“Indeed!” said Elinor, who had listened with a woman’s interest to the description of such a man. “Yet this is admirable enough.”
“Surely it is,” replied her lover, “but far less so than his natural gift of adapting himself to every variety of character, insomuch that all men — and all women too, Elinor — shall find a mirror of themselves in this wonderful painter. But the greatest wonder is yet to be told.”
“Nay4, if he have more wonderful attributes than these,” said Elinor, laughing, “Boston is a perilous5 abode6 for the poor gentleman. Are you telling me of a painter or a wizard?”
“In truth,” answered he, that question might be asked much more seriously than you suppose. They say that he paints not merely a man’s features, but his mind and heart. He catches the secret sentiments and passions, and throws them upon the canvas, like sunshine — or perhaps, in the portraits of dark-souled men, like a gleam of infernal fire. It is an awful gift,” added Walter, lowering his voice from its tone of enthusiasm. “I shall be almost afraid to sit to him.”
“Walter, are you in earnest?” exclaimed Elinor.
“For Heaven’s sake, dearest Elinor, do not let him paint the look which you now wear,” said her lover, smiling, though rather perplexed7. “There: it is passing away now, but when you spoke8 you seemed frightened to death, and very sad besides. What were you thinking of?”
“Nothing, nothing,” answered Elinor hastily. “You paint my face with your own fantasies. Well, come for me tomorrow, and we will visit this wonderful artist.”
But when the young man had departed, it cannot be denied that a remarkable9 expression was again visible on the fair and youthful face of his mistress. It was a sad and anxious look, little in accordance with what should have been the feelings of a maiden10 on the eve of wedlock11. Yet Walter Ludlow was the chosen of her heart.
“A look!” said Elinor to herself. “No wonder that it startled him, if it expressed what I sometimes feel. I know, by my own experience, how frightful12 a look may be. But it was all fancy. I thought nothing of it at the time — I have seen nothing of it since — I did but dream it.”
And she busied herself about the embroidery13 of a ruff, in which she meant that her portrait should be taken.
The painter, of whom they had been speaking, was not one of those native artists who, at a later period than this, borrowed their colors from the Indians, and manufactured their pencils of the furs of wild beasts. Perhaps, if he could have revoked15 his life and prearranged his destiny, he might have chosen to belong to that school without a master, in the hope of being at least original, since there were no works of art to imitate nor rules to follow. But he had been born and educated in Europe. People said that he had studied the grandeur17 or beauty of conception, and every touch of the master hand, in all the most famous pictures, in cabinets and galleries, and on the walls of churches, till there was nothing more for his powerful mind to learn. Art could add nothing to its lessons, but Nature might. He had therefore visited a world whither none of his professional brethren had preceded him, to feast his eyes on visible images that were noble and picturesque18, yet had never been transferred to canvas. America was too poor to afford other temptations to an artist of eminence19, though many of the colonial gentry20, on the painter’s arrival, had expressed a wish to transmit their lineaments to posterity21 by means of his skill. Whenever such proposals were made, he fixed22 his piercing eyes on the applicant23, and seemed to look him through and through. If he beheld24 only a sleek25 and comfortable visage, though there were a gold-laced coat to adorn26 the picture and golden guineas to pay for it, he civilly rejected the task and the reward. But if the face were the index of any thing uncommon27, in thought, sentiment, or experience; or if he met a beggar in the street, with a white beard and a furrowed28 brow; or if sometimes a child happened to look up and smile, he would exhaust all the art on them that he denied to wealth.
