Being disengaged, and placing myself at her service, I was presently furnished with a list of the wools, silks, embroidering3 thread, etcetera, wanted in the pupils’ work, and having equipped myself in a manner suiting the threatening aspect of a cloudy and sultry day, I was just drawing the spring-bolt of the street-door, in act to issue forth4, when Madame’s voice again summoned me to the salle-à-manger.
“Pardon, Meess Lucie!” cried she, in the seeming haste of an impromptu5 thought, “I have just recollected6 one more errand for you, if your good-nature will not deem itself over-burdened?”
Of course I “confounded myself” in asseverations to the contrary; and Madame, running into the little salon7, brought thence a pretty basket, filled with fine hothouse fruit, rosy8, perfect, and tempting9, reposing10 amongst the dark green, wax-like leaves, and pale yellow stars of, I know not what, exotic plant.
“There,” she said, “it is not heavy, and will not shame your neat toilette, as if it were a household, servant-like detail. Do me the favour to leave this little basket at the house of Madame Walravens, with my felicitations on her fête. She lives down in the old town, Numéro 3, Rue11 des Mages. I fear you will find the walk rather long, but you have the whole afternoon before you, and do not hurry; if you are not back in time for dinner, I will order a portion to be saved, or Goton, with whom you are a favourite, will have pleasure in tossing up some trifle, for your especial benefit. You shall not be forgotten, ma bonne Meess. And oh! please!” (calling me back once more) “be sure to insist on seeing Madame Walravens herself, and giving the basket into her own hands, in order that there may be no mistake, for she is rather a punctilious12 personage. Adieu! Au revoir!”
And at last I got away. The shop commissions took some time to execute, that choosing and matching of silks and wools being always a tedious business, but at last I got through my list. The patterns for the slippers13, the bell-ropes, the cabas were selected — the slides and tassels14 for the purses chosen — the whole “tripotage,” in short, was off my mind; nothing but the fruit and the felicitations remained to be attended to.
I rather liked the prospect15 of a long walk, deep into the old and grim Basse-Ville; and I liked it no worse because the evening sky, over the city, was settling into a mass of black-blue metal, heated at the rim16, and inflaming17 slowly to a heavy red.
I fear a high wind, because storm demands that exertion18 of strength and use of action I always yield with pain; but the sullen19 down-fall, the thick snow-descent, or dark rush of rain, ask only resignation — the quiet abandonment of garments and person to be, drenched20. In return, it sweeps a great capital clean before you; it makes you a quiet path through broad, grand streets; it petrifies21 a living city as if by eastern enchantment22; it transforms a Villette into a Tadmor. Let, then, the rains fall, and the floods descend23 — only I must first get rid of this basket of fruit.
An unknown clock from an unknown tower (Jean Baptiste’s voice was now too distant to be audible) was tolling24 the third quarter past five, when I reached that street and house whereof Madame Beck had given me the address. It was no street at all; it seemed rather to be part of a square: it was quiet, grass grew between the broad grey flags, the houses were large and looked very old — behind them rose the appearance of trees, indicating gardens at the back. Antiquity25 brooded above this region, business was banished26 thence. Rich men had once possessed27 this quarter, and once grandeur28 had made her seat here. That church, whose dark, half-ruinous turrets29 overlooked the square, was the venerable and formerly30 opulent shrine31 of the Magi. But wealth and greatness had long since stretched their gilded32 pinions33 and fled hence, leaving these their ancient nests, perhaps to house Penury34 for a time, or perhaps to stand cold and empty, mouldering35 untenanted in the course of winters.
As I crossed this deserted36 “place,” on whose pavement drops almost as large as a five-franc piece were now slowly darkening, I saw, in its whole expanse, no symptom or evidence of life, except what was given in the figure of an infirm old priest, who went past, bending and propped37 on a staff — the type of eld and decay.
He had issued from the very house to which I was directed; and when I paused before the door just closed after him, and rang the bell, he turned to look at me. Nor did he soon avert38 his gaze; perhaps he thought me, with my basket of summer fruit, and my lack of the dignity age confers, an incongruous figure in such a scene. I know, had a young ruddy-faced bonne opened the door to admit me, I should have thought such a one little in harmony with her dwelling39; but, when I found myself confronted by a very old woman, wearing a very antique peasant costume, a cap alike hideous40 and costly41, with long flaps of native lace, a petticoat and jacket of cloth, and sabots more like little boats than shoes, it seemed all right, and soothingly43 in character.
