Accordingly they moved in a body to the baker12’s, and, to Domenico’s astonishment13, ordered all of the chocolate in the shop. And while he was excitedly counting it out the 48 signorina kept talking to him about the weather and the scenery and the olive crop until he was so overcome by the honour that he could do nothing but bob his head and murmur14, ‘Si, si, eccelenza; si, si, eccelenza,’ to everything she said.
And as soon as she had mounted her horse again and ridden away, with a final wave of her hand to the little black-eyed children, Domenico hurried to the Croce d’Oro to inform the landlord that he also had had the honour of entertaining the signorina Americana, who had bought chocolate to the amount of five lire—five lire! And had given it all away! The blacksmith’s wife, who had followed Domenico to hear the news, remarked that, for her part, she thought it a sin to spend so much for chocolate; the signorina might have given the money just as well, and they could have had meat for Sunday. But Domenico was more ready this time to condone15 the fault. ‘Si, si,’ he returned, with a nod of his head: ‘the signorina meant well, no doubt, but she could not understand the needs of poor people. He supposed that they lived on chocolate all the time at the villa4, and naturally did not realize that persons who worked for their living found meat more nourishing.
When Marcia returned home with the announcement that she had visited Castel Vivalanti, her uncle replied, with an elaborate frown, ‘I suppose you scattered16 soldi broadcast through the streets, and have started fifty young Italians on the broad road to Pauperism17.’
‘Not a single soldo!’ she reassured18 him. ‘I distributed nothing more demoralizing than a few cakes of chocolate.’
‘You’ll make a scientific philanthropist if you keep on,’ Mr. Copley laughed, but his inner reflections coincided somewhat with those of the blacksmith’s wife.
Marcia’s explorations were likewise extended in other directions, and before the first week was over she had visited most of the villages from Palestrina to Subiaco. As a result, the chief article of diet in the Sabine mountains bade fair to become sweet chocolate; while Domenico, the baker, instead of being grateful for this unexpected flow of custom, complained to his friends of the trouble it caused. No sooner would he send into Rome for a fresh supply than the signorina would come and carry the whole of it off. At that rate, it was clearly impossible to keep it in stock.
49 By means of largesses of chocolate to the children, or possibly by a smile and a friendly air, Marcia had established in a very short time a speaking acquaintance with the whole neighbourhood. And on sunny mornings, as she rode between the olive orchards19 and the wheat fields, more than one worker straightened his back to call a pleased ‘Buona passeggiata, signorina,’ to the fair-haired stranger princess, who came from the land across the water where, it was rumoured20, gold could be dug from the ground like potatoes and every one was rich.
All about that region the advent21 of the foreigners was the subject of chief interest—especially because they were Americani, for many of the people were thinking of becoming Americani themselves. The servants of the villa, when they condescended22 to drink a glass of wine at the inn of the Croce d’Oro, were almost objects of veneration23, because they could talk so intimately of the life these ‘stranger princes’ led—the stranger princes would have been astonished could they have heard some of the details of these recitals24.
And so the Copley dynasty began at Castel Vivalanti. The life soon fell into a daily routine, as life in even the best of places will. Three meals and tea, a book in the shadiness of the ilex grove25 to the tune26 of the splashing fountain, a siesta27 at noon, a drive in the afternoon, and a long night’s sleep were the sum of Vivalanti’s resources. Marcia liked it. Italy had got its hold upon her, and for the present she was content to drift. But Mr. Copley, after a few days of lounging on the balustrade, smoking countless28 cigarettes and hungrily reading such newspapers as drifted out on the somewhat casual mails, had his horse saddled one morning and rode to Palestrina to the station. After that he went into Rome almost every day, and the peasants in the wayside vineyards came to know him as well as his niece; but they did not take off their hats and smile as they did to her, for he rode past with unseeing eyes. Rich men, they said, had no thought for such as they, and they turned back to their work with a sullen29 scowl30. Work at the best is hard enough, and it is a pity when the smile that makes it lighter31 is withheld32; Howard Copley would have been the last to do it had he realized. But his thoughts were bent33 on other things, and how could the peasants know that while he 50 galloped34 by so carelessly his mind was planning a way to get them bread?
