“But this painter!” cried Walter Ludlow, with animation2. “He not only excels in his peculiar3 art, but possesses vast acquirements in all other learning and science. He talks Hebrew with Dr. Mather and gives lectures in anatomy4 to Dr. Boylston. In a word, he will meet the best-instructed man among us on his own ground. Moreover, he is a polished gentleman, a citizen of the world — yes, a true cosmopolite; for he will speak like a native of each clime and country on the globe, except our own forests, whither he is now going. Nor is all this what I most admire in him.”
“Indeed!” said Elinor, who had listened with a women’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.”
“Nay5, if he have more wonderful attributes than these,” said Elinor, laughing, “Boston is a perilous6 abode7 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 perplexed8. “There! it is passing away now; but when you spoke9, 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 remarkable10 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 maiden11 on the eve of wedlock12. 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 frightful13 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 embroidery14 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 revoked16 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 grandeur18 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 picturesque19, yet had never been transferred to canvas. America was too poor to afford other temptations to an artist of eminence20, though many of the colonial gentry21 on the painter’s arrival had expressed a wish to transmit their lineaments to posterity22 by moans of his skill. Whenever such proposals were made, he fixed23 his piercing eyes on the applicant24 and seemed to look him through and through. If he beheld25 only a sleek26 and comfortable visage, though there were a gold-laced coat to adorn27 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 anything uncommon28 in thought, sentiment or experience, or if he met a beggar in the street with a white beard and a furrowed29 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.
Pictorial30 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 judgment31 of the amateur. He watched the effect that each picture produced on such untutored beholders, and derived32 profit from their remarks, while they would as soon have thought of instructing Nature herself as him who seemed to rival her. Their admiration33, it must be owned, was tinctured with the prejudices of the age and country. Some deemed it an offence against the Mosaic34 law, and even a presumptuous35 mockery of the Creator, to bring into existence such lively images of his creatures. Others, frightened at the art which could raise phantoms37 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 mischief38 in a new guise39. These foolish fancies were more, than half believed among the mob. Even in superior circles his character was invested with a vague awe41, partly rising like smoke-wreaths from the popular superstitions42, but chiefly caused by the varied43 knowledge and talents which he made subservient44 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 ushered45 them into an apartment where, though the artist himself was not visible, there were personages whom they could hardly forbear greeting with reverence46. 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 counterfeits47. Several of the portraits were known to them either as distinguished48 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 inditing49 a most sharp response. Mr. Cooke hung beside the ruler whom he opposed, sturdy and somewhat puritanical50, as befitted a popular leader. The ancient lady of Sir William Phipps eyed them from the wall in ruff and farthingale, an imperious old dame51 not unsuspected of witchcraft52. John Winslow, then a very young man, wore the expression of warlike enterprise which long afterward53 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 countenance54 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 worthies55 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 miserable56 to be the one that could not fade!”
“This dark old St. Peter has a fierce and ugly scowl57, saint though he be,” continued Walter; “he troubles me. But the Virgin58 looks kindly59 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 inspection60 they began to recognize the features of their own minister, the Rev15. 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 paternal61 advice.”
“And at me,” said Walter, “as if he were about to shake his head and rebuke62 me for some suspected iniquity63. 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-aged64 man with a countenance well worthy65 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 salute66 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 Madame 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 forth67 so vividly68 that it appeared as if his triumphant69 art would actually disengage them from the canvas. Amid the rich light and deep shade they beheld their phantom36 selves, but, though the likeness70 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 prospect71 of success, and, being much interested in the lovers, employed his leisure moments, unknown to them, in making a crayon sketch72 of their two figures. During their sittings he engaged them in conversation and kindled73 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 bent74 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 immortality75 — 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 precisely77 their natural attitudes and with all the air that they recognized so well, they uttered a simultaneous exclamation78 of delight.
“There we stand,” cried Walter, enthusiastically, “fixed in sunshine for ever. No dark passions can gather on our faces.”
“No,” said Elinor, more calmly; “no dreary79 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 saluting80 them, busied himself at a table in completing a crayon sketch, leaving his visitors to form their own judgment as to his perfected labors81. At intervals82 he sent a glance from beneath his deep eyebrows83, watching their countenances84 in profile with his pencil suspended over the sketch. They had now stood some moments, each in front of the other’s picture, contemplating85 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 meditative86 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 melancholy87 truth. She appeared quite unconscious of the dialogue between the artist and her lover.
“Elinor,” exclaimed Walter, in amazement88, “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 tremor89 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 decided90.”
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 commiseration91, though wherefore she could but vaguely92 guess.
“That look!” whispered she, and shuddered93. “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 exterior94. 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 expressive95 as ordinary faces, ivied church-towers, thatched cottages, old thunder-stricken trees, Oriental and antique costume, and all such picturesque vagaries96 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 delineation97 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 shriek98 was upon her lips, but she stifled99 it with the self-command that becomes habitual100 to all who hide thoughts of fear and anguish101 within their bosoms102. 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 pictures may mourn for them! For your joys, may they be true and deep, and paint themselves upon this lovely face till it quite belie40 my art!”
After the marriage of Walter and Elinor the pictures formed the two most splendid ornaments104 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 professed105 a knowledge of such subjects reckoned these among the most admirable specimens106 of modern portraiture107, 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 connoisseurs108 nor common observers, but people of natural sensibility — that the pictures wrought109 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 temperament110 of their youthful friend. A certain fanciful person announced as the result of much scrutiny111 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 mutual112 expression.