The expression of her face was not quite so soothing42 as the cut of her costume; anything more cantankerous44 I have seldom seen; she would scarcely reply to my inquiry45 after Madame Walravens; I believe she would have snatched the basket of fruit from my hand, had not the old priest, hobbling up, checked her, and himself lent an ear to the message with which I was charged.
His apparent deafness rendered it a little difficult to make him fully46 understand that I must see Madame Walravens, and consign47 the fruit into her own hands. At last, however, he comprehended the fact that such were my orders, and that duty enjoined48 their literal fulfilment. Addressing the aged2 bonne, not in French, but in the aboriginal49 tongue of Labassecour, he persuaded her, at last, to let me cross the inhospitable threshold, and himself escorting me up-stairs, I was ushered50 into a sort of salon, and there left.
The room was large, and had a fine old ceiling, and almost church-like windows of coloured-glass; but it was desolate51, and in the shadow of a coming storm, looked strangely lowering. Within — opened a smaller room; there, however, the blind of the single casement52 was closed; through the deep gloom few details of furniture were apparent. These few I amused myself by puzzling to make out; and, in particular, I was attracted by the outline of a picture on the wall.
By-and-by the picture seemed to give way: to my bewilderment, it shook, it sunk, it rolled back into nothing; its vanishing left an opening arched, leading into an arched passage, with a mystic winding53 stair; both passage and stair were of cold stone, uncarpeted and unpainted. Down this donjon stair descended54 a tap, tap, like a stick; soon there fell on the steps a shadow, and last of all, I was aware of a substance.
Yet, was it actual substance, this appearance approaching me? this obstruction55, partially56 darkening the arch?
It drew near, and I saw it well. I began to comprehend where I was. Well might this old square be named quarter of the Magi — well might the three towers, overlooking it, own for godfathers three mystic sages57 of a dead and dark art. Hoar enchantment here prevailed; a spell had opened for me elf-land — that cell-like room, that vanishing picture, that arch and passage, and stair of stone, were all parts of a fairy tale. Distincter even than these scenic58 details stood the chief figure — Cunegonde, the sorceress! Malevola, the evil fairy. How was she?
She might be three feet high, but she had no shape; her skinny hands rested upon each other, and pressed the gold knob of a wand-like ivory staff. Her face was large, set, not upon her shoulders, but before her breast; she seemed to have no neck; I should have said there were a hundred years in her features, and more perhaps in her eyes — her malign59, unfriendly eyes, with thick grey brows above, and livid lids all round. How severely60 they viewed me, with a sort of dull displeasure!
This being wore a gown of brocade, dyed bright blue, full-tinted as the gentianella flower, and covered with satin foliage61 in a large pattern; over the gown a costly shawl, gorgeously bordered, and so large for her, that its many-coloured fringe swept the floor. But her chief points were her jewels: she had long, clear earrings62, blazing with a lustre63 which could not be borrowed or false; she had rings on her skeleton hands, with thick gold hoops64, and stones — purple, green, and blood-red. Hunchbacked, dwarfish65, and doting66, she was adorned67 like a barbarian68 queen.
“Que me voulez-vous?” said she, hoarsely69, with the voice rather of male than of female old age; and, indeed, a silver beard bristled70 her chin.
I delivered my basket and my message.
“Is that all?” she demanded.
“It is all,” said I.
“Truly, it was well worth while,” she answered. “Return to Madame Beck, and tell her I can buy fruit when I want it, et quant à ses félicitations, je m’en moque!” And this courteous71 dame1 turned her back.
Just as she turned, a peal72 of thunder broke, and a flash of lightning blazed broad over salon and boudoir. The tale of magic seemed to proceed with due accompaniment of the elements. The wanderer, decoyed into the enchanted73 castle, heard rising, outside, the spell-wakened tempest.
What, in all this, was I to think of Madame Beck? She owned strange acquaintance; she offered messages and gifts at an unique shrine, and inauspicious seemed the bearing of the uncouth74 thing she worshipped. There went that sullen Sidonia, tottering75 and trembling like palsy incarnate76, tapping her ivory staff on the mosaic77 parquet78, and muttering venomously as she vanished.