Pictorial29 skill being so rare in the colonies, the painter became an object of general curiosity. If few or none could appreciate the technical merit of his productions, yet there were points, in regard to which the opinion of the crowd was as valuable as the refined judgment30 of the amateur. He watched the effect that each picture produced on such untutored beholders, and derived31 profit from their remarks, while they would as soon have thought of instructing Nature herself as him who seemed to rival her. Their admiration32, it must be owned, was tinctured with the prejudices of the age and country. Some deemed it an offence against the Mosaic33 law, and even a presumptuous34 mockery of the Creator, to bring into existence such lively images of his creatures. Others, frightened at the art which could raise phantoms36, at will, and keep the form of the dead among the living, were inclined to consider the painter as a magician, or perhaps the famous Black Man, of old witch times, plotting mischief37 in a new guise38. These foolish fancies were more than half believed among the mob. Even in superior circles his character was invested with a vague awe40, partly rising like smoke wreaths from the popular superstitions41, but chiefly caused by the varied42 knowledge and talents which he made subservient43 to his profession.
Being on the eve of marriage, Walter Ludlow and Elinor were eager to obtain their portraits, as the first of what, they doubtless hoped, would be a long series of family pictures. The day after the conversation above recorded they visited the painter’s rooms. A servant ushered44 them into an apartment, where, though the artist himself was not visible, there were personages whom they could hardly forbear greeting with reverence45. They knew, indeed, that the whole assembly were but pictures, yet felt it impossible to separate the idea of life and intellect from such striking counterfeits46. Several of the portraits were known to them, either as distinguished47 characters of the day or their private acquaintances. There was Governor Burnett, looking as if he had just received an undutiful communication from the House of Representatives, and were inditing48 a most sharp response. Mr. Cooke hung beside the ruler whom he opposed, sturdy, and somewhat puritanical49, as befitted a popular leader. The ancient lady of Sir William Phipps eyed them from the wall, in ruff and farthingale — an imperious old dame50, not unsuspected of witchcraft51. John Winslow, then a very young man, wore the expression of war-like enterprise, which long afterwards made him a distinguished general. Their personal friends were recognized at a glance. In most of the pictures, the whole mind and character were brought out on the countenance52, and concentrated into a single look, so that, to speak paradoxically, the originals hardly resembled themselves so strikingly as the portraits did.
Among these modern worthies53 there were two old bearded Saints, who had almost vanished into the darkening canvas. There was also a pale, but unfaded Madonna, who had perhaps been worshipped in Rome, and now regarded the lovers with such a mild and holy look that they longed to worship too.
“How singular a thought,” observed Walter Ludlow, “that this beautiful face has been beautiful for above two hundred years! Oh, if all beauty would endure so well! Do you not envy her, Elinor?”
“If earth were heaven, I might,” she replied. “But where all things fade, how miserable54 to be the one that could not fade!”
“This dark old St. Peter has a fierce and ugly scowl55, saint though he be,” continued Walter. “He troubles me. But the Virgin56 looks kindly57 at us.”
“Yes; but very sorrowfully, methinks,” said Elinor.
The easel stood beneath these three old pictures, sustaining one that had been recently commenced. After a little inspection58, they began to recognize the features of their own minister, the Rev14. Dr. Colman, growing into shape and life, as it were, out of a cloud.
“Kind old man!” exclaimed Elinor. “He gazes at me as if he were about to utter a word of paternal59 advice.”
“And at me,” said Walter, “as if he were about to shake his head and rebuke60 me for some suspected iniquity61. But so does the original. I shall never feel quite comfortable under his eye till we stand before him to be married.”
They now heard a footstep on the floor, and turning, beheld the painter, who had been some moments in the room, and had listened to a few of their remarks. He was a middle-aged62 man, with a countenance well worthy63 of his own pencil. Indeed, by the picturesque, though careless arrangement of his rich dress, and, perhaps, because his soul dwelt always among painted shapes, he looked somewhat like a portrait himself. His visitors were sensible of a kindred between the artist and his works, and felt as if one of the pictures had stepped from the canvas to salute64 them.
Walter Ludlow, who was slightly known to the painter, explained the object of their visit. While he spoke, a sunbeam was falling athwart his figure and Elinor’s, with so happy an effect that they also seemed living pictures of youth and beauty, gladdened by bright fortune. The artist was evidently struck.
