Prince Albertinelli strummed on the piano the Sicilian ‘O Lola’! His soft fingers hardly touched the keys.
Choulette, even harsher than was his habit, asked for thread and needles that he might mend his clothes. He grumbled3 because he had lost a needle-case which he had carried for thirty years in his pocket, and which was dear to him for the sweetness of the reminiscences and the strength of the good advice that he had received from it. He thought he had lost it in the hall devoted4 to historic subjects in the Pitti Palace; and he blamed for this loss the Medicis and all the Italian painters.
Looking at Miss Bell with an evil eye, he said:
“I compose verses while mending my clothes. I like to work with my hands. I sing songs to myself while sweeping5 my room; that is the reason why my songs have gone to the hearts of men, like the old songs of the farmers and artisans, which are even more beautiful than mine, but not more natural. I have pride enough not to want any other servant than myself. The sacristan’s widow offered to repair my clothes. I would not permit her to do it. It is wrong to make others do servilely for us work which we can do ourselves with noble pride.”
The Prince was nonchalantly playing his nonchalant music. Therese, who for eight days had been running to churches and museums in the company of Madame Marmet, was thinking of the annoyance6 which her companion caused her by discovering in the faces of the old painters resemblances to persons she knew. In the morning, at the Ricardi Palace, on the frescoes7 of Gozzoli, she had recognized M. Gamin, M. Lagrange, M. Schmoll, the Princess Seniavine as a page, and M. Renan on horseback. She was terrified at finding M. Renan everywhere. She led all her ideas back to her little circle of academicians and fashionable people, by an easy turn, which irritated her friend. She recalled in her soft voice the public meetings at the Institute, the lectures at the Sorbonne, the evening receptions where shone the worldly and the spiritualist philosophers. As for the women, they were all charming and irreproachable8. She dined with all of them. And Therese thought: “She is too prudent9. She bores me.” And she thought of leaving her at Fiesole and visiting the churches alone. Employing a word that Le Menil had taught her, she said to herself:
“I will ‘plant’ Madame Marmet.”
A lithe10 old man came into the parlor11. His waxed moustache and his white imperial made him look like an old soldier; but his glance betrayed, under his glasses, the fine softness of eyes worn by science and voluptuousness13. He was a Florentine, a friend of Miss Bell and of the Prince, Professor Arrighi, formerly14 adored by women, and now celebrated15 in Tuscany for his studies of agriculture. He pleased the Countess Martin at once. She questioned him on his methods, and on the results he obtained from them. He said that he worked with prudent energy. “The earth,” he said, “is like women. The earth does not wish one to treat it with either timidity or brutality16.” The Ave Maria rang in all the campaniles, seeming to make of the sky an immense instrument of religious music. “Darling,” said Miss Bell, “do you observe that the air of Florence is made sonorous17 and silvery at night by the sound of the bells?”
“It is singular,” said Choulette, “we have the air of people who are waiting for something.”
Vivian Bell replied that they were waiting for M. Dechartre. He was a little late; she feared he had missed the train.
Choulette approached Madame Marmet, and said, gravely “Madame Marmet, is it possible for you to look at a door — a simple, painted, wooden door like yours, I suppose, or like mine, or like this one, or like any other — without being terror-stricken at the thought of the visitor who might, at any moment, come in? The door of one’s room, Madame Marmet, opens on the infinite. Have you ever thought of that? Does one ever know the true name of the man or woman, who, under a human guise18, with a known face, in ordinary clothes, comes into one’s house?”
He added that when he was closeted in his room he could not look at the door without feeling his hair stand on end. But Madame Marmet saw the doors of her rooms open without fear. She knew the name of every one who came to see her — charming persons.
Choulette looked at her sadly, and said, shaking his head: “Madame Marmet, those whom you call by their terrestrial names have other names which you do not know, and which are their real names.”
Madame Martin asked Choulette if he thought that misfortune needed to cross the threshold in order to enter one’s life.
“Misfortune is ingenious and subtle. It comes by the window, it goes through walls. It does not always show itself, but it is always there. The poor doors are innocent of the coming of that unwelcome visitor.”
Choulette warned Madame Martin severely19 that she should not call misfortune an unwelcome visitor.
“Misfortune is our greatest master and our best friend. Misfortune teaches us the meaning of life. Madame, when you suffer, you know what you must know; you believe what you must believe; you do what you must do; you are what you must be. And you shall have joy, which pleasure expels. True joy is timid, and does not find pleasure among a multitude.”