Down washed the rain, deep lowered the welkin; the clouds, ruddy a while ago, had now, through all their blackness, turned deadly pale, as if in terror. Notwithstanding my late boast about not fearing a shower, I hardly liked to go out under this waterspout. Then the gleams of lightning were very fierce, the thunder crashed very near; this storm had gathered immediately above Villette; it seemed to have burst at the zenith; it rushed down prone79; the forked, slant80 bolts pierced athwart vertical81 torrents82; red zigzags83 interlaced a descent blanched84 as white metal: and all broke from a sky heavily black in its swollen85 abundance.
Leaving Madame Walravens’ inhospitable salon, I betook myself to her cold staircase; there was a seat on the landing — there I waited. Somebody came gliding86 along the gallery just above; it was the old priest.
“Indeed Mademoiselle shall not sit there,” said he. “It would displeasure our benefactor87 if he knew a stranger was so treated in this house.”
And he begged me so earnestly to return to the salon, that, without discourtesy, I could not but comply. The smaller room was better furnished and more habitable than the larger; thither88 he introduced me. Partially withdrawing the blind, he disclosed what seemed more like an oratory89 than a boudoir, a very solemn little chamber90, looking as if it were a place rather dedicated91 to relics92 and remembrance, than designed for present use and comfort.
The good father sat down, as if to keep me company; but instead of conversing93, he took out a book, fastened on the page his eyes, and employed his lips in whispering — what sounded like a prayer or litany. A yellow electric light from the sky gilded his bald head; his figure remained in shade — deep and purple; he sat still as sculpture; he seemed to forget me for his prayers; he only looked up when a fiercer bolt, or a harsher, closer rattle94 told of nearing danger; even then, it was not in fear, but in seeming awe95, he raised his eyes. I too was awe-struck; being, however, under no pressure of slavish terror, my thoughts and observations were free.
To speak truth, I was beginning to fancy that the old priest resembled that Père Silas, before whom I had kneeled in the church of the Béguinage. The idea was vague, for I had seen my confessor only in dusk and in profile, yet still I seemed to trace a likeness96: I thought also I recognized the voice. While I watched him, he betrayed, by one lifted look, that he felt my scrutiny97; I turned to note the room; that too had its half mystic interest.
Beside a cross of curiously98 carved old ivory, yellow with time, and sloped above a dark-red prie-dieu, furnished duly, with rich missal and ebon rosary — hung the picture whose dim outline had drawn99 my eyes before — the picture which moved, fell away with the wall and let in phantoms100. Imperfectly seen, I had taken it for a Madonna; revealed by clearer light, it proved to be a woman’s portrait in a nun’s dress. The face, though not beautiful, was pleasing; pale, young, and shaded with the dejection of grief or ill health. I say again it was not beautiful; it was not even intellectual; its very amiability101 was the amiability of a weak frame, inactive passions, acquiescent102 habits: yet I looked long at that picture, and could not choose but look.
The old priest, who at first had seemed to me so deaf and infirm, must yet have retained his faculties103 in tolerable preservation104; absorbed in his book as he appeared, without once lifting his head, or, as far as I knew, turning his eyes, he perceived the point towards which my attention was drawn, and, in a slow distinct voice, dropped, concerning it, these four observations:—
“She was much beloved.
“She gave herself to God.
“She died young.
“She is still remembered, still wept.”
“By that aged lady, Madame Walravens?” I inquired, fancying that I had discovered in the incurable105 grief of bereavement106, a key to that same aged lady’s desperate ill-humour.
The father shook his head with half a smile.
“No, no,” said he; “a grand-dame’s affection for her children’s children may be great, and her sorrow for their loss, lively; but it is only the affianced lover, to whom Fate, Faith, and Death have trebly denied the bliss107 of union, who mourns what he has lost, as Justine Marie is still mourned.”
I thought the father rather wished to be questioned, and therefore I inquired who had lost and who still mourned “Justine Marie.” I got, in reply, quite a little romantic narrative108, told not unimpressively, with the accompaniment of the now subsiding109 storm. I am bound to say it might have been made much more truly impressive, if there had been less French, Rousseau-like sentimentalizing and wire-drawing; and rather more healthful carelessness of effect. But the worthy110 father was obviously a Frenchman born and bred (I became more and more persuaded of his resemblance to my confessor)— he was a true son of Rome; when he did lift his eyes, he looked at me out of their corners, with more and sharper subtlety111 than, one would have thought, could survive the wear and tear of seventy years. Yet, I believe, he was a good old man.
