Fabrizio only guessed at part of Clelia’s misery12. She knew that her father, who had fallen into the direst disgrace, would never be able to return to Parma and reappear at the court (without which life was impossible to him) until she married the Marchese Crescenzi. She wrote her father word that she desired to be married. The general was then lying ill from worry at Turin. This fateful decision had aged13 her by ten years.
She was quite aware that Fabrizio had a window facing the Palazzo Cantarini, but only once had she been so unfortunate as to look at him. The moment she caught sight of the turn of a head or the outline of a figure the least resembling his, she instantly closed her eyes. Her deep piety14, and her trust in the Madonna’s help, were to be her only support for the future. She had to endure the sorrow of feeling no esteem15 for her father; her future husband’s character she took to be perfectly16 commonplace, and suited to the dominant17 feelings of the upper ranks of society. To crown it all, she adored a man whom she must never see again, and who, nevertheless, had certain claims upon her. Taking it altogether, her fate seemed to her the most miserable18 that could be conceived, and it must be acknowledged that she was right. The moment she was married she ought to have gone to live two hundred leagues from Parma.
Fabrizio was acquainted with the extreme modesty19 of Clelia’s character; he knew how much any unusual step, the discovery of which might cause comment, was certain to displease20 her. Nevertheless, driven to distraction21 by his own sadness, and by seeing Clelia’s eyes so constantly turned away from him, he ventured to try to buy over two of the servants of her aunt, the Countess Cantarini. One day, as dusk was falling, Fabrizio, dressed like a respectable countryman, presented himself at the door of the palace, at which one of the servants he had bribed22 was awaiting him. He announced that he had just arrived from Turin with letters for Clelia from her father. The servant took up his message, and then conducted him into a huge antechamber on the first floor. In this apartment Fabrizio spent what was perhaps the most anxious quarter of an hour in his whole life. If Clelia repulsed23 him he could never hope to know peace again. “To cut short the wearisome duties with which my new position overwhelms me,” he mused24, “I will rid the Church of an indifferent priest, and will take refuge, under a feigned25 name, in some Carthusian monastery26.” At last the servant appeared, and told him the Signorina Clelia was willing to receive him.
Our hero’s courage quite failed him as he climbed the staircase to the second floor, and he very nearly fell down from sheer fright.
Clelia was sitting at a little table, on which a solitary27 taper28 was burning. No sooner did she recognise Fabrizio, under his disguise, than she rushed away, and hid herself at the far end of the drawing-room. “This is how you care for my[488] salvation,” she cried, hiding her face in her hands. “Yet you know that when my father was at the point of death from poison, I made a vow to the Madonna that I would never see you. That vow I have never broken except on that one day—the most wretched of my life—when my conscience commanded me to save you from death. I do a great deal when, by putting a forced and, no doubt, a wicked interpretation29 on my vow, I consent even to listen to you.”
Fabrizio was so astounded30 by this last sentence that, for a few seconds, he was incapable31 even of rejoicing over it. He had expected to see Clelia rush away in the most lively anger. But at last he recovered his presence of mind, and blew out the candle. Although he believed he had understood Clelia’s wishes, he was trembling with alarm as he moved toward the far end of the drawing-room, where she had taken refuge behind a sofa. He did not know whether she might not take it ill if he kissed her hand. Throbbing32 with passion, she cast herself into his arms.
“Dearest Fabrizio,” she said, “how slow you have been in coming! I can only speak to you for a few moments, for even that is certainly a great sin, and when I promised that I would never see you again, there is no doubt I understood myself to promise that I would never speak to you either. But how can you punish my poor father’s vengeful thought so barbarously? For, after all, he was nearly poisoned, first, to facilitate your flight. Should you not have done something for me, who risked my fair fame to save you? Besides, now you are altogether bound to the priestly life, you could not marry me, even if I found means of getting rid of this detestable marchese. And then, how could you dare to attempt to see me in full daylight, on the day of that procession, and thus violate my holy vow to the Madonna, in the most shocking manner?”
Beside himself with surprise and happiness, Fabrizio clasped her closely in his arms.
A conversation which had to begin by explaining so many things was necessarily a long one. Fabrizio told Clelia the exact truth as to her father’s banishment33. The duchess had had nothing whatever to do with it, for the very good reason that she had never thought, for a single instant, that the idea of poison had emanated34 from General Conti. She had always believed that to be a witticism35 on the part of the Raversi faction36, which was bent37 on driving out Count Mosca. His long dissertation38 on this historical fact made Clelia very happy; she had been wretched at the thought that it was her duty to hate any one belonging to Fabrizio, and she no longer looked on the duchess with a jealous eye.
The happiness consequent on that evening’s meeting only lasted a few days.
The worthy40 Don Cesare arrived from Turin, and found courage, in his perfect single-heartedness, to seek the presence of the duchess. After having obtained her word that she would not betray the confidence he was about to repose41 in her, he confessed that his brother, misled by a false idea of honour, and believing himself defied and ruined in public opinion by Fabrizio’s escape, had believed himself bound to seek for vengeance42.
Before Don Cesare had talked for two minutes his cause was won; his absolute honesty had touched the duchess, who was not accustomed to such exhibitions; its novelty delighted her.
“Hurry on the marriage of the general’s daughter with the Marchese Crescenzi, and I give you my word of honour that I will do everything I can to have the general received as if he were coming back from an ordinary journey. I will ask him to dinner myself. Will that satisfy you? No doubt there will be a stiffness at first, and the general must not be too hasty about asking to be reappointed governor of the citadel44. But you know my regard for the marchese; I shall bear no grudge45 against his father-in-law.”