Prince Albertinelli said that Miss Bell and her French friends did not need to be unfortunate in order to be perfect, and that the doctrine20 of perfection reached by suffering was a barbarous cruelty, held in horror under the beautiful sky of Italy. When the conversation languished21, he prudently22 sought again at the piano the phrases of the graceful23 and banal24 Sicilian air, fearing to slip into an air of Trovatore, which was written in the same manner.
Vivian Bell questioned the monsters she had created, and complained of their absurd replies.
“At this moment,” she said, “I should like to hear speak only figures on tapestries25 which should say tender things, ancient and precious as themselves.”
And the handsome Prince, carried away by the flood of melody, sang. His voice displayed itself like a peacock’s plumage, and died in spasms26 of “ohs” and “ahs.”
The good Madame Marmet, her eyes fixed27 on the door, said:
“I think that Monsieur Dechartre is coming.”
He came in, animated28, with joy on his usually grave face.
Miss Bell welcomed him with birdlike cries.
“Monsieur Dechartre, we were impatient to see you. Monsieur Choulette was talking evil of doors — yes, of doors of houses; and he was saying also that misfortune is a very obliging old gentleman. You have lost all these beautiful things. You have made us wait very long, Monsieur Dechartre. Why?”
He apologized; he had taken only the time to go to his hotel and change his dress. He had not even gone to bow to his old friend the bronze San Marco, so imposing29 in his niche30 on the San Michele wall. He praised the poetess and saluted31 the Countess Martin with joy hardly concealed32.
“Before quitting Paris I went to your house, where I was told you had gone to wait for spring at Fiesole, with Miss Bell. I then had the hope of finding you in this country, which I love now more than ever.”
She asked him whether he had gone to Venice, and whether he had seen again at Ravenna the empresses wearing aureolas, and the phantoms34 that had formerly dazzled him.
No, he had not stopped anywhere.
She said nothing. Her eyes remained fixed on the corner of the wall, on the St. Paulin bell.
He said to her:
“You are looking at the Nolette.”
Vivian Bell laid aside her papers and her pencils.
“You shall soon see a marvel35, Monsieur Dechartre. I have found the queen of small bells. I found it at Rimini, in an old building in ruins, which is used as a warehouse36. I bought it and packed it myself. I am waiting for it. You shall see. It bears a Christ on a cross, between the Virgin37 and Saint John, the date of 1400, and the arms of Malatesta — Monsieur Dechartre, you are not listening enough. Listen to me attentively38. In 1400 Lorenzo Ghiberti, fleeing from war and the plague, took refuge at Rimini, at Paola Malatesta’s house. It was he that modelled the figures of my bell. And you shall see here, next week, Ghiberti’s work.”
The servant announced that dinner was served.
Miss Bell apologized for serving to them Italian dishes. Her cook was a poet of Fiesole.
At table, before the fiascani enveloped39 with corn straw, they talked of the fifteenth century, which they loved. Prince Albertinelli praised the artists of that epoch40 for their universality, for the fervent41 love they gave to their art, and for the genius that devoured42 them. He talked with emphasis, in a caressing43 voice.
Dechartre admired them. But he admired them in another way.
“To praise in a becoming manner,” he said, “those men, who worked so heartily44, the praise should be modest and just. They should be placed in their workshops, in the shops where they worked as artisans. It is there that one may admire their simplicity45 and their genius. They were ignorant and rude. They had read little and seen little. The hills that surround Florence were the boundary of their horizon. They knew only their city, the Holy Scriptures46, and some fragments of antique sculptures, studied and caressed47 lovingly.”
“You are right,” said Professor Arrighi. “They had no other care than to use the best processes. Their minds bent48 only on preparing varnish49 and mixing colors. The one who first thought of pasting a canvas on a panel, in order that the painting should not be broken when the wood was split, passed for a marvellous man. Every master had his secret formulae.”
“Happy time,” said Dechartre, “when nobody troubled himself about that originality50 for which we are so avidly51 seeking to-day. The apprentice52 tried to work like the master. He had no other ambition than to resemble him, and it was without trying to be that he was different from the others. They worked not for glory, but to live.”
“They were right,” said Choulette. “Nothing is better than to work for a living.”
“The desire to attain53 fame,” continued Dechartre, “did not trouble them. As they did not know the past, they did not conceive the future; and their dream did not go beyond their lives. They exercised a powerful will in working well. Being simple, they made few mistakes, and saw the truth which our intelligence conceals54 from us.”
Choulette began to relate to Madame Marmet the incidents of a call he had made during the day on the Princess of the House of France to whom the Marquise de Rieu had given him a letter of introduction. He liked to impress upon people the fact that he, the Bohemian and vagabond, had been received by that royal Princess, at whose house neither Miss Bell nor the Countess Martin would have been admitted, and whom Prince Albertinelli prided himself on having met one day at some ceremony.