The hero of his tale was some former pupil of his, whom he now called his benefactor, and who, it appears, had loved this pale Justine Marie, the daughter of rich parents, at a time when his own worldly prospects112 were such as to justify113 his aspiring114 to a well-dowered hand. The pupil’s father — once a rich banker — had failed, died, and left behind him only debts and destitution115. The son was then forbidden to think of Marie; especially that old witch of a grand-dame I had seen, Madame Walravens, opposed the match with all the violence of a temper which deformity made sometimes demoniac. The mild Marie had neither the treachery to be false, nor the force to be quite staunch to her lover; she gave up her first suitor, but, refusing to accept a second with a heavier purse, withdrew to a convent, and there died in her noviciate.
Lasting116 anguish117, it seems, had taken possession of the faithful heart which worshipped her, and the truth of that love and grief had been shown in a manner which touched even me, as I listened.
Some years after Justine Marie’s death, ruin had come on her house too: her father, by nominal118 calling a jeweller, but who also dealt a good deal on the Bourse, had been concerned in some financial transactions which entailed119 exposure and ruinous fines. He died of grief for the loss, and shame for the infamy120. His old hunchbacked mother and his bereaved121 wife were left penniless, and might have died too of want; but their lost daughter’s once-despised, yet most true-hearted suitor, hearing of the condition of these ladies, came with singular devotedness122 to the rescue. He took on their insolent123 pride the revenge of the purest charity — housing, caring for, befriending them, so as no son could have done it more tenderly and efficiently124. The mother — on the whole a good woman — died blessing125 him; the strange, godless, loveless, misanthrope126 grandmother lived still, entirely127 supported by this self-sacrificing man. Her, who had been the bane of his life, blighting128 his hope, and awarding him, for love and domestic happiness, long mourning and cheerless solitude129, he treated with the respect a good son might offer a kind mother. He had brought her to this house, “and,” continued the priest, while genuine tears rose to his eyes, “here, too, he shelters me, his old tutor, and Agnes, a superannuated130 servant of his father’s family. To our sustenance131, and to other charities, I know he devotes three-parts of his income, keeping only the fourth to provide himself with bread and the most modest accommodations. By this arrangement he has rendered it impossible to himself ever to marry: he has given himself to God and to his angel-bride as much as if he were a priest, like me.”
The father had wiped away his tears before he uttered these last words, and in pronouncing them, he for one instant raised his eyes to mine. I caught this glance, despite its veiled character; the momentary132 gleam shot a meaning which struck me.
These Romanists are strange beings. Such a one among them — whom you know no more than the last Inca of Peru, or the first Emperor of China — knows you and all your concerns; and has his reasons for saying to you so and so, when you simply thought the communication sprang impromptu from the instant’s impulse: his plan in bringing it about that you shall come on such a day, to such a place, under such and such circumstances, when the whole arrangement seems to your crude apprehension133 the ordinance134 of chance, or the sequel of exigency135. Madame Beck’s suddenly-recollected message and present, my artless embassy to the Place of the Magi, the old priest accidentally descending136 the steps and crossing the square, his interposition on my behalf with the bonne who would have sent me away, his reappearance on the staircase, my introduction to this room, the portrait, the narrative so affably volunteered — all these little incidents, taken as they fell out, seemed each independent of its successor; a handful of loose beads137: but threaded through by that quick-shot and crafty138 glance of a Jesuit-eye, they dropped pendent in a long string, like that rosary on the prie-dieu. Where lay the link of junction139, where the little clasp of this monastic necklace? I saw or felt union, but could not yet find the spot, or detect the means of connection.
Perhaps the musing-fit into which I had by this time fallen, appeared somewhat suspicious in its abstraction; he gently interrupted: “Mademoiselle,” said he, “I trust you have not far to go through these inundated140 streets?”
“More than half a league.”
“You live ——?”
“In the Rue Fossette.”
“Not” (with animation), “not at the pensionnat of Madame Beck?”
“The same.”
“Donc” (clapping his hands), “donc, vous devez conna?tre mon noble élève, mon Paul?”
“Monsieur Paul Emanuel, Professor of Literature?”
