On a Thursday morning we were all assembled in classe, waiting for the lesson of literature. The hour was come; we expected the master.
The pupils of the first classe sat very still; the cleanly-written compositions prepared since the last lesson lay ready before them, neatly12 tied with ribbon, waiting to be gathered by the hand of the Professor as he made his rapid round of the desks. The month was July, the morning fine, the glass-door stood ajar, through it played a fresh breeze, and plants, growing at the lintel, waved, bent13, looked in, seeming to whisper tidings.
M. Emanuel was not always quite punctual; we scarcely wondered at his being a little late, but we wondered when the door at last opened and, instead of him with his swiftness and his fire, there came quietly upon us the cautious Madame Beck.
She approached M. Paul’s desk; she stood before it; she drew round her the light shawl covering her shoulders; beginning to speak in low, yet firm tones, and with a fixed14 gaze, she said, “This morning there will be no lesson of literature.”
The second paragraph of her address followed, after about two minutes’ pause.
“It is probable the lessons will be suspended for a week. I shall require at least that space of time to find an efficient substitute for M. Emanuel. Meanwhile, it shall be our study to fill the blanks usefully.
“Your Professor, ladies,” she went on, “intends, if possible, duly to take leave of you. At the present moment he has not leisure for that ceremony. He is preparing for a long voyage. A very sudden and urgent summons of duty calls him to a great distance. He has decided16 to leave Europe for an indefinite time. Perhaps he may tell you more himself. Ladies, instead of the usual lesson with M. Emanuel, you will, this morning, read English with Mademoiselle Lucy.”
She bent her head courteously17, drew closer the folds of her shawl, and passed from the classe.
A great silence fell: then a murmur18 went round the room: I believe some pupils wept.
Some time elapsed. The noise, the whispering, the occasional sobbing19 increased. I became conscious of a relaxation20 of discipline, a sort of growing disorder21, as if my girls felt that vigilance was withdrawn22, and that surveillance had virtually left the classe. Habit and the sense of duty enabled me to rally quickly, to rise in my usual way, to speak in my usual tone, to enjoin23, and finally to establish quiet. I made the English reading long and close. I kept them at it the whole morning. I remember feeling a sentiment of impatience24 towards the pupils who sobbed25. Indeed, their emotion was not of much value: it was only an hysteric agitation26. I told them so unsparingly. I half ridiculed27 them. I was severe. The truth was, I could not do with their tears, or that gasping28 sound; I could not bear it. A rather weak-minded, low-spirited pupil kept it up when the others had done; relentless29 necessity obliged and assisted me so to accost30 her, that she dared not carry on the demonstration31, that she was forced to conquer the convulsion.
That girl would have had a right to hate me, except that, when school was over and her companions departing, I ordered her to stay, and when they were gone, I did what I had never done to one among them before — pressed her to my heart and kissed her cheek. But, this impulse yielded to, I speedily put her out of the classe, for, upon that poignant32 strain, she wept more bitterly than ever.
I filled with occupation every minute of that day, and should have liked to sit up all night if I might have kept a candle burning; the night, however, proved a bad time, and left bad effects, preparing me ill for the next day’s ordeal33 of insufferable gossip. Of course this news fell under general discussion. Some little reserve had accompanied the first surprise: that soon wore off; every mouth opened; every tongue wagged; teachers, pupils, the very servants, mouthed the name of “Emanuel.” He, whose connection with the school was contemporary with its commencement, thus suddenly to withdraw! All felt it strange.
They talked so much, so long, so often, that, out of the very multitude of their words and rumours34, grew at last some intelligence. About the third day I heard it said that he was to sail in a week; then — that he was bound for the West Indies. I looked at Madame Beck’s face, and into her eyes, for disproof or confirmation35 of this report; I perused36 her all over for information, but no part of her disclosed more than what was unperturbed and commonplace.
“This secession was an immense loss to her,” she alleged37. “She did not know how she should fill up the vacancy38. She was so used to her kinsman39, he had become her right hand; what should she do without him? She had opposed the step, but M. Paul had convinced her it was his duty.”
She said all this in public, in classe, at the dinner-table, speaking audibly to Zélie St. Pierre.
“Why was it his duty?” I could have asked her that. I had impulses to take hold of her suddenly, as she calmly passed me in classe, to stretch out my hand and grasp her fast, and say, “Stop. Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter. Why is it his duty to go into banishment40?” But Madame always addressed some other teacher, and never looked at me, never seemed conscious I could have a care in the question.
The week wore on. Nothing more was said about M. Emanuel coming to bid us good-by; and none seemed anxious for his coming; none questioned whether or not he would come; none betrayed torment41 lest he should depart silent and unseen; incessantly42 did they talk, and never, in all their talk, touched on this vital point. As to Madame, she of course could see him, and say to him as much as she pleased. What should she care whether or not he appeared in the schoolroom?
The week consumed. We were told that he was going on such a day, that his destination was “Basseterre in Guadaloupe:” the business which called him abroad related to a friend’s interests, not his own: I thought as much.
“Basseterre in Guadaloupe.” I had little sleep about this time, but whenever I did slumber43, it followed infallibly that I was quickly roused with a start, while the words “Basseterre,” “Guadaloupe,” seemed pronounced over my pillow, or ran athwart the darkness round and before me, in zigzag44 characters of red or violet light.
For what I felt there was no help, and how could I help feeling? M. Emanuel had been very kind to me of late days; he had been growing hourly better and kinder. It was now a month since we had settled the theological difference, and in all that time there had been no quarrel. Nor had our peace been the cold daughter of divorce; we had not lived aloof45; he had come oftener, he had talked with me more than before; he had spent hours with me, with temper soothed47, with eye content, with manner home-like and mild. Kind subjects of conversation had grown between us; he had inquired into my plans of life, and I had communicated them; the school project pleased him; he made me repeat it more than once, though he called it an Alnaschar dream. The jar was over; the mutual48 understanding was settling and fixing; feelings of union and hope made themselves profoundly felt in the heart; affection and deep esteem50 and dawning trust had each fastened its bond.
What quiet lessons I had about this time! No more taunts51 on my “intellect,” no more menaces of grating public shows! How sweetly, for the jealous gibe52, and the more jealous, half-passionate53 eulogy54, were substituted a mute, indulgent help, a fond guidance, and a tender forbearance which forgave but never praised. There were times when he would sit for many minutes and not speak at all; and when dusk or duty brought separation, he would leave with words like these, “Il est doux, le repos! Il est précieux le calme bonheur!”
