mistake not.’
‘I had it! Obstinate142 and bad enough it was! I’m here by miracle; I need only say it has left me in the state you see. Now, I had just need of a little quiet, to set me to rights again. I was beginning to be a little better . . . In the name of Heaven, what have you come to do here? Go back . . . ’
‘You’re always at me with that go back. As for going back, I have reasons enough for not stirring. You say, what are you come for? what are you come for? I’ve come home.’
‘Home . . . ’
‘Tell me, are many dead here? . . . ’
‘Alas143, alas!’ exclaimed Don Abbondio; and beginning with Perpetua, he entered upon a long enumeration144 of individuals and entire families. Renzo had certainly expected something of the kind, but, on hearing so many names of acquaintances, friends, and relatives, (he had lost his parents many years before,) he stood overcome with grief, his head hung down, and only exclaiming from time to time, ‘Poor fellow! poor girl! poor creatures!’
‘You see,’ continued Don Abbondio; ‘and it isn’t yet over. If those who are left don’t use their senses this time, and drive the whims145 out of their brains, there’s nothing for it but the end of the world.’
‘Don’t be afraid; I’ve no intentions of stopping here.’
‘Ah! thank Heaven, you at last understand! And you’d better make up your mind to return . . . ’
‘Don’t you trouble yourself about that.’
‘What! didn’t you once want to do something more foolish than this even?’
‘Never mind me, I say; that is my business; I’m more than seven years old. I hope, at any rate, you won’t tell anybody you’ve seen me. You are a priest; I am one of your flock; you won’t betray me?’
‘I understand,’ said Don Abbondio, sighing pettishly146, ‘I understand. You would ruin yourself and me too. You haven’t gone through enough already, I suppose; and I haven’t gone through enough either. I understand, I understand.’ And continuing to mutter these last words between his teeth, he again resumed his way.
Renzo stood there, chagrined147 and discontented, thinking where he could find a lodging148. In the funeral list recounted by Don Abbondio, there was a family of peasants, who had been all swept off by the pestilence, excepting one youth, about Renzo’s own age, who had been his companion from infancy149; the house was out of the village, a very little way off. Hither he determined to bend his steps and ask for a night’s lodging.
He had nearly reached his own vineyard, and was soon able to infer from the outside in what state it was. Not a single tree, not a single leaf, which he had left there was visible above the wall. If anything blossomed there, it was all what had grown during his absence. He went up to the opening, (of a gate there was no longer the least sign); he cast a glance around: poor vineyard! For two successive winters the people of the neighbourhood had gone to chop firewood ‘in the garden of that poor fellow,’ as they used to say. Vines, mulberry-trees, fruits of every kind, all had been rudely torn up, or cut down to the trunk. Vestiges150, however, of former cultivation151 still appeared; young shoots, in broken lines, which retained, nevertheless, traces of their now desolated153 rows; here and there stumps154 and sprouts155 of mulberry, fig25, peach, cherry, and plum-trees; but even these seemed overwhelmed and choked by a fresh, varied156, and luxuriant progeny157, born and reared without the help of man. There was a thick mass of nettles158, ferns, tares159, dog-grass, rye-grass, wild oats, green amaranths, succory, wild sorrel, fox-glove, and other similar plants; all those, I mean, which the peasant of every country has included in one large class at his pleasure, denominating them weeds. There was a medley160 of stalks, each trying to out-top the others in the air, or rivalling its fellow in length upon the ground — aiming, in short, to secure for itself the post of honour in every direction; a mixture of leaves, flowers, and fruit, of a hundred colours, forms, and sizes; ears of corn, Indian corn, tufts, bunches, and heads of white, yellow, red and blue. In the midst of this medley, other taller and more graceful161, though not, for the most part, more valuable plants, were prominently conspicuous162; the Turkish vine soared above all the rest, with its long and reddish branches, its large and magnificent dark-green leaves, some already fringed with purple at the top, and its bending clusters of grapes; adorned163 below with berries of bluish-grey tinge164, higher up of a purple hue, then green, and at the very top with whitish little flowers. There was also the bearded yew165, with its large rough leaves down to the ground, the stem rising perpendicularly166 to the sky, and the long pendent branches scattered167, and, as it were, bespangled with bright yellow blossoms; thistles, too, with rough and prickly leaves and calyxes, from which issued little tufts of white or purple flowers, or else light and silvery plumes168, which were quickly swept away by the breeze. Here a little bunch of bindweed, climbing up and twining around fresh suckers from a mulberry-tree, had entirely covered them with its pendent leaves, which pointed169 to the ground, and adorned them at the top with its white and delicate little bells. There a red-berried bryony had twisted itself among the new shoots of a vine, which, seeking in vain a firmer support, had reciprocally entwined its tendrils around its companion, and, mingling170 their feeble stalks, and their not very dissimilar leaves, they mutually drew each other upward, as often happens with the weak, who take one another for their stay. The bramble intruded171 everywhere; it stretched from one bough172 to another; now mounting, and again turning downward, it bent173 the branches or straightened them, according as it happened; and crossing before the very threshold, seemed as if it were placed there to dispute the passage even with the owner.