“He and none other.”
A brief silence fell. The spring of junction seemed suddenly to have become palpable; I felt it yield to pressure.
“Was it of M. Paul you have been speaking?” I presently inquired. “Was he your pupil and the benefactor of Madame Walravens?”
“Yes, and of Agnes, the old servant: and moreover, (with a certain emphasis), he was and is the lover, true, constant and eternal, of that saint in heaven — Justine Marie.”
“And who, father, are you?“ I continued; and though I accentuated141 the question, its utterance142 was well nigh superfluous143; I was ere this quite prepared for the answer which actually came.
“I, daughter, am Père Silas; that unworthy son of Holy Church whom you once honoured with a noble and touching144 confidence, showing me the core of a heart, and the inner shrine of a mind whereof, in solemn truth, I coveted145 the direction, in behalf of the only true faith. Nor have I for a day lost sight of you, nor for an hour failed to take in you a rooted interest. Passed under the discipline of Rome, moulded by her high training, inoculated146 with her salutary doctrines147, inspired by the zeal148 she alone gives — I realize what then might be your spiritual rank, your practical value; and I envy Heresy149 her prey150.”
This struck me as a special state of things — I half-realized myself in that condition also; passed under discipline, moulded, trained, inoculated, and so on. “Not so,” thought I, but I restrained deprecation, and sat quietly enough.
“I suppose M. Paul does not live here?” I resumed, pursuing a theme which I thought more to the purpose than any wild renegade dreams.
“No; he only comes occasionally to worship his beloved saint, to make his confession151 to me, and to pay his respects to her he calls his mother. His own lodging152 consists but of two rooms: he has no servant, and yet he will not suffer Madame Walravens to dispose of those splendid jewels with which you see her adorned, and in which she takes a puerile153 pride as the ornaments154 of her youth, and the last relics of her son the jeweller’s wealth.”
“How often,” murmured I to myself, “has this man, this M. Emanuel, seemed to me to lack magnanimity in trifles, yet how great he is in great things!”
I own I did not reckon amongst the proofs of his greatness, either the act of confession, or the saint-worship.
“How long is it since that lady died?” I inquired, looking at Justine Marie.
“Twenty years. She was somewhat older than M. Emanuel; he was then very young, for he is not much beyond forty.”
“Does he yet weep her?”
“His heart will weep her always: the essence of Emanuel’s nature is — constancy.”
This was said with marked emphasis.
And now the sun broke out pallid155 and waterish; the rain yet fell, but there was no more tempest: that hot firmament156 had cloven and poured out its lightnings. A longer delay would scarce leave daylight for my return, so I rose, thanked the father for his hospitality and his tale, was benignantly answered by a “pax vobiscum,” which I made kindly157 welcome, because it seemed uttered with a true benevolence158; but I liked less the mystic phrase accompanying it.
“Daughter, you shall be what you shall be!” an oracle159 that made me shrug160 my shoulders as soon as I had got outside the door. Few of us know what we are to come to certainly, but for all that had happened yet, I had good hopes of living and dying a sober-minded Protestant: there was a hollowness within, and a flourish around “Holy Church” which tempted161 me but moderately. I went on my way pondering many things. Whatever Romanism may be, there are good Romanists: this man, Emanuel, seemed of the best; touched with superstition162, influenced by priestcraft, yet wondrous163 for fond faith, for pious164 devotion, for sacrifice of self, for charity unbounded. It remained to see how Rome, by her agents, handled such qualities; whether she cherished them for their own sake and for God’s, or put them out to usury165 and made booty of the interest.
By the time I reached home, it was sundown. Goton had kindly saved me a portion of dinner, which indeed I needed. She called me into the little cabinet to partake of it, and there Madame Beck soon made her appearance, bringing me a glass of wine.
“Well,” began she, chuckling166, “and what sort of a reception did Madame Walravens give you? Elle est dr?le, n’est-ce pas?”
I told her what had passed, delivering verbatim the courteous message with which I had been charged.