Marcia spent many half-hours the first few weeks in loitering about the ruins of the old villa. It was a dream-haunted spot which spoke35 pathetically of a bygone time with bygone ideals. She could never quite reconcile the crumbling36 arches, the fantastic rock-work, and the grass-grown terraces with the ‘Young Italy’ of Monte Citorio thirty miles away. To eyes fresh from the New World it seemed half unreal.
One afternoon she had started to walk across the fields to Castel Vivalanti, but the fields had proved too sunny and she had stopped in the shade of the cypresses37 instead. Even the ruins seemed to be revivified by the warm touch of spring. Blue and white anemones38, rose-coloured cyclamen, yellow laburnum, burst from every cranny of the stones. Marcia glanced about with an air of delighted approval. A Pan with his pipes was all that was needed to make the picture complete. She dropped down on the coping of the fountain, and with her chin in her hands gazed dreamily at the moss-bearded merman who, two centuries before, had spouted39 water from his twisted conch-shell. She was suddenly startled from her reverie by hearing a voice exclaim, ‘Buon giorno, signorina!’ and she looked up quickly to find Paul Dessart.
‘The inn of Sant’ Agapito at Palestrina. Benoit and I are making it the centre of a sketching42 expedition. We get a sort of hill fever every spring, and when the disease reaches a certain point we pack up and set out for the Sabines.’
‘And how did you manage to find us?’
‘Purely chance,’ he returned more or less truthfully. ‘I picked out this road as a promising43 field, and when I came to the gateway44, being an artist, I couldn’t resist the temptation of coming in. I didn’t know that it was Villa Vivalanti or that I should find you here.’ He sat down on the edge of the fountain and looked about.
‘Well?’ Marcia inquired.
‘I don’t wonder that you wanted to exchange Rome for this! May I make a little sketch41, and will you stay and talk to me until it is finished?’
51 ‘That depends upon how long it takes you to make a little sketch. I shall subscribe45 to no carte-blanche promises.’
He got out a box of water-colours from one pocket of his Norfolk jacket and a large pad from the other, and having filled his cup at the little rush-choked stream which once had fed the fountain, set to work without more ado.
‘I heard from the Roystons this morning,’ said Marcia, presently, and immediately she was sorry that she had not started some other subject. In their former conversations Paul’s relations with his family had never proved a very fortunate topic.
‘Any bad news?’ he inquired flippantly.
‘They will reach Rome in a week or so.’
‘Holy Week—I might have known it! Miss Copley,’ he looked at her appealingly, ‘you know what an indefatigable46 woman my aunt is. She will make me escort her to every religious function that blessed city offers; it isn’t her way to miss anything.’
Marcia smiled slightly at the picture; it was lifelike.
‘I shall be stopping in Palestrina when they come,’ he added.
She let this observation pass in a disapproving47 silence.
‘Oh, well,’ he sighed, ‘I’ll stay and tote them around if you think I ought. The Bible says, you know, “Love your relatives and show mercy unto them that despitefully use you.”’
Marcia flashed a sudden laugh and then looked grave.
Paul glanced up at her quickly. ‘I suppose my aunt told you no end of bad things about me?’
‘Was there anything to tell?’
He shrugged49 his shoulders. ‘I’ve committed the unpardonable sin of preferring art in Rome to coal in Pittsburg.’
He dropped the subject and turned back to his picture, and Marcia sat watching him as he industriously50 splashed in colour. Occasionally their eyes met when he raised his head, and if his own lingered a moment longer than convention warranted—being an artist, he was excusable, for she was distinctly an addition to the moss-covered fountain. The young man may have prolonged the situation somewhat; in any case, the sun’s rays were beginning to slant51 when he finally pocketed his colours and presented the picture with a bow. It was a dainty little sketch of a ruined 52 grotto52 and a broken statue, with the sunlight flickering53 through the trees on the flower-sprinkled grass.