One evening, not ten short days since, he joined me whilst walking in my alley56. He took my hand. I looked up in his face. I thought he meant to arrest my attention.
“Bonne petite amie!” said he, softly; “douce consolatrice!” But through his touch, and with his words, a new feeling and a strange thought found a course. Could it be that he was becoming more than friend or brother? Did his look speak a kindness beyond fraternity or amity57?
His eloquent58 look had more to say, his hand drew me forward, his interpreting lips stirred. No. Not now. Here into the twilight59 alley broke an interruption: it came dual60 and ominous61: we faced two bodeful forms — a woman’s and a priest’s — Madame Beck and Père Silas.
The aspect of the latter I shall never forget. On the first impulse it expressed a Jean-Jacques sensibility, stirred by the signs of affection just surprised; then, immediately, darkened over it the jaundice of ecclesiastical jealousy63. He spoke64 to me with unction. He looked on his pupil with sternness. As to Madame Beck, she, of course, saw nothing — nothing; though her kinsman retained in her presence the hand of the heretic foreigner, not suffering withdrawal65, but clasping it close and fast.
Following these incidents, that sudden announcement of departure had struck me at first as incredible. Indeed, it was only frequent repetition, and the credence66 of the hundred and fifty minds round me, which forced on me its full acceptance. As to that week of suspense67, with its blank, yet burning days, which brought from him no word of explanation — I remember, but I cannot describe its passage.
The last day broke. Now would he visit us. Now he would come and speak his farewell, or he would vanish mute, and be seen by us nevermore.
This alternative seemed to be present in the mind of not a living creature in that school. All rose at the usual hour; all breakfasted as usual; all, without reference to, or apparent thought of their late Professor, betook themselves with wonted phlegm to their ordinary duties.
So oblivious69 was the house, so tame, so trained its proceedings70, so inexpectant its aspect — I scarce knew how to breathe in an atmosphere thus stagnant71, thus smothering72. Would no one lend me a voice? Had no one a wish, no one a word, no one a prayer to which I could say — Amen?
I had seen them unanimous in demand for the merest trifle — a treat, a holiday, a lesson’s remission; they could not, they would not now band to besiege74 Madame Beck, and insist on a last interview with a Master who had certainly been loved, at least by some — loved as they could love — but, oh! what is the love of the multitude?
I knew where he lived: I knew where he was to be heard of, or communicated with; the distance was scarce a stone’s-throw: had it been in the next room — unsummoned, I could make no use of my knowledge. To follow, to seek out, to remind, to recall — for these things I had no faculty75.
M. Emanuel might have passed within reach of my arm: had he passed silent and unnoticing, silent and stirless should I have suffered him to go by.
Morning wasted. Afternoon came, and I thought all was over. My heart trembled in its place. My blood was troubled in its current. I was quite sick, and hardly knew how to keep at my post — or do my work. Yet the little world round me plodded76 on indifferent; all seemed jocund77, free of care, or fear, or thought: the very pupils who, seven days since, had wept hysterically78 at a startling piece of news, appeared quite to have forgotten the news, its import, and their emotion.
A little before five o’clock, the hour of dismissal, Madame Beck sent for me to her chamber79, to read over and translate some English letter she had received, and to write for her the answer. Before settling to this work, I observed that she softly closed the two doors of her chamber; she even shut and fastened the casement80, though it was a hot day, and free circulation of air was usually regarded by her as indispensable. Why this precaution? A keen suspicion, an almost fierce distrust, suggested such question. Did she want to exclude sound? what sound?
I listened as I had never listened before; I listened like the evening and winter-wolf, snuffing the snow, scenting81 prey82, and hearing far off the traveller’s tramp. Yet I could both listen and write. About the middle of the letter I heard — what checked my pen — a tread in the vestibule. No door-bell had rung; Rosine — acting83 doubtless by orders — had anticipated such réveillée. Madame saw me halt. She coughed, made a bustle84, spoke louder. The tread had passed on to the classes.
“Proceed,” said Madame; but my hand was fettered85, my ear enchained, my thoughts were carried off captive.
The classes formed another building; the hall parted them from the dwelling-house: despite distance and partition, I heard the sudden stir of numbers, a whole division rising at once.
“They are putting away work,” said Madame.
It was indeed the hour to put away work, but why that sudden hush86 — that instant quell87 of the tumult88?
“Wait, Madame — I will see what it is.”
And I put down my pen and left her. Left her? No: she would not be left: powerless to detain me, she rose and followed, close as my shadow. I turned on the last step of the stair.
“Are you coming, too?” I asked.
“Yes,” said she; meeting my glance with a peculiar89 aspect — a look, clouded, yet resolute90.
We proceeded then, not together, but she walked in my steps.
He was come. Entering the first classe, I saw him. There, once more appeared the form most familiar. I doubt not they had tried to keep him away, but he was come.
The girls stood in a semicircle; he was passing round, giving his farewells, pressing each hand, touching91 with his lips each cheek. This last ceremony, foreign custom permitted at such a parting — so solemn, to last so long.
I felt it hard that Madame Beck should dog me thus; following and watching me close; my neck and shoulder shrunk in fever under her breath; I became terribly goaded92.
He was approaching; the semicircle was almost travelled round; he came to the last pupil; he turned. But Madame was before me; she had stepped out suddenly; she seemed to magnify her proportions and amplify93 her drapery; she eclipsed me; I was hid. She knew my weakness and deficiency; she could calculate the degree of moral paralysis94 — the total default of self-assertion — with which, in a crisis, I could be struck. She hastened to her kinsman, she broke upon him volubly, she mastered his attention, she hurried him to the door — the glass-door opening on the garden. I think he looked round; could I but have caught his eye, courage, I think, would have rushed in to aid feeling, and there would have been a charge, and, perhaps, a rescue; but already the room was all confusion, the semicircle broken into groups, my figure was lost among thirty more conspicuous95. Madame had her will; yes, she got him away, and he had not seen me; he thought me absent. Five o’clock struck, the loud dismissal-bell rang, the school separated, the room emptied.
There seems, to my memory, an entire darkness and distraction96 in some certain minutes I then passed alone — a grief inexpressible over a loss unendurable. What should I do; oh! what should I do; when all my life’s hope was thus torn by the roots out of my riven, outraged98 heart?
What I should have done, I know not, when a little child — the least child in the school — broke with its simplicity99 and its unconsciousness into the raging yet silent centre of that inward conflict.