“Oh la singulière petite bossue!” laughed she. “Et figurez-vous qu’elle me déteste, parcequ’elle me croit amoureuse de mon cousin Paul; ce petit dévot qui n’ose pas bouger, à moins que son confesseur ne lui donne la permission! Au reste” (she went on), “if he wanted to marry ever so much — soit moi, soit une autre — he could not do it; he has too large a family already on his hands: Mère Walravens, Père Silas, Dame Agnes, and a whole troop of nameless paupers167. There never was a man like him for laying on himself burdens greater than he can bear, voluntarily incurring168 needless responsibilities. Besides, he harbours a romantic idea about some pale-faced Marie Justine — personnage assez niaise à ce que je pense” (such was Madame’s irreverent remark), “who has been an angel in heaven, or elsewhere, this score of years, and to whom he means to go, free from all earthly ties, pure comme un lis, à ce qu’il dit. Oh, you would laugh could you but know half M. Emanuel’s crotchets and eccentricities169! But I hinder you from taking refreshment170, ma bonne Meess, which you must need; eat your supper, drink your wine, oubliez les anges, les bossues, et surtout, les Professeurs — et bon soir!”
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1
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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embroidering
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| v.（在织物上）绣花( embroider的现在分词 )；刺绣；对…加以渲染（或修饰）；给…添枝加叶 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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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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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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inflaming
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| v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的现在分词 ) | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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petrifies
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| v.吓呆，使麻木( petrify的第三人称单数 )；使吓呆，使惊呆 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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28
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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30
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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31
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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32
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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33
pinions
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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34
penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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35
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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36
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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39
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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40
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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41
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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42
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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43
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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44
cantankerous
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| adj.爱争吵的，脾气不好的 | |
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45
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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46
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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47
consign
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| vt.寄售（货品），托运，交托，委托 | |
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48
enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
aboriginal
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| adj.（指动植物）土生的，原产地的，土著的 | |
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50
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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52
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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53
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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54
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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55
obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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56
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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57
sages
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| n.圣人( sage的名词复数 )；智者；哲人；鼠尾草（可用作调料） | |
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58
scenic
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| adj.自然景色的，景色优美的 | |
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59
malign
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| adj.有害的；恶性的；恶意的；v.诽谤，诬蔑 | |
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60
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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61
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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62
earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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63
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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64
hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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65
dwarfish
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| a.像侏儒的，矮小的 | |
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66
doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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67
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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68
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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69
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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70
bristled
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| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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71
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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72
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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73
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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74
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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75
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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76
incarnate
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| adj.化身的，人体化的，肉色的 | |
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77
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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78
parquet
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| n.镶木地板 | |
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79
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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80
slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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81
vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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82
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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83
zigzags
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| n.锯齿形的线条、小径等( zigzag的名词复数 )v.弯弯曲曲地走路，曲折地前进( zigzag的第三人称单数 ) | |
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84
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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85
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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86
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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87
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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88
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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89
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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90
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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91
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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92
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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93
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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94
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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95
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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96
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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97
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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98
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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99
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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100
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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101
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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102
acquiescent
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| adj.默许的，默认的 | |
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103
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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104
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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105
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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106
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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107
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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108
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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109
subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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110
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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111
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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112
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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113
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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114
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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115
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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116
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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117
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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118
nominal
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| adj.名义上的；(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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119
entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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120
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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121
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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122
devotedness
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123
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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124
efficiently
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| adv.高效率地，有能力地 | |
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125
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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126
misanthrope
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| n.恨人类的人；厌世者 | |
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127
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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128
blighting
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| 使凋萎( blight的现在分词 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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129
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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130
superannuated
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| adj.老朽的，退休的；v.因落后于时代而废除，勒令退学 | |
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131
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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132
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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133
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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134
ordinance
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| n.法令；条令；条例 | |
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135
exigency
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| n.紧急；迫切需要 | |
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136
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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137
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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138
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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139
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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140
inundated
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| v.淹没( inundate的过去式和过去分词 )；（洪水般地）涌来；充满；给予或交予（太多事物）使难以应付 | |
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141
accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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142
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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143
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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144
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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145
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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146
inoculated
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| v.给…做预防注射( inoculate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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147
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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148
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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149
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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150
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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151
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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152
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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153
puerile
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| adj.幼稚的，儿童的 | |
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154
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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155
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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156
firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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157
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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158
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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159
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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160
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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161
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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162
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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163
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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164
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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165
usury
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| n.高利贷 | |
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166
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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167
paupers
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| n.穷人( pauper的名词复数 )；贫民；贫穷 | |
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168
incurring
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| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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169
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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170
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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