But he had no heart to enter such a vineyard, and probably did not stand as long looking at it as we have taken to make this little sketch174. He went forward; a little way off stood his cottage; he passed through the garden, trampling underfoot by hundreds the intrusive175 visitors with which, like the vineyard, it was peopled and overgrown. He just set foot within the threshold of one of the rooms on the ground floor; at the sound of his footsteps, and on his looking in, there was a hubbub176, a scampering177 to and fro of rats, a rush under the rubbish that covered the whole floor; it was the relics178 of the German soldiers’ beds. He raised his eyes, and looked round upon the walls; they were stripped of plaster, filthy, blackened with smoke. He raised them to the ceiling — a mass of cobwebs. Nothing else was to be seen. He took his departure, too, from this desolate152 scene, twining his fingers in his hair; returned through the garden, retracing179 the path he had himself made a moment before, took another little lane to the left, which led into the fields, and without seeing or hearing a living creature, arrived close to the house he had designed as his place of lodging. It was already evening; his friend was seated outside the door on a small wooden bench, his arms crossed on his breast, and his eyes fixed upon the sky, like a man bewildered by misfortunes, and rendered savage180 by long solitude. Hearing a footstep, he turned round, looked who was coming, and to what he fancied he saw in the twilight181, between the leaves and branches, cried in a loud voice, as he stood up and raised both his hands, ‘Is there nobody but me? didn’t I do enough yesterday? Let me alone a little, for that, too, will be a work of charity.’
Renzo, not knowing what this meant, replied to him, calling him by name.
‘Renzo . . . ’ said he, in a tone at once of exclamation182 and interrogation.
‘Myself,’ said Renzo, and they hastened to meet each other.
‘Is it really you?’ said his friend, when they were near. ‘Oh, how glad I am to see you? Who would have thought it? I took you for Paolin de’ Morti,1 who is always coming to torment183 me to go and bury some one. Do you know I am left alone? — alone! alone! as a hermit184!’
‘I know it too well,’ said Renzo. And interchanging in this manner, and crowding upon one another, welcomings, and questions, and answers, they went into the house together. Here, without interrupting the conversation, his friend busied himself in doing some little honour to his guest, as he best could on so sudden a warning, and in times like those. He set some water on the fire, and began to make the polenta; but soon gave up the pestle185 to Renzo, that he might proceed with the mixing, and went out, saying, ‘I’m all by myself, you see, all by myself!’
By and by he returned with a small pail of milk, a little salt meat, a couple of cream-cheeses, and some figs and peaches; and all being ready, and the polenta poured out upon the trencher, they sat down to table, mutually thanking each other, one for the visit, the other for the reception he met with. And, after an absence of nearly two years, they suddenly discovered that they were much greater friends than they ever thought they were when they saw each other almost every day; for, as the manuscript here remarks, events had occurred to both which make one feel what a cordial to the heart is kindly186 feeling, both that which one experiences oneself, and that which one meets with in others.