“Mademoiselle,” lisped the treble voice, “I am to give you that. M. Paul said I was to seek you all over the house, from the grenier to the cellar, and when I found you, to give you that.”
And the child delivered a note; the little dove dropped on my knee, its olive leaf plucked off. I found neither address nor name, only these words:—
“It was not my intention to take leave of you when I said good-by to the rest, but I hoped to see you in classe. I was disappointed. The interview is deferred100. Be ready for me. Ere I sail, I must see you at leisure, and speak with you at length. Be ready; my moments are numbered, and, just now, monopolized101; besides, I have a private business on hand which I will not share with any, nor communicate — even to you. — Paul.”
“Be ready?” Then it must be this evening: was he not to go on the morrow? Yes; of that point I was certain. I had seen the date of his vessel’s departure advertised. Oh! I would be ready, but could that longed-for meeting really be achieved? the time was so short, the schemers seemed so watchful102, so active, so hostile; the way of access appeared strait as a gully, deep as a chasm103 — Apollyon straddled across it, breathing flames. Could my Greatheart overcome? Could my guide reach me?
Who might tell? Yet I began to take some courage, some comfort; it seemed to me that I felt a pulse of his heart beating yet true to the whole throb105 of mine.
I waited my champion. Apollyon came trailing his Hell behind him. I think if Eternity106 held torment, its form would not be fiery107 rack, nor its nature despair. I think that on a certain day amongst those days which never dawned, and will not set, an angel entered Hades — stood, shone, smiled, delivered a prophecy of conditional108 pardon, kindled109 a doubtful hope of bliss110 to come, not now, but at a day and hour unlooked for, revealed in his own glory and grandeur111 the height and compass of his promise: spoke thus — then towering, became a star, and vanished into his own Heaven. His legacy112 was suspense — a worse boon113 than despair.
All that evening I waited, trusting in the dove-sent olive-leaf, yet in the midst of my trust, terribly fearing. My fear pressed heavy. Cold and peculiar, I knew it for the partner of a rarely-belied presentiment114. The first hours seemed long and slow; in spirit I clung to the flying skirts of the last. They passed like drift cloud — like the wrack115 scudding116 before a storm.
They passed. All the long, hot summer day burned away like a Yule-log; the crimson117 of its close perished; I was left bent among the cool blue shades, over the pale and ashen118 gleams of its night.
Prayers were over; it was bed-time; my co-inmates were all retired119. I still remained in the gloomy first classe, forgetting, or at least disregarding, rules I had never forgotten or disregarded before.
How long I paced that classe I cannot tell; I must have been afoot many hours; mechanically had I moved aside benches and desks, and had made for myself a path down its length. There I walked, and there, when certain that the whole household were abed, and quite out of hearing — there, I at last wept. Reliant on Night, confiding120 in Solitude121, I kept my tears sealed, my sobs122 chained, no longer; they heaved my heart; they tore their way. In this house, what grief could be sacred?
Soon after eleven o’clock — a very late hour in the Rue104 Fossette — the door unclosed, quietly but not stealthily; a lamp’s flame invaded the moonlight; Madame Beck entered, with the same composed air, as if coming on an ordinary occasion, at an ordinary season. Instead of at once addressing me, she went to her desk, took her keys, and seemed to seek something: she loitered over this feigned123 search long, too long. She was calm, too calm; my mood scarce endured the pretence124; driven beyond common range, two hours since I had left behind me wonted respects and fears. Led by a touch, and ruled by a word, under usual circumstances, no yoke125 could now be borne — no curb126 obeyed.
“It is more than time for retirement,” said Madame; “the rule of the house has already been transgressed127 too long.”
Madame met no answer: I did not check my walk; when she came in my way, I put her out of it.
“Let me persuade you to calm, Meess; let me lead you to your chamber,” said she, trying to speak softly.
“No!” I said; “neither you nor another shall persuade or lead me.”
“Your bed shall be warmed. Goton is sitting up still. She shall make you comfortable: she shall give you a sedative128.”
“Madame,” I broke out, “you are a sensualist. Under all your serenity129, your peace, and your decorum, you are an undenied sensualist. Make your own bed warm and soft; take sedatives130 and meats, and drinks spiced and sweet, as much as you will. If you have any sorrow or disappointment — and, perhaps, you have — nay131, I know you have — seek your own palliatives, in your own chosen resources. Leave me, however. Leave me, I say!”
“I must send another to watch you, Meess: I must send Goton.”
“I forbid it. Let me alone. Keep your hand off me, and my life, and my troubles. Oh, Madame! in your hand there is both chill and poison. You envenom and you paralyze.”
“What have I done, Meess? You must not marry Paul. He cannot marry.”
“Dog in the manger!” I said: for I knew she secretly wanted him, and had always wanted him. She called him “insupportable:” she railed at him for a “dévot:” she did not love, but she wanted to marry, that she might bind132 him to her interest. Deep into some of Madame’s secrets I had entered — I know not how: by an intuition or an inspiration which came to me — I know not whence. In the course of living with her too, I had slowly learned, that, unless with an inferior, she must ever be a rival. She was my rival, heart and soul, though secretly, under the smoothest bearing, and utterly133 unknown to all save her and myself.
Two minutes I stood over Madame, feeling that the whole woman was in my power, because in some moods, such as the present — in some stimulated134 states of perception, like that of this instant — her habitual135 disguise, her mask and her domino, were to me a mere73 network reticulated with holes; and I saw underneath136 a being heartless, self-indulgent, and ignoble137. She quietly retreated from me: meek138 and self-possessed, though very uneasy, she said, “If I would not be persuaded to take rest, she must reluctantly leave me.” Which she did incontinent, perhaps even more glad to get away, than I was to see her vanish.
This was the sole flash-eliciting, truth-extorting, rencontre which ever occurred between me and Madame Beck: this short night-scene was never repeated. It did not one whit139 change her manner to me. I do not know that she revenged it. I do not know that she hated me the worse for my fell candour. I think she bucklered herself with the secret philosophy of her strong mind, and resolved to forget what it irked her to remember. I know that to the end of our mutual lives there occurred no repetition of, no allusion140 to, that fiery passage.
That night passed: all nights — even the starless night before dissolution — must wear away. About six o’clock, the hour which called up the household, I went out to the court, and washed my face in its cold, fresh well-water. Entering by the carré, a piece of mirror-glass, set in an oaken cabinet, repeated my image. It said I was changed: my cheeks and lips were sodden141 white, my eyes were glassy, and my eyelids142 swollen143 and purple.