‘Really, is it for me?’ she asked. ‘It’s lovely, Mr. Dessart; and when I go away from Rome I can remember both you and the villa by it.’
‘When you go away?’ he asked, with an audible note of anxiety in his voice. ‘But I thought you had come to live with your uncle.’
‘Oh, for the present,’ she returned. ‘But I’m going back to America in the indefinite future.’
He breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief.
‘The indefinite future doesn’t bother me. Before it comes you’ll change your mind—everybody does. It’s merely the present I want to be sure of.’
Marcia glanced at him a moment with a half-provocative laugh; and then, without responding, she turned her head and appeared to study the stone village up on the height. She was quite conscious that he was watching her, and she was equally conscious that her pale-blue muslin gown and her rosebud54 hat formed an admirable contrast to the frowning old merman. When she turned back there was a shade of amusement in her glance. Paul did not speak, but he did not lower his eyes nor in any degree veil his visible admiration55. She rose with a half-shrug48 and brushed back a stray lock of hair that was blowing in her eyes.
‘I’m hungry,’ she remarked in an exasperatingly56 matter-of-fact tone. ‘Let’s go back and get some tea.’
‘Will Mrs. Copley receive a jacket and knickerbockers?’
‘Mrs. Copley will be delighted. Visitors are a godsend at Villa Vivalanti.’
They passed from the deep shade of the cypresses to the sun-flecked laurel path that skirted the wheat field. As they strolled along, in no great hurry to reach the villa, they laughed and chatted lightly; but the most important things they said occurred in the pauses when no words were spoken. The young man carried his hat in his hand, carelessly switching the branches with it as he passed. His shining light-brown hair—almost the colour of Marcia’s own—lay on his forehead in a tangled57 mass and stirred gently in the wind. She noted58 it in an approving sidewise glance, and quickly turned away again lest he should look up and catch her eyes upon him.
In the ilex grove they paused for a moment as the sound of mingled59 voices reached them from the terrace.
‘Listen,’ Marcia whispered, with her finger on her lips; and as she recognized the tones she made a slight grimace60. ‘My two enemies! The Contessa Torrenieri and Mr. Sybert. The contessa has a villa at Tivoli. This is very kind of her, is it not? Nine miles is a long distance just to pay a call.’
As they advanced toward the tea-table, placed under the trees at the end of the terrace, they found an unexpectedly august party—not only the Contessa Torrenieri and the secretary of the Embassy, but the American consul-general as well. The men had evidently but just arrived, as Mrs. Copley was still engaged with their welcome.
‘Mr. Melville, you come at exactly the right time. We are having mushroom ragoût to-night, which, if I remember, is your favourite dish—but why didn’t you bring your wife?’
‘My wife, my dear lady, is at present in Capri and shows no intention of coming home. Your husband, pitying my loneliness, insisted on bringing me out for the night.’
‘I am glad that he did—we shall hope to see you later, however, when Mrs. Melville can come too. Mr. Sybert,’ she added, turning toward the younger man, ‘you can’t know how we miss not having you drop in at all hours of the day. We didn’t realize what a necessary member of the family you had become until we had to do without you.’
Marcia, overhearing this speech, politely suppressed a smile as she presented the young painter. He was included in the general acclaim61.
‘This is charming!’ Mrs. Copley declared. ‘I was just complaining to the Contessa Torrenieri that not a soul had visited us since we came out to the villa, and here are three almost before the words are out of my mouth!’
Pietro, appearing with a trayful of cups, put an end to these amenities62; and, reinforced by Gerald, they had an unusually festive63 tea-party. Mr. Copley had once remarked concerning Paul Dessart that he would be an ornament64 to any dinner-table, and he undoubtedly65 proved himself an ornament to-day.