True, no one could supply the place of Agnese to Renzo, nor console him for her absence, not only on account of the old and special affection he entertained for her, but also because, among the things he was anxious to clear up, one there was of which she alone possessed187 the key. He stood for a moment in doubt whether he should not first go in search of her, since he was so short a distance off; but, considering that she would know nothing of Lucia’s health, he kept to his first intention of going at once to assure himself of this, to confront the one great trial, and afterwards to bring the news to her mother. Even from his friend, however, he learnt many things of which he was ignorant, and gained some light on many points with which he was but partially188 acquainted, both about Lucia’s circumstances, the prosecutions189 instituted against himself, and Don Rodrigo’s departure thence, followed by his whole suite190, since which time he had not been seen in the neighbourhood; in short, about all the intricate circumstances of the whole affair. He learnt also (and to him it was an acquisition of no little importance) to pronounce properly the name of Don Ferrante’s family; Agnese, indeed, had written it to him by her secretary; but Heaven knows how it was written, and the Bergamascan interpreter had read it in such a way — had given him such a word — that, had he gone with it to seek direction to his house in Milan, he would probably have found no one who could have conjectured for whom he was making inquiry191. Yet this was the only clue he possessed that could put him in the way of learning tidings of Lucia. As to justice, he was ever more and more convinced that this was a hazard remote enough not to give him much concern: the Signor Podestà had died of the plague; who knew when a substitute would be appointed? the greater part of the bailiffs were carried off; and those that remained had something else to do than look after old matters. He also related to his friend the vicissitudes192 he had undergone, and heard in exchange a hundred stories about the passage of the army, the plague, the poisoners, and other wonderful matters. ‘They are miserable things,’ said his friend, accompanying Renzo into a little room which the contagion had emptied of occupants; ‘things which we never could have thought to see, and after which we can never expect to be merry again all our lives; but nevertheless, it is a relief to speak of them to one’s friends.’
By break of day they were both down-stairs; Renzo equipped for his journey, with his girdle hidden under his doublet, and the large knife in his pocket, but otherwise light and unencumbered, having left his little bundle in the care of his host. “If all goes well with me,’ said he; ‘if I find her alive; if . . . enough . . . I’ll come back here; I’ll run over Pasturo to carry the good news to poor Agnese, and then, and then . . . But if, by ill-luck, by ill-luck which God forbid! . . . then I don’t know what I shall do; I don’t know where I shall go: only, assuredly, you will never see me again in these parts!’ And, as he said so, standing193 in the doorway194 which led into the fields, he cast his eyes around, and contemplated195, with a mixed feeling of tenderness and bitter grief, the sun-rising of his own country, which he had not seen for so long a time. His friend comforted him with bright hopes and prognostications, and made him take with him some little store of provision for that day; then, accompanying him a mile or two on his way, he took his leave with renewed good wishes.
Renzo pursued his way deliberately196 and easily, as all he cared for was to reach the vicinity of Milan that day, so that he might enter next morning early, and immediately begin his search. The journey was performed without accident; nor was there anything which particularly attracted his attention, except the usual spectacles of misery197 and sorrow. He stopped in due time, as he had done the day before, in a grove198, to refresh himself and take breath. Passing through Monza, before an open shop where bread was displayed for sale, he asked for two loaves, that he might not be totally unprovided for under any circumstances. The shopkeeper, beckoning199 to him not to enter, held out to him, on a little shove, a small basin containing vinegar and water, into which he desired him to drop the money in payment; he did so; and then the two loaves were handed out to him, one after another, with a pair of tongs200, and deposited by Renzo one in each pocket.
Towards evening he arrived at Greco, without, however, knowing its name; but, by the help of some little recollection of the places which he retained from his former journey, and his calculation of the distance he had already come from Monza, he guessed that he must be tolerably near the city, and therefore left the high-road and turned into the fields in search of some cascinotto, where he might pass the night; for with inns he was determined not to meddle201. He found more than he looked for: for seeing a gap in a hedge which surrounded the yard of a cow-house, he resolved at any rate to enter. No one was there: he saw in one corner a large shed with hay piled up beneath it, and against this a ladder was reared; he once more looked round, and then, mounting at a venture, laid himself down to pass the night there, and quickly fell asleep, not to awake till morning. When he awoke he crawled towards the edge of this great bed, put his head out, and seeing no one, descended202 as he had gone up, went out where he had come in, pursued his way through little by-paths, taking the cathedral for his polar star; and, after a short walk, came out under the walls of Milan, between the Porta Orientale and the Porta Nuova, and rather nearer to the latter.