“My easel is occupied for several ensuing days, and my stay in Boston must be brief,” said he, thoughtfully; then, after an observant glance, he added: “but your wishes shall be gratified, though I disappoint the Chief Justice and Madam Oliver. I must not lose this opportunity, for the sake of painting a few ells of broadcloth and brocade.”
The painter expressed a desire to introduce both their portraits into one picture, and represent them engaged in some appropriate action. This plan would have delighted the lovers, but was necessarily rejected, because so large a space of canvas would have been unfit for the room which it was intended to decorate. Two half-length portraits were therefore fixed upon. After they had taken leave, Walter Ludlow asked Elinor, with a smile, whether she knew what an influence over their fates the painter was about to acquire.
“The old women of Boston affirm,” continued he, “that after he has once got possession of a person’s face and figure, he may paint him in any act or situation whatever — and the picture will be prophetic. Do you believe it?”
“Not quite,” said Elinor, smiling. “Yet if he has such magic, there is something so gentle in his manner that I am sure he will use it well.”
It was the painter’s choice to proceed with both the portraits at the same time, assigning as a reason, in the mystical language which he sometimes used, that the faces threw light upon each other. Accordingly he gave now a touch to Walter, and now to Elinor, and the features of one and the other began to start forth65 so vividly66 that it appeared as if his triumphant67 art would actually disengage them from the canvas. Amid the rich light and deep shade, they beheld their phantom35 selves. But, though the likeness68 promised to be perfect, they were not quite satisfied with the expression; it seemed more vague than in most of the painter’s works. He, however, was satisfied with the prospect69 of success, and being much interested in the lovers, employed his leisure moments, unknown to them, in making a crayon sketch70 of their two figures. During their sittings, he engaged them in conversation, and kindled71 up their faces with characteristic traits, which, though continually varying, it was his purpose to combine and fix. At length he announced that at their next visit both the portraits would be ready for delivery.
“If my pencil will but be true to my conception, in the few last touches which I meditate,” observed he, “these two pictures will be my very best performances. Seldom, indeed, has an artist such subjects.”
While speaking, he still bent72 his penetrative eye upon them, nor withdrew it till they had reached the bottom of the stairs.
Nothing, in the whole circle of human vanities, takes stronger hold of the imagination than this affair of having a portrait painted. Yet why should it be so? The looking-glass, the polished globes of the andirons, the mirror-like water, and all other reflecting surfaces, continually present us with portraits, or rather ghosts, of ourselves, which we glance at, and straightway forget them. But we forget them only because they vanish. It is the idea of duration — of earthly immortality73 — that gives such a mysterious interest to our own portraits. Walter and Elinor were not insensible to this feeling, and hastened to the painter’s room, punctually at the appointed hour, to meet those pictured shapes which were to be their representatives with posterity. The sunshine flashed after them into the apartment, but left it somewhat gloomy as they closed the door.
Their eyes were immediately attracted to their portraits, which rested against the farthest wall of the room. At the first glance, through the dim light and the distance, seeing themselves in precisely75 their natural attitudes, and with all the air that they recognized so well, they uttered a simultaneous exclamation76 of delight.
“There we stand,” cried Walter, enthusiastically, “fixed in sunshine forever! No dark passions can gather on our faces!”
“No,” said Elinor, more calmly; “no dreary77 change can sadden us.”
This was said while they were approaching, and had yet gained only an imperfect view of the pictures. The painter, after saluting78 them, busied himself at a table in completing a crayon sketch, leaving his visitors to form their own judgment as to his perfected labors79. At intervals80, he sent a glance from beneath his deep eyebrows81, watching their countenances82 in profile, with his pencil suspended over the sketch. They had now stood some moments, each in front of the other’s picture, contemplating83 it with entranced attention, but without uttering a word. At length, Walter stepped forward — then back — viewing Elinor’s portrait in various lights, and finally spoke.
“Is there not a change?” said he, in a doubtful and meditative84 tone. “Yes; the perception of it grows more vivid the longer I look. It is certainly the same picture that I saw yesterday; the dress — the features — all are the same; and yet something is altered.”