On rejoining my companions, I knew they all looked at me — my heart seemed discovered to them: I believed myself self-betrayed. Hideously144 certain did it seem that the very youngest of the school must guess why and for whom I despaired.
“Isabelle,” the child whom I had once nursed in sickness, approached me. Would she, too, mock me!
“Que vous êtes pale! Vous êtes donc bien malade, Mademoiselle!” said she, putting her finger in her mouth, and staring with a wistful stupidity which at the moment seemed to me more beautiful than the keenest intelligence.
Isabelle did not long stand alone in the recommendation of ignorance: before the day was over, I gathered cause of gratitude145 towards the whole blind household. The multitude have something else to do than to read hearts and interpret dark sayings. Who wills, may keep his own counsel — be his own secret’s sovereign. In the course of that day, proof met me on proof, not only that the cause of my present sorrow was unguessed, but that my whole inner life for the last six months, was still mine only. It was not known — it had not been noted146 — that I held in peculiar value one life among all lives. Gossip had passed me by; curiosity had looked me over; both subtle influences, hovering147 always round, had never become centred upon me. A given organization may live in a full fever-hospital, and escape typhus. M. Emanuel had come and gone: I had been taught and sought; in season and out of season he had called me, and I had obeyed him: “M. Paul wants Miss Lucy”—“Miss Lucy is with M. Paul”— such had been the perpetual bulletin; and nobody commented, far less condemned148. Nobody hinted, nobody jested. Madame Beck read the riddle149: none else resolved it. What I now suffered was called illness — a headache: I accepted the baptism.
But what bodily illness was ever like this pain? This certainty that he was gone without a farewell — this cruel conviction that fate and pursuing furies — a woman’s envy and a priest’s bigotry150 — would suffer me to see him no more? What wonder that the second evening found me like the first — untamed, tortured, again pacing a solitary151 room in an unalterable passion of silent desolation?
Madame Beck did not herself summon me to bed that night — she did not come near me: she sent Ginevra Fanshawe — a more efficient agent for the purpose she could not have employed. Ginevra’s first words —“Is your headache very bad to-night?” (for Ginevra, like the rest, thought I had a headache — an intolerable headache which made me frightfully white in the face, and insanely restless in the foot)— her first words, I say, inspired the impulse to flee anywhere, so that it were only out of reach. And soon, what followed — plaints about her own headaches — completed the business.
I went up-stairs. Presently I was in my bed — my miserable152 bed — haunted with quick scorpions153. I had not been laid down five minutes, when another emissary arrived: Goton came, bringing me something to drink. I was consumed with thirst — I drank eagerly; the beverage154 was sweet, but I tasted a drug.
“Madame says it will make you sleep, chou-chou,” said Goton, as she received back the emptied cup.
Ah! the sedative had been administered. In fact, they had given me a strong opiate. I was to be held quiet for one night.
The household came to bed, the night-light was lit, the dormitory hushed. Sleep soon reigned155: over those pillows, sleep won an easy supremacy156: contented157 sovereign over heads and hearts which did not ache — he passed by the unquiet.
The drug wrought158. I know not whether Madame had overcharged or under-charged the dose; its result was not that she intended. Instead of stupor159, came excitement. I became alive to new thought — to reverie peculiar in colouring. A gathering160 call ran among the faculties161, their bugles163 sang, their trumpets164 rang an untimely summons. Imagination was roused from her rest, and she came forth166 impetuous and venturous. With scorn she looked on Matter, her mate —“Rise!” she said. “Sluggard! this night I will have my will; nor shalt thou prevail.”
“Look forth and view the night!” was her cry; and when I lifted the heavy blind from the casement close at hand — with her own royal gesture, she showed me a moon supreme167, in an element deep and splendid.
To my gasping senses she made the glimmering168 gloom, the narrow limits, the oppressive heat of the dormitory, intolerable. She lured169 me to leave this den3 and follow her forth into dew, coolness, and glory.
She brought upon me a strange vision of Villette at midnight. Especially she showed the park, the summer-park, with its long alleys170 all silent, lone97 and safe; among these lay a huge stone basin — that basin I knew, and beside which I had often stood — deep-set in the tree-shadows, brimming with cool water, clear, with a green, leafy, rushy bed. What of all this? The park-gates were shut up, locked, sentinelled: the place could not be entered.
Could it not? A point worth considering; and while revolving171 it, I mechanically dressed. Utterly incapable172 of sleeping or lying still — excited from head to foot — what could I do better than dress?
The gates were locked, soldiers set before them: was there, then, no admission to the park?
The other day, in walking past, I had seen, without then attending to the circumstance, a gap in the paling — one stake broken down: I now saw this gap again in recollection — saw it very plainly — the narrow, irregular aperture173 visible between the stems of the lindens, planted orderly as a colonnade174. A man could not have made his way through that aperture, nor could a stout175 woman, perhaps not Madame Beck; but I thought I might: I fancied I should like to try, and once within, at this hour the whole park would be mine — the moonlight, midnight park!
How soundly the dormitory slept! What deep slumbers176! What quiet breathing! How very still the whole large house! What was the time? I felt restless to know. There stood a clock in the classe below: what hindered me from venturing down to consult it? By such a moon, its large white face and jet black figures must be vividly177 distinct.
As for hindrance178 to this step, there offered not so much as a creaking hinge or a clicking latch179. On these hot July nights, close air could not be tolerated, and the chamber-door stood wide open. Will the dormitory-planks sustain my tread untraitorous? Yes. I know wherever a board is loose, and will avoid it. The oak staircase creaks somewhat as I descend180, but not much:— I am in the carré.
The great classe-doors are close shut: they are bolted. On the other hand, the entrance to the corridor stands open. The classes seem to my thought, great dreary181 jails, buried far back beyond thoroughfares, and for me, filled with spectral182 and intolerable Memories, laid miserable amongst their straw and their manacles. The corridor offers a cheerful vista183, leading to the high vestibule which opens direct upon the street.
Hush! — the clock strikes. Ghostly deep as is the stillness of this convent, it is only eleven. While my ear follows to silence the hum of the last stroke, I catch faintly from the built-out capital, a sound like bells or like a band — a sound where sweetness, where victory, where mourning blend. Oh, to approach this music nearer, to listen to it alone by the rushy basin! Let me go — oh, let me go! What hinders, what does not aid freedom?