“She devotes herself,” said the Prince, “to the practices of piety55.”
“She is admirable for her nobility, and her simplicity,” said Choulette. “In her house, surrounded by her gentlemen and her ladies, she causes the most rigorous etiquette56 to be observed, so that her grandeur57 is almost a penance58, and every morning she scrubs the pavement of the church. It is a village church, where the chickens roam, while the ‘cure’ plays briscola with the sacristan.”
And Choulette, bending over the table, imitated, with his napkin, a servant scrubbing; then, raising his head, he said, gravely:
“After waiting in consecutive59 anterooms, I was at last permitted to kiss her hand.”
And he stopped.
Madame Martin asked, impatiently:
“What did she say to you, that Princess so admirable for her nobility and her simplicity?”
“She said to me: ‘Have you visited Florence? I am told that recently new and handsome shops have been opened which are lighted at night.’ She said also ‘We have a good chemist here. The Austrian chemists are not better. He placed on my leg, six months ago, a porous60 plaster which has not yet come off.’ Such are the words that Maria Therese deigned61 to address to me. O simple grandeur! O Christian62 virtue63! O daughter of Saint Louis! O marvellous echo of your voice, holy Elizabeth of Hungary!”
Madame Martin smiled. She thought that Choulette was mocking. But he denied the charge, indignantly, and Miss Bell said that Madame Martin was wrong. It was a fault of the French, she said, to think that people were always jesting.
Then they reverted64 to the subject of art, which in that country is inhaled65 with the air.
“As for me,” said the Countess Martin, “I am not learned enough to admire Giotto and his school. What strikes me is the sensuality of that art of the fifteenth century which is said to be Christian. I have seen piety and purity only in the images of Fra Angelico, although they are very pretty. The rest, those figures of Virgins66 and angels, are voluptuous12, caressing, and at times perversely67 ingenuous68. What is there religious in those young Magian kings, handsome as women; in that Saint Sebastian, brilliant with youth, who seems merely the dolorous69 Bacchus of Christianity?”
Dechartre replied that he thought as she did, and that they must be right, she and he; since Savonarola was of the same opinion, and, finding no piety in any work of art, wished to burn them all.
“There were at Florence, in the time of the superb Manfred, who was half a Mussulman, men who were said to be of the sect70 of Epicurus, and who sought for arguments against the existence of God. Guido Cavalcanti disdained71 the ignorant folk who believed in the immortality72 of the soul. The following phrase by him was quoted: ‘The death of man is exactly similar to that of brutes74.’ Later, when antique beauty was excavated75 from ruins, the Christian style of art seemed sad. The painters that worked in the churches and cloisters76 were neither devout77 nor chaste78. Perugino was an atheist79, and did not conceal33 it.”
“Yes,” said Miss Bell; “but it was said that his head was hard, and that celestial80 truths, could not penetrate81 his thick cranium. He was harsh and avaricious82, and quite embedded83 in material interests. He thought only of buying houses.”
Professor Arrighi defended Pietro Vanucci of Perugia.
“He was,” he said, “an honest man. And the prior of the Gesuati of Florence was wrong to mistrust him. That monk84 practised the art of manufacturing ultramarine blue by crushing stones of burned lapis-lazuli. Ultramarine was then worth its weight in gold; and the prior, who doubtless had a secret, esteemed85 it more precious than rubies86 or sapphires87. He asked Pietro Vanucci to decorate the two cloisters of his convent, and he expected marvels88, less from the skilfulness89 of the master than from the beauty of that ultramarine in the skies. During all the time that the painter worked in the cloisters at the history of Jesus Christ, the prior kept by his side and presented to him the precious powder in a bag which he never quitted. Pietro took from it, under the saintly man’s eyes, the quantity he needed, and dipped his brush, loaded with color, in a cupful of water, before rubbing the wall with it. He used in that manner a great quantity of the powder. And the good father, seeing his bag getting thinner, sighed: ‘Jesus! How that lime devours90 the ultramarine!’ When the frescoes were finished, and Perugino had received from the monk the agreed price, he placed in his hand a package of blue powder: ‘This is for you, father. Your ultramarine which I took with my brush fell to the bottom of my cup, whence I gathered it every day. I return it to you. Learn to trust honest people.”
“Oh,” said Therese, “there is nothing extraordinary in the fact that Perugino was avaricious yet honest. Interested people are not always the least scrupulous91. There are many misers92 who are honest.”