“Is then the picture less like than it was yesterday?” inquired the painter, now drawing near, with irrepressible interest.
“The features are perfect, Elinor,” answered Walter, “and, at the first glance, the expression seemed also hers. But, I could fancy that the portrait has changed countenance, while I have been looking at it. The eyes are fixed on mine with a strangely sad and anxious expression. Nay, it is grief and terror! Is this like Elinor?”
“Compare the living face with the pictured one,” said the painter.
Walter glanced sidelong at his mistress, and started. Motionless and absorbed — fascinated, as it were — in contemplation of Walter’s portrait, Elinor’s face had assumed precisely the expression of which he had just been complaining. Had she practised for whole hours before a mirror, she could not have caught the look so successfully. Had the picture itself been a mirror, it could not have thrown back her present aspect with stronger and more melancholy85 truth. She appeared quite unconscious of the dialogue between the artist and her lover.
“Elinor,” exclaimed Walter, in amazement86, “what change has come over you?”
She did not hear him, nor desist from her fixed gaze, till he seized her hand, and thus attracted her notice; then, with a sudden tremor87, she looked from the picture to the face of the original.
“Do you see no change in your portrait?” asked she.
“In mine? None!” replied Walter, examining it. “But let me see! Yes; there is a slight change — an improvement, I think, in the picture, though none in the likeness. It has a livelier expression than yesterday, as if some bright thought were flashing from the eyes, and about to be uttered from the lips. Now that I have caught the look, it becomes very decided88.”
While he was intent on these observations, Elinor turned to the painter. She regarded him with grief and awe, and felt that he repaid her with sympathy and commiseration89, though wherefore, she could but vaguely90 guess.
“That look!” whispered she, and shuddered91. “How came it there?”
“Madam,” said the painter, sadly, taking her hand, and leading her apart, “in both these pictures, I have painted what I saw. The artist — the true artist — must look beneath the exterior92. It is his gift — his proudest, but often a melancholy one — to see the inmost soul, and, by a power indefinable even to himself, to make it glow or darken upon the canvas, in glances that express the thought and sentiment of years. Would that I might convince myself of error in the present instance!”
They had now approached the table, on which were heads in chalk, hands almost as expressive93 as ordinary faces, ivied church towers, thatched cottages, old thunder-stricken trees, Oriental and antique costume, and all such picturesque vagaries94 of an artist’s idle moments. Turning them over, with seeming carelessness, a crayon sketch of two figures was disclosed.
“If I have failed,” continued he, “if your heart does not see itself reflected in your own portrait — if you have no secret cause to trust my delineation95 of the other — it is not yet too late to alter them. I might change the action of these figures too. But would it influence the event?”
He directed her notice to the sketch. A thrill ran through Elinor’s frame; a shriek96 was upon her lips; but she stifled97 it, with the self-command that becomes habitual98 to all who hide thoughts of fear and anguish99 within their bosoms100. Turning from the table, she perceived that Walter had advanced near enough to have seen the sketch, though she could not determine whether it had caught his eye.
“We will not have the pictures altered,” said she, hastily. “If mine is sad, I shall but look the gayer for the contrast.”
“Be it so,” answered the painter, bowing. “May your griefs be such fanciful ones that only your picture may mourn for them! For your joys — may they be true and deep, and paint themselves upon this lovely face till it quite belie39 my art!”