There, in the corridor, hangs my garden-costume, my large hat, my shawl. There is no lock on the huge, heavy, porte-cochère; there is no key to seek: it fastens with a sort of spring-bolt, not to be opened from the outside, but which, from within, may be noiselessly withdrawn. Can I manage it? It yields to my hand, yields with propitious184 facility. I wonder as that portal seems almost spontaneously to unclose — I wonder as I cross the threshold and step on the paved street, wonder at the strange ease with which this prison has been forced. It seems as if I had been pioneered invisibly, as if some dissolving force had gone before me: for myself, I have scarce made an effort.
Quiet Rue Fossette! I find on this pavement that wanderer-wooing summer night of which I mused185; I see its moon over me; I feel its dew in the air. But here I cannot stay; I am still too near old haunts: so close under the dungeon186, I can hear the prisoners moan. This solemn peace is not what I seek, it is not what I can bear: to me the face of that sky bears the aspect of a world’s death. The park also will be calm — I know, a mortal serenity prevails everywhere — yet let me seek the park.
I took a route well known, and went up towards the palatial187 and royal Haute-Ville; thence the music I had heard certainly floated; it was hushed now, but it might re-waken. I went on: neither band nor bell music came to meet me; another sound replaced it, a sound like a strong tide, a great flow, deepening as I proceeded. Light broke, movement gathered, chimes pealed188 — to what was I coming? Entering on the level of a Grande Place, I found myself, with the suddenness of magic, plunged189 amidst a gay, living, joyous190 crowd.
Villette is one blaze, one broad illumination; the whole world seems abroad; moonlight and heaven are banished191: the town, by her own flambeaux, beholds192 her own splendour — gay dresses, grand equipages, fine horses and gallant193 riders throng194 the bright streets. I see even scores of masks. It is a strange scene, stranger than dreams. But where is the park? — I ought to be near it. In the midst of this glare the park must be shadowy and calm — there, at least, are neither torches, lamps, nor crowd?
I was asking this question when an open carriage passed me filled with known faces. Through the deep throng it could pass but slowly; the spirited horses fretted195 in their curbed196 ardour. I saw the occupants of that carriage well: me they could not see, or, at least, not know, folded close in my large shawl, screened with my straw hat (in that motley crowd no dress was noticeably strange). I saw the Count de Bassompierre; I saw my godmother, handsomely apparelled, comely197 and cheerful; I saw, too, Paulina Mary, compassed with the triple halo of her beauty, her youth, and her happiness. In looking on her countenance198 of joy, and eyes of festal light, one scarce remembered to note the gala elegance199 of what she wore; I know only that the drapery floating about her was all white and light and bridal; seated opposite to her I saw Graham Bretton; it was in looking up at him her aspect had caught its lustre200 — the light repeated in her eyes beamed first out of his.
It gave me strange pleasure to follow these friends viewlessly, and I did follow them, as I thought, to the park. I watched them alight (carriages were inadmissible) amidst new and unanticipated splendours. Lo! the iron gateway201, between the stone columns, was spanned by a flaming arch built of massed stars; and, following them cautiously beneath that arch, where were they, and where was I?
In a land of enchantment202, a garden most gorgeous, a plain sprinkled with coloured meteors, a forest with sparks of purple and ruby203 and golden fire gemming204 the foliage205; a region, not of trees and shadow, but of strangest architectural wealth — of altar and of temple, of pyramid, obelisk206, and sphinx: incredible to say, the wonders and the symbols of Egypt teemed207 throughout the park of Villette.
No matter that in five minutes the secret was mine — the key of the mystery picked up, and its illusion unveiled — no matter that I quickly recognised the material of these solemn fragments — the timber, the paint, and the pasteboard — these inevitable208 discoveries failed to quite destroy the charm, or undermine the marvel209 of that night. No matter that I now seized the explanation of the whole great fête — a fête of which the conventual Rue Fossette had not tasted, though it had opened at dawn that morning, and was still in full vigour210 near midnight.
In past days there had been, said history, an awful crisis in the fate of Labassecour, involving I know not what peril211 to the rights and liberties of her gallant citizens. Rumours of wars there had been, if not wars themselves; a kind of struggling in the streets — a bustle — a running to and fro, some rearing of barricades212, some burgher-rioting, some calling out of troops, much interchange of brickbats, and even a little of shot. Tradition held that patriots213 had fallen: in the old Basse-Ville was shown an enclosure, solemnly built in and set apart, holding, it was said, the sacred bones of martyrs214. Be this as it may, a certain day in the year was still kept as a festival in honour of the said patriots and martyrs of somewhat apocryphal215 memory — the morning being given to a solemn Te Deum in St. Jean Baptiste, the evening devoted216 to spectacles, decorations, and illuminations, such as these I now saw.
While looking up at the image of a white ibis, fixed on a column — while fathoming217 the deep, torch-lit perspective of an avenue, at the close of which was couched a sphinx — I lost sight of the party which, from the middle of the great square, I had followed — or, rather, they vanished like a group of apparitions218. On this whole scene was impressed a dream-like character: every shape was wavering, every movement floating, every voice echo-like — half-mocking, half-uncertain. Paulina and her friends being gone, I scarce could avouch219 that I had really seen them; nor did I miss them as guides through the chaos220, far less regret them as protectors amidst the night.
That festal night would have been safe for a very child. Half the peasantry had come in from the outlying environs of Villette, and the decent burghers were all abroad and around, dressed in their best. My straw-hat passed amidst cap and jacket, short petticoat, and long calico mantle221, without, perhaps, attracting a glance; I only took the precaution to bind down the broad leaf gipsy-wise, with a supplementary222 ribbon — and then I felt safe as if masked.
Safe I passed down the avenues — safe I mixed with the crowd where it was deepest. To be still was not in my power, nor quietly to observe. I took a revel223 of the scene; I drank the elastic224 night-air — the swell225 of sound, the dubious226 light, now flashing, now fading. As to Happiness or Hope, they and I had shaken hands, but just now — I scorned Despair.
My vague aim, as I went, was to find the stone-basin, with its clear depth and green lining227: of that coolness and verdure I thought, with the passionate thirst of unconscious fever. Amidst the glare, and hurry, and throng, and noise, I still secretly and chiefly longed to come on that circular mirror of crystal, and surprise the moon glassing therein her pearly front.