Melville, introducing the subject of a famous monastery66 lately suppressed by the government, gave rise to a discussion involving many and various opinions. The contessa 54 and Dessart hotly defended the homeless monks67; while the other men, from a political point of view, were inclined to applaud the action of the premier68. Their arguments were strong, but the little contessa, two slender hands gesticulating excitedly, stanchly held her own; though a ‘White’ in politics, her sympathies, on occasion, stuck persistently69 to the other side. The church had owned the property for five centuries, the government for a quarter of a century. Which had the better right? And aside from the justice of the question—Dessart backed her up—for ascetic70 reasons alone, the monks should be allowed to stay. Who wished to have the beauties of frescoed71 chapels72 and carved choir-stalls pointed73 out by blue-uniformed government officials whose coats didn’t fit? It spoiled the poetry. Names of cardinals74 and prelates and Italian princes passed glibly75; and the politicians finally retired76 beaten. Marcia, listening, thought approvingly that the young artist was a match for the diplomats77, and she could not help but acknowledge further that whatever faults the contessa might possess, dullness was not among them.
It was Gerald, however, who furnished the chief diversion that afternoon. Upon being forbidden to take a third maritozzo, he rose reluctantly, shook the crumbs78 from his blouse, and drifted off toward the ilex grove to occupy himself with the collection of lizards79 which he kept in a box under a stone garden seat. The group about the tea-table was shortly startled by a splash and a scream, and they hastened with one accord to the scene of the disaster. Mr. Copley, arriving first, was in time to pluck his son from the fountain, like Achilles, by a heel.
‘What’s the matter, Howard?’ Mrs. Copley called as the others anxiously hurried up.
‘Nothing serious,’ he reassured her. ‘Gerald has merely been trying to identify himself with his environment.’
Gerald, dripping and sputtering80, came out at this point with the astounding81 assertion that Marietta had pushed him in. Marietta chimed into the general confusion with a volley of Latin ejaculations. She push him in! Madonna mia, what a fib! Why should she do such a thing as that when it would only put her to the trouble of dressing82 him again? She had told him repeatedly not to fall into the fountain, but the moment her back was turned he disobeyed.
Amid a chorus of laughter and suggestions, of wails83 and protestations, the nurse, the boy, and his father and mother set out for the house to settle the question, leaving the guests at the scene of the tragedy. As they strolled back to the terrace the contessa very adroitly84 held Sybert on one side and Dessart on the other, while with a great deal of animation85 and gesture she recounted a diverting bit of Roman gossip. Melville and Marcia followed after, the latter with a speculative86 eye on the group in front, and an amused appreciation87 of the fact that the young artist would very much have preferred dropping behind. Possibly the contessa divined this too; in any case, she held him fast. The consul-general was discussing a criticism he had recently read of the American diplomatic service, and his opinion of the writer was vigorous. Melville’s views were likely to be both vigorously conceived and vigorously expressed.
‘In any case,’ he summed up his remarks, ‘America has no call to be ashamed of her representative to Italy. His Excellency is a fine example of the right man in the right place.’
‘And his Excellency’s nephew?’ she inquired, her eyes on the lounging figure in front of them.
‘Is an equally fine example of the right man in the wrong place.’
‘I thought you were one of the people who stood up for him.’
‘You thought I was one of the people who stood up for him? Well, certainly, why not?’ Melville’s tone contained the suggestion of a challenge; he had fought so many battles in Sybert’s behalf that a belligerent88 attitude over the question had become subconscious89.
Melville struck a match, lit a cigar, and vigorously puffed91 it into a glow; then he observed: ‘Lots of people are idiots.’
Marcia laughed and apologized—
‘Excuse me, but you are all so funny about Mr. Sybert. One day I hear the most extravagant92 things in his praise, and the next, the most disparaging93 things in his dispraise. It’s difficult to know what to believe of such a changeable person as that.’
‘Just let me tell you one thing, Miss Marcia, and that is, that in this world a man who has no enemies is not to be trusted—I don’t know how it may be in the world to come. At for Sybert, you may safely believe what his friends say of him.’