After the marriage of Walter and Elinor, the pictures formed the two most splendid ornaments102 of their abode. They hung side by side, separated by a narrow panel, appearing to eye each other constantly, yet always returning the gaze of the spectator. Travelled gentlemen, who professed103 a knowledge of such subjects, reckoned these among the most admirable specimens104 of modern portraiture105; while common observers compared them with the originals, feature by feature, and were rapturous in praise of the likeness. But it was on a third class — neither travelled connoisseurs106 nor common observers, but people of natural sensibility — that the pictures wrought107 their strongest effect. Such persons might gaze carelessly at first, but, becoming interested, would return day after day, and study these painted faces like the pages of a mystic volume. Walter Ludlow’s portrait attracted their earliest notice. In the absence of himself and his bride, they sometimes disputed as to the expression which the painter had intended to throw upon the features; all agreeing that there was a look of earnest import, though no two explained it alike. There was less diversity of opinion in regard to Elinor’s picture. They differed, indeed, in their attempts to estimate the nature and depth of the gloom that dwelt upon her face, but agreed that it was gloom, and alien from the natural temperament108 of their youthful friend. A certain fanciful person announced, as the result of much scrutiny109, that both these pictures were parts of one design, and that the melancholy strength of feeling, in Elinor’s countenance, bore reference to the more vivid emotion, or, as he termed it, the wild passion, in that of Walter. Though unskilled in the art, he even began a sketch, in which the action of the two figures was to correspond with their mutual110 expression.
It was whispered among friends that, day by day, Elinor’s face was assuming a deeper shade of pensiveness111, which threatened soon to render her too true a counterpart of her melancholy picture. Walter, on the other hand, instead of acquiring the vivid look which the painter had given him on the canvas, became reserved and downcast, with no outward flashes of emotion, however it might be smouldering within. In course of time, Elinor hung a gorgeous curtain of purple silk, wrought with flowers and fringed with heavy golden tassels112, before the pictures, under pretence114 that the dust would tarnish115 their hues116, or the light dim them. It was enough. Her visitors felt, that the massive folds of the silk must never be withdrawn117, nor the portraits mentioned in her presence.
Time wore on; and the painter came again. He had been far enough to the north to see the silver cascade118 of the Crystal Hills, and to look over the vast round of cloud and forest from the summit of New England’s loftiest mountain. But he did not profane119 that scene by the mockery of his art. He had also lain in a canoe on the bosom101 of Lake George, making his soul the mirror of its loveliness and grandeur, till not a picture in the Vatican was more vivid than his recollection. He had gone with the Indian hunters to Niagara, and there, again, had flung his hopeless pencil down the precipice120, feeling that he could as soon paint the roar, as aught else that goes to make up the wondrous121 cataract122. In truth, it was seldom his impulse to copy natural scenery, except as a framework for the delineations of the human form and face, instinct with thought, passion, or suffering. With store of such his adventurous123 ramble124 had enriched him: the stern dignity of Indian chiefs; the dusky loveliness of Indian girls; the domestic life of wigwams; the stealthy march; the battle beneath gloomy pine-trees; the frontier fortress125 with its garrison126; the anomaly of the old French partisan127, bred in courts, but grown gray in shaggy deserts; such were the scenes and portraits that he had sketched128. The glow of perilous moments; flashes of wild feeling; struggles of fierce power — love, hate, grief, frenzy129; in a word, all the worn-out heart of the old earth had been revealed to him under a new form. His portfolio130 was filled with graphic131 illustrations of the volume of his memory, which genius would transmute132 into its own substance, and imbue133 with immortality. He felt that the deep wisdom in his art, which he had sought so far, was found.
But amid stern or lovely nature, in the perils134 of the forest or its overwhelming peacefulness, still there had been two phantoms, the companions of his way. Like all other men around whom an engrossing135 purpose wreathes itself, he was insulated from the mass of human kind. He had no aim — no pleasure — no sympathies — but what were ultimately connected with his art. Though gentle in manner and upright in intent and action, he did not possess kindly feelings; his heart was cold; no living creature could be brought near enough to keep him warm. For these two beings, however, he had felt, in its greatest intensity136, the sort of interest which always allied137 him to the subjects of his pencil. He had pried138 into their souls with his keenest insight, and pictured the result upon their features with his utmost skill, so as barely to fall short of that standard which no genius ever reached, his own severe conception. He had caught from the duskiness of the future — at least, so he fancied — a fearful secret, and had obscurely revealed it on the portraits. So much of himself — of his imagination and all other powers — had been lavished139 on the study of Walter and Elinor, that he almost regarded them as creations of his own, like the thousands with which he had peopled the realms of Picture. Therefore did they flit through the twilight140 of the woods, hover141 on the mist of waterfalls, look forth from the mirror of the lake, nor melt away in the noontide sun. They haunted his pictorial fancy, not as mockeries of life, nor pale goblins of the dead, but in the guise of portraits, each with the unalterable expression which his magic had evoked16 from the caverns142 of the soul. He could not recross the Atlantic till he had again beheld the originals of those airy pictures.