I knew my route, yet it seemed as if I was hindered from pursuing it direct: now a sight, and now a sound, called me aside, luring228 me down this alley and down that. Already I saw the thick-planted trees which framed this tremulous and rippled229 glass, when, choiring out of a glade230 to the right, broke such a sound as I thought might be heard if Heaven were to open — such a sound, perhaps, as was heard above the plain of Bethlehem, on the night of glad tidings.
The song, the sweet music, rose afar, but rushing swiftly on fast-strengthening pinions231 — there swept through these shades so full a storm of harmonies that, had no tree been near against which to lean, I think I must have dropped. Voices were there, it seemed to me, unnumbered; instruments varied232 and countless233 — bugle162, horn, and trumpet165 I knew. The effect was as a sea breaking into song with all its waves.
The swaying tide swept this way, and then it fell back, and I followed its retreat. It led me towards a Byzantine building — a sort of kiosk near the park’s centre. Round about stood crowded thousands, gathered to a grand concert in the open air. What I had heard was, I think, a wild J?ger chorus; the night, the space, the scene, and my own mood, had but enhanced the sounds and their impression.
Here were assembled ladies, looking by this light most beautiful: some of their dresses were gauzy, and some had the sheen of satin, the flowers and the blond trembled, and the veils waved about their decorated bonnets235, as that host-like chorus, with its greatly-gathering sound, sundered236 the air above them. Most of these ladies occupied the little light park-chairs, and behind and beside them stood guardian237 gentlemen. The outer ranks of the crowd were made up of citizens, plebeians238 and police.
In this outer rank I took my place. I rather liked to find myself the silent, unknown, consequently unaccosted neighbour of the short petticoat and the sabot; and only the distant gazer at the silk robe, the velvet239 mantle, and the plumed240 chapeau. Amidst so much life and joy, too, it suited me to be alone — quite alone. Having neither wish nor power to force my way through a mass so close-packed, my station was on the farthest confines, where, indeed, I might hear, but could see little.
“Mademoiselle is not well placed,” said a voice at my elbow. Who dared accost me, a being in a mood so little social? I turned, rather to repel241 than to reply. I saw a man — a burgher — an entire stranger, as I deemed him for one moment, but the next, recognised in him a certain tradesman — a bookseller, whose shop furnished the Rue Fossette with its books and stationery242; a man notorious in our pensionnat for the excessive brittleness243 of his temper, and frequent snappishness of his manner, even to us, his principal customers: but whom, for my solitary self, I had ever been disposed to like, and had always found civil, sometimes kind; once, in aiding me about some troublesome little exchange of foreign money, he had done me a service. He was an intelligent man; under his asperity244, he was a good-hearted man; the thought had sometimes crossed me, that a part of his nature bore affinity245 to a part of M. Emanuel’s (whom he knew well, and whom I had often seen sitting on Miret’s counter, turning over the current month’s publications); and it was in this affinity I read the explanation of that conciliatory feeling with which I instinctively246 regarded him.
Strange to say, this man knew me under my straw-hat and closely-folded shawl; and, though I deprecated the effort, he insisted on making a way for me through the crowd, and finding me a better situation. He carried his disinterested247 civility further; and, from some quarter, procured248 me a chair. Once and again, I have found that the most cross-grained are by no means the worst of mankind; nor the humblest in station, the least polished in feeling. This man, in his courtesy, seemed to find nothing strange in my being here alone; only a reason for extending to me, as far as he could, a retiring, yet efficient attention. Having secured me a place and a seat, he withdrew without asking a question, without obtruding249 a remark, without adding a superfluous250 word. No wonder that Professor Emanuel liked to take his cigar and his lounge, and to read his feuilleton in M. Miret’s shop — the two must have suited.
I had not been seated five minutes, ere I became aware that chance and my worthy251 burgher friend had brought me once more within view of a familiar and domestic group. Right before me sat the Brettons and de Bassompierres. Within reach of my hand — had I chosen to extend it — sat a figure like a fairy-queen, whose array, lilies and their leaves seemed to have suggested; whatever was not spotless white, being forest-green. My godmother, too, sat so near, that, had I leaned forward, my breath might have stirred the ribbon of her bonnet234. They were too near; having been just recognised by a comparative stranger, I felt uneasy at this close vicinage of intimate acquaintance.
It made me quite start when Mrs. Bretton, turning to Mr. Home, and speaking out of a kind impulse of memory, said — “I wonder what my steady little Lucy would say to all this if she were here? I wish we had brought her, she would have enjoyed it much.”
“So she would, so she would, in her grave sensible fashion; it is a pity but we had asked her,” rejoined the kind gentleman; and added, “I like to see her so quietly pleased; so little moved, yet so content.”
Dear were they both to me, dear are they to this day in their remembered benevolence252. Little knew they the rack of pain which had driven Lucy almost into fever, and brought her out, guideless and reckless, urged and drugged to the brink253 of frenzy254. I had half a mind to bend over the elders’ shoulders, and answer their goodness with the thanks of my eyes. M. de Bassompierre did not well know me, but I knew him, and honoured and admired his nature, with all its plain sincerity255, its warm affection, and unconscious enthusiasm. Possibly I might have spoken, but just then Graham turned; he turned with one of his stately firm movements, so different from those, of a sharp-tempered under-sized man: there was behind him a throng, a hundred ranks deep; there were thousands to meet his eye and divide its scrutiny256 — why then did he concentrate all on me — oppressing me with the whole force of that full, blue, steadfast257 orb55? Why, if he would look, did not one glance satisfy him? why did he turn on his chair, rest his elbow on its back, and study me leisurely258? He could not see my face, I held it down; surely, he could not recognise me: I stooped, I turned, I would not be known. He rose, by some means he contrived259 to approach, in two minutes he would have had my secret: my identity would have been grasped between his, never tyrannous, but always powerful hands. There was but one way to evade260 or to check him. I implied, by a sort of supplicatory261 gesture, that it was my prayer to be let alone; after that, had he persisted, he would perhaps have seen the spectacle of Lucy incensed262: not all that was grand, or good, or kind in him (and Lucy felt the full amount) should have kept her quite tame, or absolutely inoffensive and shadowlike. He looked, but he desisted. He shook his handsome head, but he was mute. He resumed his seat, nor did he again turn or disturb me by a glance, except indeed for one single instant, when a look, rather solicitous263 than curious, stole my way — speaking what somehow stilled my heart like “the south-wind quieting the earth.” Graham’s thoughts of me were not entirely264 those of a frozen indifference265, after all. I believe in that goodly mansion266, his heart, he kept one little place under the sky-lights where Lucy might have entertainment, if she chose to call. It was not so handsome as the chambers267 where he lodged268 his male friends; it was not like the hall where he accommodated his philanthropy, or the library where he treasured his science, still less did it resemble the pavilion where his marriage feast was splendidly spread; yet, gradually, by long and equal kindness, he proved to me that he kept one little closet, over the door of which was written “Lucy’s Room.” I kept a place for him, too — a place of which I never took the measure, either by rule or compass: I think it was like the tent of Peri-Banou. All my life long I carried it folded in the hollow of my hand yet, released from that hold and constriction269, I know not but its innate270 capacity for expanse might have magnified it into a tabernacle for a host.