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1
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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12
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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13
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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14
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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acceleration
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| n.加速，加速度 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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32
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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34
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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39
preambles
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| n.序( preamble的名词复数 )；绪言；（法令、文件等的）序文；前言 | |
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40
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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41
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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42
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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43
ticklish
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| adj.怕痒的；问题棘手的；adv.怕痒地；n.怕痒，小心处理 | |
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44
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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45
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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46
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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47
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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48
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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49
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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50
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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51
lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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52
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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53
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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54
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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55
bolster
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| n.枕垫；v.支持，鼓励 | |
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56
wrenches
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| n.一拧( wrench的名词复数 )；（身体关节的）扭伤；扳手；（尤指离别的）悲痛v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的第三人称单数 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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57
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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58
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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59
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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sinewy
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| adj.多腱的，强壮有力的 | |
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61
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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62
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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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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64
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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contortions
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| n.扭歪，弯曲；扭曲，弄歪，歪曲( contortion的名词复数 ) | |
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66
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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70
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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71
despoiling
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的现在分词 ) | |
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72
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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73
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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74
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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75
factotum
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| n.杂役；听差 | |
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76
aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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77
enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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78
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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79
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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80
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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81
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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82
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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83
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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84
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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85
pestilences
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| n.瘟疫， （尤指）腺鼠疫( pestilence的名词复数 ) | |
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86
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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87
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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88
poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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89
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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90
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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91
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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92
survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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93
disturbances
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| n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 )；打扰；困扰；障碍 | |
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94
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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96
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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97
contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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98
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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99
epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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100
assay
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| n.试验，测定 | |
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101
buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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102
buckled
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| a. 有带扣的 | |
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103
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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104
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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105
languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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106
warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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107
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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108
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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109
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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110
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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111
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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112
denomination
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| n.命名，取名，(度量衡、货币等的)单位 | |
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113
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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114
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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115
sapient
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| adj.有见识的，有智慧的 | |
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116
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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117
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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118
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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119
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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120
corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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121
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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122
dirge
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| n.哀乐，挽歌，庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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123
figs
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| figures 数字，图形，外形 | |
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124
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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125
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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126
presentiments
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| n.（对不祥事物的）预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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127
tolls
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| （缓慢而有规律的）钟声( toll的名词复数 )； 通行费； 损耗； （战争、灾难等造成的）毁坏 | |
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128
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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129
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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130
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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131
conjecturing
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| v. & n. 推测，臆测 | |
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132
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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133
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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134
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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135
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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136
reverence
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|
| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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137
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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138
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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139
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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140
ransacked
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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141
fieriness
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| 猛烈，火性子 | |
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142
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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143
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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144
enumeration
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| n.计数，列举；细目；详表；点查 | |
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145
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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146
pettishly
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147
chagrined
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|
| adj.懊恼的，苦恼的v.使懊恼，使懊丧，使悔恨( chagrin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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149
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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150
vestiges
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| 残余部分( vestige的名词复数 )； 遗迹； 痕迹； 毫不 | |
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151
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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152
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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153
desolated
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| adj.荒凉的，荒废的 | |
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154
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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155
sprouts
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| n.新芽，嫩枝( sprout的名词复数 )v.发芽( sprout的第三人称单数 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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156
varied
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|
| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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157
progeny
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| n.后代，子孙；结果 | |
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158
nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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159
tares
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| 荑；稂莠；稗 | |
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160
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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161
graceful
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|
| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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162
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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163
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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164
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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165
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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166
perpendicularly
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| adv. 垂直地, 笔直地, 纵向地 | |
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167
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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168
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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169
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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170
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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171
intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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172
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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173
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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174
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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175
intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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176
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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177
scampering
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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178
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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179
retracing
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| v.折回( retrace的现在分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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180
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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181
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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182
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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183
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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184
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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185
pestle
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| n.杵 | |
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186
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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187
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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188
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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189
prosecutions
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| 起诉( prosecution的名词复数 )； 原告； 实施； 从事 | |
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190
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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191
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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192
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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193
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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194
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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195
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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196
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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197
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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198
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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199
beckoning
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|
| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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200
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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201
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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202
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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