“O glorious Art!” thus mused143 the enthusiastic painter as he trod the street, thou art the image of the Creator’s own. The innumerable forms, that wander in nothingness, start into being at thy beck. The dead live again. Thou recallest them to their old scenes, and givest their gray shadows the lustre144 of a better life, at once earthly and immortal74. Thou snatchest back the fleeting145 moments of History. With thee there is no Past, for, at thy touch, all that is great becomes forever present; and illustrious men live through long ages, in the visible performance of the very deeds which made them what they are. O potent146 Art! as thou bringest the faintly revealed Past to stand in that narrow strip of sunlight, which we call Now, canst thou summon the shrouded147 Future to meet her there? Have I not achieved it? Am I not thy Prophet?”
Thus, with a proud, yet melancholy fervor148, did he almost cry aloud, as he passed through the toilsome street, among people that knew not of his reveries, nor could understand nor care for them. It is not good for man to cherish a solitary149 ambition. Unless there be those around him by whose example he may regulate himself, his thoughts, desires, and hopes will become extravagant150, and he the semblance151, perhaps the reality, of a madman. Reading other bosoms with an acuteness almost preternatural, the painter failed to see the disorder152 of his own.
“And this should be the house,” said he, looking up and down the front, before he knocked. “Heaven help my brains! That picture! Methinks it will never vanish. Whether I look at the windows or the door, there it is framed within them, painted strongly, and glowing in the richest tints153 — the faces of the portraits — the figures and action of the sketch!”
He knocked.
“The Portraits! Are they within?” inquired he of the domestic; then recollecting154 himself —“your master and mistress! Are they at home?”
“They are, sir,” said the servant, adding, as he noticed that picturesque aspect of which the painter could never divest155 himself, “and the Portraits too!”
The guest was admitted into a parlor156, communicating by a central door with an interior room of the same size. As the first apartment was empty, he passed to the entrance of the second, within which his eyes were greeted by those living personages, as well as their pictured representatives, who had long been the objects of so singular an interest. He involuntarily paused on the threshold.
They had not perceived his approach. Walter and Elinor were standing157 before the portraits, whence the former had just flung back the rich and voluminous folds of the silken curtain, holding its golden tassel113 with one hand, while the other grasped that of his bride. The pictures, concealed158 for months, gleamed forth again in undiminished splendor159, appearing to throw a sombre light across the room, rather than to be disclosed by a borrowed radiance. That of Elinor had been almost prophetic. A pensiveness, and next a gentle sorrow, had successively dwelt upon her countenance, deepening, with the lapse160 of time, into a quiet anguish. A mixture of affright would now have made it the very expression of the portrait. Walter’s face was moody161 and dull, or animated162 only by fitful flashes, which left a heavier darkness for their momentary163 illumination. He looked from Elinor to her portrait, and thence to his own, in the contemplation of which he finally stood absorbed.
The painter seemed to hear the step of Destiny approaching behind him, on its progress towards its victims. A strange thought darted164 into his mind. Was not his own the form in which that destiny had embodied165 itself, and he a chief agent of the coming evil which he had foreshadowed?
Still, Walter remained silent before the picture, communing with it as with his own heart, and abandoning himself to the spell of evil influence that the painter had cast upon the features. Gradually his eyes kindled; while as Elinor watched the increasing wildness of his face, her own assumed a look of terror; and when at last he turned upon her, the resemblance of both to their portraits was complete.