Forbearing as he was to-night, I could not stay in this proximity271; this dangerous place and seat must be given up: I watched my opportunity, rose, and stole away. He might think, he might even believe that Lucy was contained within that shawl, and sheltered under that hat; he never could be certain, for he did not see my face.
Surely the spirit of restlessness was by this time appeased272? Had I not had enough of adventure? Did I not begin to flag, quail273, and wish for safety under a roof? Not so. I still loathed274 my bed in the school dormitory more than words can express: I clung to whatever could distract thought. Somehow I felt, too, that the night’s drama was but begun, that the prologue275 was scarce spoken: throughout this woody and turfy theatre reigned a shadow of mystery; actors and incidents unlooked-for, waited behind the scenes: I thought so foreboding told me as much.
Straying at random276, obeying the push of every chance elbow, I was brought to a quarter where trees planted in clusters, or towering singly, broke up somewhat the dense277 packing of the crowd, and gave it a more scattered278 character. These confines were far from the music, and somewhat aloof even from the lamps, but there was sound enough to soothe46, and with that full, high moon, lamps were scarce needed. Here had chiefly settled family-groups, burgher-parents; some of them, late as was the hour, actually surrounded by their children, with whom it had not been thought advisable to venture into the closer throng.
Three fine tall trees growing close, almost twined stem within stem, lifted a thick canopy279 of shade above a green knoll280, crowned with a seat — a seat which might have held several, yet it seemed abandoned to one, the remaining members of the fortunate party in possession of this site standing49 dutifully round; yet, amongst this reverend circle was a lady, holding by the hand a little girl.
When I caught sight of this little girl, she was twisting herself round on her heel, swinging from her conductress’s hand, flinging herself from side to side with wanton and fantastic gyrations. These perverse281 movements arrested my attention, they struck me as of a character fearfully familiar. On close inspection282, no less so appeared the child’s equipment; the lilac silk pelisse, the small swansdown boa, the white bonnet — the whole holiday toilette, in short, was the gala garb283 of a cherub284 but too well known, of that tadpole285, Désirée Beck — and Désirée Beck it was — she, or an imp2 in her likeness286.
I might have taken this discovery as a thunder-clap, but such hyperbole would have been premature287; discovery was destined288 to rise more than one degree, ere it reached its climax289.
On whose hand could the amiable290 Désirée swing thus selfishly, whose glove could she tear thus recklessly, whose arm thus strain with impunity291, or on the borders of whose dress thus turn and trample292 insolently293, if not the hand, glove, arm, and robe of her lady-mother? And there, in an Indian shawl and a pale-green crape bonnet — there, fresh, portly, blithe294, and pleasant — there stood Madame Beck.
Curious! I had certainly deemed Madame in her bed, and Désirée in her crib, at this blessed minute, sleeping, both of them, the sleep of the just, within the sacred walls, amidst the profound seclusion295 of the Rue Fossette. Most certainly also they did not picture “Meess Lucie” otherwise engaged; and here we all three were taking our “ébats” in the fête-blazing park at midnight!
The fact was, Madame was only acting according to her quite justifiable296 wont68. I remembered now I had heard it said among the teachers — though without at the time particularly noticing the gossip — that often, when we thought Madame in her chamber, sleeping, she was gone, full-dressed, to take her pleasure at operas, or plays, or balls. Madame had no sort of taste for a monastic life, and took care — largely, though discreetly297 — to season her existence with a relish298 of the world.
Half a dozen gentlemen of her friends stood about her. Amongst these, I was not slow to recognise two or three. There was her brother, M. Victor Kint; there was another person, moustached and with long hair — a calm, taciturn man, but whose traits bore a stamp and a semblance299 I could not mark unmoved. Amidst reserve and phlegm, amidst contrasts of character and of countenance, something there still was which recalled a face — mobile, fervent300, feeling — a face changeable, now clouded, and now alight — a face from my world taken away, for my eyes lost, but where my best spring-hours of life had alternated in shadow and in glow; that face, where I had often seen movements so near the signs of genius — that why there did not shine fully15 out the undoubted fire, the thing, the spirit, and the secret itself — I could never tell. Yes — this Josef Emanuel — this man of peace — reminded me of his ardent301 brother.
Besides Messieurs Victor and Josef, I knew another of this party. This third person stood behind and in the shade, his attitude too was stooping, yet his dress and bald white head made him the most conspicuous figure of the group. He was an ecclesiastic62: he was Père Silas. Do not fancy, reader, that there was any inconsistency in the priest’s presence at this fête. This was not considered a show of Vanity Fair, but a commemoration of patriotic302 sacrifice. The Church patronised it, even with ostentation303. There were troops of priests in the park that night.
Père Silas stooped over the seat with its single occupant, the rustic304 bench and that which sat upon it: a strange mass it was — bearing no shape, yet magnificent. You saw, indeed, the outline of a face, and features, but these were so cadaverous and so strangely placed, you could almost have fancied a head severed305 from its trunk, and flung at random on a pile of rich merchandise. The distant lamp-rays glanced on clear pendants, on broad rings; neither the chasteness306 of moonlight, nor the distance of the torches, could quite subdue307 the gorgeous dyes of the drapery. Hail, Madame Walravens! I think you looked more witch-like than ever. And presently the good lady proved that she was indeed no corpse308 or ghost, but a harsh and hardy309 old woman; for, upon some aggravation310 in the clamorous311 petition of Désirée Beck to her mother, to go to the kiosk and take sweetmeats, the hunchback suddenly fetched her a resounding312 rap with her gold-knobbed cane313.
There, then, were Madame Walravens, Madame Beck, Père Silas — the whole conjuration, the secret junta314. The sight of them thus assembled did me good. I cannot say that I felt weak before them, or abashed315, or dismayed. They outnumbered me, and I was worsted and under their feet; but, as yet, I was not dead.