It was whispered among friends that day by day Elinor’s face was assuming a deeper shade of pensiveness113 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 tassels115 before the pictures, under pretence116 that the dust would tarnish117 their hues118 or the light dim them. It was enough. Her visitors felt that the massive folds of the silk must never be withdrawn119 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 cascade120 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 profane121 that scene by the mockery of his art. He had also lain in a canoe on the bosom103 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 precipice122, feeling that he could as soon paint the roar as aught else that goes to make up the wondrous123 cataract124. 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 adventurous125 ramble126 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 fortress127 with its garrison128, the anomaly of the old French partisan129 bred in courts, but grown gray in shaggy deserts, — such were the scenes and portraits that he had sketched130. The glow of perilous moments, flashes of wild feeling, struggles of fierce power, love, hate, grief, frenzy131 — in a word, all the worn-out heart of the old earth — had been revealed to him under a new form. His portfolio132 was filled with graphic133 illustrations of the volume of his memory which genius would transmute134 into its own substance and imbue135 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 perils136 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 engrossing137 purpose wreathes itself, he was insulated from the mass of humankind. 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 intensity138 the sort of interest which always allied139 him to the subjects of his pencil. He had pried140 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 lavished141 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 twilight142 of the woods, hover143 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 an unalterable expression which his magic had evoked17 from the caverns144 of the soul. He could not recross the Atlantic till he had again beheld the originals of those airy pictures.
“O glorious Art!” Thus mused145 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 lustre146 of a better life, at once earthly and immortal76. Thou snatchest back the fleeting147 moments of history. With then there is no past, for at thy touch all that is great becomes for ever present, and illustrious men live through long ages in the visible performance of the very deeds which made them what they are. O potent148 Art! as thou bringest the faintly-revealed past to stand in that narrow strip of sunlight which we call ‘now,’ canst thou summon the shrouded149 future to meet her there? Have I not achieved it? Am I not thy prophet?”
Thus with a proud yet melancholy fervor150 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 solitary151 ambition. Unless there be those around him by whose example he may regulate himself, his thoughts, desires and hopes will become extravagant152 and he the semblance153 — perhaps the reality — of a madman. Reading other bosoms with an acuteness almost preternatural, the painter failed to see the disorder154 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 tints155 — 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, recollecting156 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 divest157 himself, “and the portraits too.”
The guest was admitted into a parlor158 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 standing159 before the portraits, whence the former had just flung back the rich and voluminous folds of the silken curtain, holding its golden tassel114 with one hand, while the other grasped that of his bride. The pictures, concealed160 for months, gleamed forth again in undiminished splendor161, 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 lapse162 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 moody163 and dull or animated164 only by fitful flashes which left a heavier darkness for their momentary165 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 toward its victims. A strange thought darted166 into his mind. Was not his own the form in which that Destiny had embodied167 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 sullen168 gloom. “Does Fate impede169 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 onward170, others be swept along by their passionate171 desires, and none be turned aside by the prophetic pictures.
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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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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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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22
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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23
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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24
applicant
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| n.申请人，求职者，请求者 | |
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25
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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26
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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27
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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28
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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29
furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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31
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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32
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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33
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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34
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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35
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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36
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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37
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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38
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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39
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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40
belie
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| v.掩饰，证明为假 | |
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41
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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42
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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43
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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44
subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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45
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
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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47
counterfeits
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| v.仿制，造假( counterfeit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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48
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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49
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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50
puritanical
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| adj.极端拘谨的；道德严格的 | |
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51
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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52
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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53
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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54
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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55
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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56
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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57
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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58
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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59
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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60
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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61
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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62
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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63
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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64
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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65
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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66
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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67
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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68
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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69
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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70
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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71
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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72
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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73
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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74
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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75
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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76
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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77
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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78
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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79
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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80
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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81
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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82
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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83
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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84
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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85
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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86
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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87
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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88
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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89
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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90
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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91
commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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92
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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93
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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94
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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95
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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96
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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97
delineation
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| n.记述；描写 | |
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98
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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99
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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100
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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101
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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102
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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103
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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104
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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105
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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106
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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107
portraiture
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| n.肖像画法 | |
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108
connoisseurs
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| n.鉴赏家，鉴定家，行家( connoisseur的名词复数 ) | |
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109
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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110
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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111
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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112
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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113
pensiveness
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| n.pensive（沉思的）的变形 | |
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114
tassel
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| n.流苏，穗；v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须 | |
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115
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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116
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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117
tarnish
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| n.晦暗，污点；vt.使失去光泽；玷污 | |
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118
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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119
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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120
cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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121
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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122
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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123
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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124
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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125
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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126
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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127
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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128
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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129
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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130
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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131
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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132
portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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133
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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134
transmute
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| vt.使变化，使改变 | |
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135
imbue
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| v.灌输(某种强烈的情感或意见)，感染 | |
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136
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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137
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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138
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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139
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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140
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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141
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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142
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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143
hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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144
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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145
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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146
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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147
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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148
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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149
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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150
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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151
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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152
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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153
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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154
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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155
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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156
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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157
divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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158
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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159
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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160
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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161
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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162
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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163
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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164
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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165
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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166
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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167
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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168
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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169
impede
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，阻止 | |
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170
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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171
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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