“Naturally, darling,” said Miss Bell. “Misers do not wish to owe anything, and prodigal93 people can bear to have debts. They do not think of the money they have, and they think less of the money they owe. I did not say that Pietro Vanucci of Perugia was a man without property. I said that he had a hard business head and that he bought houses. I am very glad to hear that he returned the ultramarine to the prior of the Gesuati.”
“Since your Pietro was rich,” said Choulette, “it was his duty to return the ultramarine. The rich are morally bound to be honest; the poor are not.”
At this moment, Choulette, to whom the waiter was presenting a silver bowl, extended his hands for the perfumed water. It came from a vase which Miss Bell passed to her guests, in accordance with antique usage, after meals.
“I wash my hands,” he said, “of the evil that Madame Martin does or may do by her speech, or otherwise.”
And he rose, awkwardly, after Miss Bell, who took the arm of Professor Arrighi.
In the drawing-room she said, while serving the coffee:
“Monsieur Choulette, why do you condemn94 us to the savage95 sadness of equality? Why, Daphnis’s flute96 would not be melodious97 if it were made of seven equal reeds. You wish to destroy the beautiful harmonies between masters and servants, aristocrats98 and artisans. Oh, I fear you are a sad barbarian99, Monsieur Choulette. You are full of pity for those who are in need, and you have no pity for divine beauty, which you exile from this world. You expel beauty, Monsieur Choulette; you repudiate100 her, nude101 and in tears. Be certain of this: she will not remain on earth when the poor little men shall all be weak, delicate, and ignorant. Believe me, to abolish the ingenious grouping which men of diverse conditions form in society, the humble102 with the magnificent, is to be the enemy of the poor and of the rich, is to be the enemy of the human race.”
“Enemies of the human race!” replied Choulette, while stirring his coffee. “That is the phrase the harsh Roman applied103 to the Christians104 who talked of divine love to him.”
Dechartre, seated near Madame Martin, questioned her on her tastes about art and beauty, sustained, led, animated her admirations, at times prompted her with caressing brusquerie, wished her to see all that he had seen, to love all that he loved.
He wished that she should go in the gardens at the first flush of spring. He contemplated106 her in advance on the noble terraces; he saw already the light playing on her neck and in her hair; the shadow of laurel-trees falling on her eyes. For him the land and the sky of Florence had nothing more to do than to serve as an adornment107 to this young woman.
He praised the simplicity with which she dressed, the characteristics of her form and of her grace, the charming frankness of the lines which every one of her movements created. He liked, he said, the animated and living, subtle, and free gowns which one sees so rarely, which one never forgets.
Although she had been much lauded108, she had never heard praise which had pleased her more. She knew she dressed well, with bold and sure taste. But no man except her father had made to her on the subject the compliments of an expert. She thought that men were capable of feeling only the effect of a gown, without understanding the ingenious details of it. Some men who knew gowns disgusted her by their effeminate air. She was resigned to the appreciation109 of women only, and these had in their appreciation narrowness of mind, malignity110, and envy. The artistic111 admiration105 of Dechartre astonished and pleased her. She received agreeably the praise he gave her, without thinking that perhaps it was too intimate and almost indiscreet.
“So you look at gowns, Monsieur Dechartre?”
No, he seldom looked at them. There were so few women well dressed, even now, when women dress as well as, and even better, than ever. He found no pleasure in seeing packages of dry-goods walk. But if a woman having rhythm and line passed before him, he blessed her.
He continued, in a tone a little more elevated:
“I can not think of a woman who takes care to deck herself every day, without meditating112 on the great lesson which she gives to artists. She dresses for a few hours, and the care she has taken is not lost. We must, like her, ornament113 life without thinking of the future. To paint, carve, or write for posterity114 is only the silliness of conceit115.”
“Monsieur Dechartre,” asked Prince Albertinelli, “how do you think a mauve waist studded with silver flowers would become Miss Bell?”
“I think,” said Choulette, “so little of a terrestrial future, that I have written my finest poems on cigarette paper. They vanished easily, leaving to my verses only a sort of metaphysical existence.”
He had an air of negligence116 for which he posed. In fact, he had never lost a line of his writing. Dechartre was more sincere. He was not desirous of immortality. Miss Bell reproached him for this.
“Monsieur Dechartre, that life may be great and complete, one must put into it the past and the future. Our works of poetry and of art must be accomplished117 in honor of the dead and with the thought of those who are to come after us. Thus we shall participate in what has been, in what is, and in what shall be. You do not wish to be immortal73, Monsieur Dechartre? Beware, for God may hear you.”
Dechartre replied:
“It would be enough for me to live one moment more.”