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1
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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7
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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14
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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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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22
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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enjoin
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| v.命令；吩咐；禁止 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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accost
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| v.向人搭话，打招呼 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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41
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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42
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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43
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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44
zigzag
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| n.曲折，之字形；adj.曲折的，锯齿形的；adv.曲折地，成锯齿形地；vt.使曲折；vi.曲折前行 | |
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45
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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46
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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47
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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48
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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49
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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50
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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51
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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52
gibe
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| n.讥笑；嘲弄 | |
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53
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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54
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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55
orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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56
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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57
amity
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| n.友好关系 | |
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58
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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59
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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60
dual
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| adj.双的；二重的，二元的 | |
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61
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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62
ecclesiastic
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| n.教士，基督教会；adj.神职者的，牧师的，教会的 | |
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63
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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64
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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65
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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66
credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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67
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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68
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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69
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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70
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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71
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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72
smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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73
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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74
besiege
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| vt.包围，围攻，拥在...周围 | |
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75
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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76
plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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77
jocund
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| adj.快乐的，高兴的 | |
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78
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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79
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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80
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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81
scenting
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| vt.闻到（scent的现在分词形式） | |
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82
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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83
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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84
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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85
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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87
quell
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| v.压制，平息，减轻 | |
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88
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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89
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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90
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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91
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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92
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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93
amplify
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| vt.放大，增强；详述，详加解说 | |
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94
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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95
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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96
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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97
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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98
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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99
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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100
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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101
monopolized
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| v.垄断( monopolize的过去式和过去分词 )；独占；专卖；专营 | |
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102
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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103
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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104
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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105
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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106
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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107
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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108
conditional
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| adj.条件的，带有条件的 | |
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109
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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110
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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111
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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112
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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113
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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114
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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115
wrack
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| v.折磨；n.海草 | |
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116
scudding
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| n.刮面v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的现在分词 ) | |
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117
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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118
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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119
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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120
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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121
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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122
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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123
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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124
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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125
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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126
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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127
transgressed
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| v.超越( transgress的过去式和过去分词 )；越过；违反；违背 | |
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128
sedative
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| adj.使安静的，使镇静的；n. 镇静剂，能使安静的东西 | |
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129
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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130
sedatives
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| n.镇静药，镇静剂( sedative的名词复数 ) | |
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131
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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132
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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133
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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134
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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135
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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136
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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137
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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138
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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139
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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140
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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141
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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142
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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143
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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144
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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145
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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146
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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147
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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148
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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149
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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150
bigotry
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| n.偏见，偏执，持偏见的行为[态度]等 | |
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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
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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153
scorpions
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| n.蝎子( scorpion的名词复数 ) | |
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154
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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155
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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156
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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157
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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158
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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159
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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160
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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161
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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162
bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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163
bugles
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| 妙脆角，一种类似薯片但做成尖角或喇叭状的零食； 号角( bugle的名词复数 )； 喇叭； 匍匐筋骨草； （装饰女服用的）柱状玻璃（或塑料）小珠 | |
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164
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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165
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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166
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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167
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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168
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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169
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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170
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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171
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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172
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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173
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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174
colonnade
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| n.柱廊 | |
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176
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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177
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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178
hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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179
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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180
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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181
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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182
spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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183
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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184
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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185
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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186
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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187
palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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188
pealed
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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189
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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190
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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191
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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192
beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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193
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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194
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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195
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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196
curbed
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| v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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197
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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198
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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199
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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200
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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201
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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202
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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203
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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204
gemming
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| 点缀（gem的现在分词形式） | |
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205
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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206
obelisk
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| n.方尖塔 | |
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207
teemed
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| v.充满( teem的过去式和过去分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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208
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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209
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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210
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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211
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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212
barricades
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| 路障，障碍物( barricade的名词复数 ) | |
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213
patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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214
martyrs
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|
| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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215
apocryphal
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|
| adj.假冒的，虚假的 | |
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216
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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217
fathoming
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| 测量 | |
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218
apparitions
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| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
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219
avouch
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| v.确说，断言 | |
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220
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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221
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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222
supplementary
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| adj.补充的，附加的 | |
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223
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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224
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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225
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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226
dubious
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|
| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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227
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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228
luring
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的现在分词形式） | |
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229
rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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230
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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231
pinions
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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232
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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233
countless
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|
| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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234
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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235
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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236
sundered
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|
| v.隔开，分开( sunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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237
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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238
plebeians
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|
| n.平民( plebeian的名词复数 )；庶民；平民百姓；平庸粗俗的人 | |
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239
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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240
plumed
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| 饰有羽毛的 | |
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241
repel
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|
| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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242
stationery
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| n.文具；(配套的)信笺信封 | |
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243
brittleness
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|
| n.脆性，脆度，脆弱性 | |
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244
asperity
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|
| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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245
affinity
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|
| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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246
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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247
disinterested
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|
| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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248
procured
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|
| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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249
obtruding
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的现在分词 ) | |
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250
superfluous
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|
| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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251
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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252
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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253
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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254
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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255
sincerity
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|
| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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256
scrutiny
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|
| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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257
steadfast
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|
| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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258
leisurely
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|
| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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259
contrived
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|
| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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260
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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261
supplicatory
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|
| adj.恳求的，祈愿的 | |
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262
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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263
solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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264
entirely
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|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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265
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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266
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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267
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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268
lodged
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|
| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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269
constriction
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| 压缩； 紧压的感觉； 束紧； 压缩物 | |
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270
innate
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|
| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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271
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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272
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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273
quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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274
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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275
prologue
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| n.开场白，序言；开端，序幕 | |
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276
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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277
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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278
scattered
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|
| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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279
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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280
knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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281
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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282
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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283
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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284
cherub
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|
| n.小天使，胖娃娃 | |
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285
tadpole
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|
| n.[动]蝌蚪 | |
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286
likeness
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|
| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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287
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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288
destined
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|
| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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289
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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290
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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291
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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292
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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293
insolently
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| adv.自豪地，自傲地 | |
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294
blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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295
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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296
justifiable
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|
| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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297
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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298
relish
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|
| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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299
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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300
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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301
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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302
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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303
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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304
rustic
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|
| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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305
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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306
chasteness
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| n.贞操，纯洁，简洁 | |
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307
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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308
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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309
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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310
aggravation
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| n.烦恼，恼火 | |
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311
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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312
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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313
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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314
junta
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| n.团体；政务审议会 | |
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315
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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