“Our fate is upon us!” howled Walter. “Die!”
Drawing a knife, he sustained her, as she was sinking to the ground, and aimed it at her bosom. In the action, and in the look and attitude of each, the painter beheld the figures of his sketch. The picture, with all its tremendous coloring, was finished.
“Hold, madman!” cried he, sternly.
He had advanced from the door, and interposed himself between the wretched beings, with the same sense of power to regulate their destiny as to alter a scene upon the canvas. He stood like a magician, controlling the phantoms which he had evoked.
“What!” muttered Walter Ludlow, as he relapsed from fierce excitement into silent gloom. “Does Fate impede166 its own decree?”
“Wretched lady!” said the painter, “did I not warn you?”
“You did,” replied Elinor, calmly, as her terror gave place to the quiet grief which it had disturbed. “But — I loved him!”
Is there not a deep moral in the tale? Could the result of one, or all our deeds, be shadowed forth and set before us, some would call it Fate, and hurry onward167, others be swept along by their passionate168 desires, and none be turned aside by the PROPHETIC PICTURES.
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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abode
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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wedlock
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frightful
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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revoked
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| adj.[法]取消的v.撤销，取消，废除( revoke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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evoked
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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22
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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23
applicant
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| n.申请人，求职者，请求者 | |
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24
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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25
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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26
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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27
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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28
furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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30
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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31
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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32
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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33
mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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34
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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35
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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36
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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37
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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38
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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39
belie
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| v.掩饰，证明为假 | |
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40
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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41
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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42
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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43
subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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44
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
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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46
counterfeits
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| v.仿制，造假( counterfeit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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47
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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48
inditing
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作，赋诗，创作( indite的现在分词 ) | |
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49
puritanical
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| adj.极端拘谨的；道德严格的 | |
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50
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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51
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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52
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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53
worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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54
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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55
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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56
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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57
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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58
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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59
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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60
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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61
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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62
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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63
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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64
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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65
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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66
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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67
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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68
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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69
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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70
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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71
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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72
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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73
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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74
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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75
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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76
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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77
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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78
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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79
labors
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|
| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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80
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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81
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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82
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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83
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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84
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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85
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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86
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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87
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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88
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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89
commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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90
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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91
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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92
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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93
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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94
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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95
delineation
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| n.记述；描写 | |
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96
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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97
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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98
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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99
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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100
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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101
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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102
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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103
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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104
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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105
portraiture
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| n.肖像画法 | |
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106
connoisseurs
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| n.鉴赏家，鉴定家，行家( connoisseur的名词复数 ) | |
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107
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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108
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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109
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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110
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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111
pensiveness
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| n.pensive（沉思的）的变形 | |
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112
tassels
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| n.穗( tassel的名词复数 )；流苏状物；（植物的）穗；玉蜀黍的穗状雄花v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须( tassel的第三人称单数 )；使抽穗， （为了使作物茁壮生长）摘去穗状雄花；用流苏装饰 | |
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113
tassel
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| n.流苏，穗；v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须 | |
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114
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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115
tarnish
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| n.晦暗，污点；vt.使失去光泽；玷污 | |
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116
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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117
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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118
cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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119
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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120
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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121
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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122
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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123
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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124
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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125
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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126
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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127
partisan
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| adj.党派性的；游击队的；n.游击队员；党徒 | |
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128
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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129
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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130
portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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131
graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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132
transmute
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| vt.使变化，使改变 | |
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133
imbue
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| v.灌输(某种强烈的情感或意见)，感染 | |
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134
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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135
engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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136
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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137
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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138
pried
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| v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的过去式和过去分词 )；撬开 | |
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139
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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141
hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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142
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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143
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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144
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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145
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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146
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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147
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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148
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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149
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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150
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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151
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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152
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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153
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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154
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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155
divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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156
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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157
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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158
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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159
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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160
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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161
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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162
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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163
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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164
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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165
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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166
impede
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，阻止 | |
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167
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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168
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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