‘In that case he certainly does not show his best side to the world.’
‘He probably thinks his best side nobody’s business but his own.’ And then, as a thought re-occurred to him, he glanced at her a moment in silence, while a brief smile flickered94 across his aggressively forceful face. She could not interpret the smile, but it was vaguely irritating, and as he did not have anything further to say, she pursued her theme rough-shod.
‘When you see a person who doesn’t take any interest in his own country; whose only aim is to be thought a cosmopolitan95, a man of the world; whose business in life is to attend social functions and make after-dinner speeches—well, naturally, you can’t blame people for not taking him very seriously.’ She finished with a gesture of disdain96.
‘You were telling me a little while ago, Miss Marcia, about some of the people in Castel Vivalanti. You appear to be rather proud of your broad-mindedness in occasionally being able to detect the real man underneath97 the peasant—don’t you think you might push your penetration98 just one step further and discover a real man, a personality, beneath the man of the world? Once in a while it exists.’
Mr. and Mrs. Copley returned shortly to their guests; and the contessa, bemoaning100 the nine miles, announced that she must go. Mr. Copley suggested that nine miles would be no longer after dinner than before, but the lady was obdurate101 and her carriage was ordered. She took her departure amid a graceful102 flurry of farewell. The contessa had an unerring instinct for effect, and her exits and her entrances were divertingly spectacular. She bade Mrs. Copley, Marcia, and the consul-general good-bye upon the terrace, and trailed across the marble flagging, attended—at a careful distance from her train—by the three remaining men. Sybert handed her into the carriage, Dessart arranged the lap-robe, while Copley brought up the rear, gingerly 57 bearing her lace parasol. With a gay little tilt103 of her white-plumed hat toward the group on the terrace and an all-inclusive flash of black eyes, she was finally off, followed by the courtly bows of her three cavaliers.
Marcia, with Sybert and Dessart on either hand, continued to stroll up and down the terrace, while her aunt and uncle entertained Melville amid the furnished comfort of the loggia. Sybert would ordinarily have joined the group on the loggia, but he happened to be in the middle of a discussion with Dessart regarding the new and, according to most people, scandalous proposition for levelling the Seven Hills. The two men seemed to be diametrically opposed to all their views, and were equally far apart in their methods of arguing. Dessart would lunge into flights of exaggerated rhetoric104, piling up adjectives and metaphors105 until by sheer weight he had carried his listeners off their feet; while Sybert, with a curt106 phrase, would knock the corner-stone from under the finished edifice107. The latter’s method of fencing had always irritated Marcia beyond measure. He had a fashion of stating his point, and then abandoning his adversary’s eloquence108 in mid-air, as if it were not worth his while to argue further. To-day, having come to a deadlock109 in the matter of the piano regolatore, they dropped the subject, and pausing by the terrace parapet, they stood looking down on the plain below.
Dessart scanned it eagerly with eyes quick to catch every contrast and tone; he noted the varying purples of the distance, the narrow ribbon of glimmering110 gold where sky and plain met the sea, the misty111 whiteness of Rome, the sharply cut outline of Monte Soracte. It was perfect as a picture—composition, perspective, colour-scheme—nothing might be bettered. He sighed a contented sigh.
‘Even I,’ he murmured, ‘couldn’t suggest a single change.’
A slight smile crept over Sybert’s sombre face.
‘I could suggest a number.’
The young painter brought a reproachful gaze to bear upon him.
‘Ah,’ he agreed, ‘and I can imagine the direction they’d take! Miss Copley,’ he added, turning to Marcia, ‘let me tell you of the thing I saw the other day on the Roman Campagna: a sight which was enough to make a right-minded 58 man sick. I saw—’ there was a tragic112 pause—a McCormick reaper113 and binder114!’
Sybert uttered a short laugh.
‘I am glad that you did; and I only wish it were possible for one to see more.’