And he said good-night, promising118 to return the next day to escort Madame Martin to the Brancacci chapel119.
An hour later, in the aesthetic120 room hung with tapestry121, whereon citron-trees loaded with golden fruit formed a fairy forest, Therese, her head on the pillow, and her handsome bare arms folded under her head, was thinking, seeing float confusedly before her the images of her new life: Vivian Bell and her bells, her pre-Raphaelite figures, light as shadows, ladies, isolated122 knights123, indifferent among pious124 scenes, a little sad, and looking to see who was coming; she thought also of the Prince Albertinelli, Professor Arrighi, Choulette, with his odd play of ideas, and Dechartre, with youthful eyes in a careworn125 face.
She thought he had a charming imagination, a mind richer than all those that had been revealed to her, and an attraction which she no longer tried to resist. She had always recognized his gift to please. She discovered now that he had the will to please. This idea was delightful126 to her; she closed her eyes to retain it. Then, suddenly, she shuddered127. She had felt a deep blow struck within her in the depth of her being. She had a sudden vision of Robert, his gun under his arm, in the woods. He walked with firm and regular step in the shadowy thicket128. She could not see his face, and that troubled her. She bore him no ill-will. She was not discontented with him, but with herself. Robert went straight on, without turning his head, far, and still farther, until he was only a black point in the desolate129 wood. She thought that perhaps she had been capricious and harsh in leaving him without a word of farewell, without even a letter. He was her lover and her only friend. She never had had another. “I do not wish him to be unfortunate because of me,” she thought.
Little by little she was reassured130. He loved her, doubtless; but he was not susceptible131, not ingenious, happily, in tormenting132 himself. She said to herself:
“He is hunting and enjoying the sport. He is with his aunt, whom he admires.” She calmed her fears and returned to the charming gayety of Florence. She had seen casually133, at the Offices, a picture that Dechartre liked. It was a decapitated head of the Medusa, a work wherein Leonardo, the sculptor134 said, had expressed the minute profundity135 and tragic136 refinement137 of his genius. She wished to see it again, regretting that she had not seen it better at first. She extinguished her lamp and went to sleep.
She dreamed that she met in a deserted138 church Robert Le Menil enveloped in furs which she had never seen him wear. He was waiting for her, but a crowd of priests had separated them. She did not know what had become of him. She had not seen his face, and that frightened her. She awoke and heard at the open window a sad, monotonous139 cry, and saw a humming-bird darting140 about in the light of early dawn. Then, without cause, she began to weep in a passion of self-pity, and with the abandon of a child.
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1
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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frescoes
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| n.壁画( fresco的名词复数 )；温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
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irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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voluptuousness
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| n.风骚，体态丰满 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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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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prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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banal
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| adj.陈腐的，平庸的 | |
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tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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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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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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concealed
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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36
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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37
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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38
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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39
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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41
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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42
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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43
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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44
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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45
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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46
scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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47
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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49
varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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50
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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51
avidly
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| adv.渴望地，热心地 | |
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52
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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53
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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54
conceals
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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55
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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56
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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57
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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58
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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59
consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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60
porous
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| adj.可渗透的，多孔的 | |
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61
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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63
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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64
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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65
inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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67
perversely
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| adv. 倔强地 | |
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68
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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69
dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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70
sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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71
disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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72
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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73
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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74
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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75
excavated
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| v.挖掘( excavate的过去式和过去分词 )；开凿；挖出；发掘 | |
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76
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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77
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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78
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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79
atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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80
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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81
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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82
avaricious
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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83
embedded
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| a.扎牢的 | |
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84
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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85
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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86
rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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87
sapphires
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| n.蓝宝石，钢玉宝石( sapphire的名词复数 )；蔚蓝色 | |
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88
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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89
skilfulness
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| 巧妙 | |
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90
devours
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| 吞没( devour的第三人称单数 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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91
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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92
misers
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| 守财奴，吝啬鬼( miser的名词复数 ) | |
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93
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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94
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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95
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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96
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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97
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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98
aristocrats
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| n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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99
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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100
repudiate
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| v.拒绝，拒付，拒绝履行 | |
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101
nude
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| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
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102
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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103
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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104
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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105
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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106
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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107
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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108
lauded
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| v.称赞，赞美( laud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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110
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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111
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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112
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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113
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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114
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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115
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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116
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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117
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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118
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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119
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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120
aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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121
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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122
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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123
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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124
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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125
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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126
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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127
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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128
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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129
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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130
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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131
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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132
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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133
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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134
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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135
profundity
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| n.渊博；深奥，深刻 | |
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136
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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137
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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138
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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139
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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140
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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