‘Man! Man! You don’t know what you are saying!’ Paul cried. There were tears in his voice. ‘A McCormick reaper, I tell you, painted red and yellow and blue—the man who did it should have been compelled to drink his paint.’
Marcia laughed, and he added disgustedly: ‘The thing sows and reaps and binds115 all at once. One shudders116 to think of its activities—and that in the Agra Romana, which picturesque117 peasants have spaded and planted and mowed118 by hand for thousands of years.’
‘Not, however, a particularly economical way of cultivating the Campagna,’ Sybert observed.
‘Economical way of cultivating the Campagna!’ Dessart repeated the words with a groan119. ‘Is there no place in the world sacred to beauty? Must America flood every corner of the habitable globe with reapers120 and sewing-machines and trolley-cars? The way they’re sophisticating these adorably antique peasants is criminal.’
‘That’s the way it seems to me,’ Marcia agreed cordially. ‘Uncle Howard says they haven’t enough to eat; but they certainly do look happy, and they don’t look thin. I can’t help believing he exaggerates the trouble.’
‘An Italian, Miss Copley, who doesn’t know where his next meal is coming from, will lie on his back in the sunshine, thinking how pretty the sky looks; and he will get as much pleasure from the prospect121 as he would from his dinner. If that isn’t the art of being happy, I don’t know what is. And that is why I hate to have Italy spoiled.’
‘Well, Dessart, I fancy we all hate that,’ Sybert returned. ‘Though I am afraid we should quarrel over definitions.’ He stretched out his hand toward the west, where the plain joined the sea by the ruins of Ostia and the Pontine Marshes122. It was a great, barren, desolate123 waste; unpeopled, uncultivated, fever-stricken.
‘Don’t you think it would be rather a fine thing,’ he asked, ‘to see that land drained and planted and lived on again as it was perhaps two thousand years ago?’
59 Marcia shook her head. ‘I should rather have it left just as it is. Possibly a few might gain, but think of the poetry and picturesqueness124 and romance that the many would lose! Once in a while, Mr. Sybert, it seems as if utility might give way to poetry—especially on the Roman Campagna. It is more fitting that it should be desolate and bare, with only a few wandering shepherds and herds125, and no buildings but ruined towers and Latin tombs—a sort of burial-place for Ancient Rome.’
‘The living have a few rights—even in Rome.’
‘They seem to have a good many,’ Dessart agreed. ‘Oh, I know what you reformers want! You’d like to see the city full of smoke-stacks and machinery126, and the Campagna laid out in garden plots, and everybody getting good wages and six per cent. interest; with all the people dressed alike in ready-made clothing instead of peasant costume, and nobody poor and nobody picturesque.’
Sybert did not reply for a moment, as with half-shut eyes he studied the distance. He was thinking of a ride he had taken three days before. He had gone out with a hunting-party to one of the great Campagna estates, owned by a Roman prince whose only interest in the land was to draw from it every possible centesime of income. They had stopped to water their horses at a cluster of straw huts where the farm labourers lived, and Sybert had dismounted and gone into one of them to talk to the people. It was dark and damp, with a dirt floor and rude bunks127 along the sides. There, fifty human beings lived crowded together, breathing the heavy, pestilential air. They had come down to bands from their mountain homes, searching for work, and had sold their lives to the prince for thirty cents a day.
The picture flashed across him now of their pale, apathetic128 faces, of the dumb reproach in their eyes, and for a second he felt tempted129 to describe it. But with the reflection that neither of the two before him would care any more about it than had the landlord prince, he changed his expression into a careless shrug.
‘It will be some time before we’ll see that,’ he answered Dessart’s speech.
‘But you’d like it, wouldn’t you?’ Marcia persisted.
‘Yes; wouldn’t you?’
‘No,’ she laughed, ‘I can’t say that I should! I decidedly 60 prefer the peasants as they are. They are far more attractive when they are poor, and since they are happy in spite of it, I don’t see why it is our place to object.’
Sybert eyed the pavement impassively a moment: then he raised his head and turned to Marcia. He swept her a glance from head to foot which took in every detail of her dainty gown, her careless grace as she leaned against the balustrade, and he made no endeavour to conceal130 the look of critically cold contempt in his eyes. Marcia returned his glance with an air of angry challenge; not a word was spoken, but it was an open declaration of war.
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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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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doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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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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condone
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| v.宽恕；原谅 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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pauperism
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| n.有被救济的资格，贫困 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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veneration
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recitals
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| n.独唱会( recital的名词复数 )；独奏会；小型音乐会、舞蹈表演会等；一系列事件等的详述 | |
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25
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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26
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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27
siesta
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| n.午睡 | |
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28
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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29
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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30
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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31
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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32
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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33
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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34
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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35
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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36
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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37
cypresses
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| n.柏属植物，柏树( cypress的名词复数 ) | |
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38
anemones
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| n.银莲花( anemone的名词复数 )；海葵 | |
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39
spouted
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| adj.装有嘴的v.（指液体）喷出( spout的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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40
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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41
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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42
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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43
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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44
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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45
subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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46
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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47
disapproving
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| adj.不满的，反对的v.不赞成( disapprove的现在分词 ) | |
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48
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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49
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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50
industriously
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51
slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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52
grotto
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| n.洞穴 | |
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53
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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54
rosebud
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| n.蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女 | |
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55
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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56
exasperatingly
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57
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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58
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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59
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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60
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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61
acclaim
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| v.向…欢呼，公认；n.欢呼，喝彩，称赞 | |
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62
amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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63
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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64
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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65
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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66
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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67
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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68
premier
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| adj.首要的；n.总理，首相 | |
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69
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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70
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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71
frescoed
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| 壁画( fresco的名词复数 )； 温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
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72
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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73
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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74
cardinals
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| 红衣主教( cardinal的名词复数 )； 红衣凤头鸟（见于北美，雄鸟为鲜红色）； 基数 | |
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75
glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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76
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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77
diplomats
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| n.外交官( diplomat的名词复数 )；有手腕的人，善于交际的人 | |
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78
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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79
lizards
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| n.蜥蜴( lizard的名词复数 ) | |
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80
sputtering
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| n.反应溅射法；飞溅；阴极真空喷镀；喷射v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的现在分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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81
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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82
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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83
wails
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| 痛哭，哭声( wail的名词复数 ) | |
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84
adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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85
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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86
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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87
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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88
belligerent
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| adj.好战的，挑起战争的；n.交战国，交战者 | |
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89
subconscious
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| n./adj.潜意识(的)，下意识(的) | |
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90
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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91
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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92
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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93
disparaging
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| adj.轻蔑的，毁谤的v.轻视( disparage的现在分词 )；贬低；批评；非难 | |
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94
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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96
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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97
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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98
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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99
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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100
bemoaning
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| v.为（某人或某事）抱怨( bemoan的现在分词 )；悲悼；为…恸哭；哀叹 | |
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101
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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102
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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103
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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104
rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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105
metaphors
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| 隐喻( metaphor的名词复数 ) | |
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106
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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107
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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108
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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109
deadlock
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| n.僵局，僵持 | |
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110
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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111
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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112
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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113
reaper
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| n.收割者，收割机 | |
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114
binder
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| n.包扎物，包扎工具；[法]临时契约；粘合剂；装订工 | |
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115
binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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116
shudders
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| n.颤动，打颤，战栗( shudder的名词复数 )v.战栗( shudder的第三人称单数 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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117
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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118
mowed
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| v.刈，割( mow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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120
reapers
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| n.收割者，收获者( reaper的名词复数 )；收割机 | |
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121
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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122
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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123
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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124
picturesqueness
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125
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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126
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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127
bunks
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| n.（车、船等倚壁而设的）铺位( bunk的名词复数 )；空话，废话v.（车、船等倚壁而设的）铺位( bunk的第三人称单数 )；空话，废话 | |
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128
apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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129
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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130
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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