Armed with these assurances, Don Cesare sought his niece, and told her that her father’s life lay in her hands; he had fallen ill from sheer despair, not having appeared at any court for several months.
Clelia insisted on going to see her father, who was hiding under a false name in a village near Turin; for he had taken it into his head that the court of Parma would request his extradition46, with the object of bringing him to trial. She found him in bed, ill, and almost out of his mind. That very night she wrote a letter to Fabrizio, breaking with him forever. On receiving the letter, Fabrizio, whose character was growing very like that of his mistress, went into retreat at the Convent of Velleia, in the mountains, some thirty leagues from Parma. Clelia had written him a letter that covered ten pages. She had solemnly sworn she would never marry the marchese without his consent. That consent she now besought47, and Fabrizio granted it in a letter written from his retreat at Velleia, and breathing the purest friendship.
When Clelia received this letter—the friendly tone of which nettled48 her, we must acknowledge—she herself fixed49 her wedding-day, and the festivities connected with it added to the splendour which rendered the court of Parma specially50 noticeable that winter.
Ranuzio-Ernest V was a miser11 at heart, but he was desperately51 in love, and he hoped to keep the duchess permanently52 at his court. He begged his mother’s acceptance of a considerable sum of money, to be spent in entertaining. The mistress of the robes made admirable use of this addition to the royal income; the festivities at Parma that winter recalled the best days of the Milanese court, and of Prince Eugène, that lovable viceroy of Italy, the memory of whose goodness has endured so long.
The archbishop’s coadjutor had been recalled to Parma by his duties. But he gave out that, from religious motives54, he should continue to live in retirement55 in the small apartment in the archiepiscopal palace which his protector, Monsignore Landriani, had insisted on his accepting, and thither56 he retired, with one servant only. He was not present, therefore, at any of the brilliant court entertainments, and this fact earned him a most saintly reputation in Parma, and all over his future diocese. An unexpected result of this retirement, which had been inspired solely57 by Fabrizio’s profound and hopeless sadness, was that the worthy archbishop, who had always loved him, and who, in fact, had been the person who had first thought of having him appointed coadjutor, began to feel a little jealous. The archbishop, and very rightly, conceived it his duty to attend all the court functions, according to the usual Italian custom. On these occasions he wore his gala costume, very nearly the same as that in which he appeared in his cathedral choir58. The hundreds of servants gathered in the pillared anteroom of the palace never failed to rise and crave59 the archbishop’s blessing60 as he passed, and he, as invariably, condescended61 to stop and bestow62 it. It was during one of these moments of solemn silence that Monsignore Landriani heard a voice saying: “Our archbishop goes to balls, and Monsignore del Dongo never goes out of his room.”
From that moment the immense favour in which Fabrizio had stood at the archiepiscopal palace came to an end. But he was able, now, to stand on his own feet. The behaviour which had only been actuated by the despair into which Clelia’s marriage had cast him, was taken to be the result of his simple and lofty piety, and devout63 folk read the translation of his family genealogy64, which exemplified the most ridiculous vanity, as though it were an edifying65 work. The booksellers published a lithographed edition of his picture, which was bought up in a few days, and more especially by the lower classes. The engraver66, out of ignorance, surrounded Fabrizio’s portrait with several adornments, which should only have appeared on the portrait of a bishop53, and to which a coadjutor could lay no claim. The archbishop saw one of these pictures, and his fury exceeded all bounds. He sent for Fabrizio, and spoke67 to him in the harshest manner, and in terms which his rage occasionally rendered very coarse. Fabrizio had no difficulty, as my readers will readily believe, in behaving as Fénelon would have done in such a case. He listened to the archbishop with all possible humility68 and respect, and when the prelate ceased speaking, he told him the whole story of the translation of the genealogy by Count Mosca’s orders, at the time of his first imprisonment69. It had been published for worldly ends—such, indeed, as had seemed to him (Fabrizio), by no means suited for a man in his position. As to the portrait, he had had as little to do with the second edition as with the first. During his retreat the bookseller had sent him twenty-four copies of this second edition addressed to the archiepiscopal palace. He had sent his servant to buy a twenty-fifth copy, and having thus discovered that the price of each to be thirty sous, he had sent a hundred francs in payment for the first twenty-four portraits.
All these arguments, though put forward in the most reasonable manner, by a man whose heart was full of sorrow of a very different kind, increased the archbishop’s fury to madness. He even went so far as to accuse Fabrizio of hypocrisy70.
“This is what comes of being a common man,” said Fabrizio to himself, “even when he is clever.”
He had a more serious trouble at that moment, in the shape of his aunt’s letters, which absolutely insisted on his returning to his rooms at the Palazzo Sanseverina, or, at all events, on his coming occasionally to see her. In that house Fabrizio felt he was certain to hear talk of the Marchese Crescenzi’s splendid entertainments in honour of his marriage, and he was not sure he would be able to endure this without making an exhibition of himself.
When the marriage ceremony took place, Fabrizio had already kept utter silence for a week, after having commanded his servant, and those persons in the archbishop’s palace with whom he had to do, never to open their lips to him.
When Archbishop Landriani became aware of this fresh piece of affectation he sent for Fabrizio much oftener than was his wont71, and insisted on holding lengthy72 conversations with him. He even made him confer with certain of his country canons, who complained that the archbishop had contravened73 their privileges. Fabrizio took all this with the perfect indifference74 of a man whose head is full of other things. “I should do much better,” thought he, “to turn Carthusian. I should be less wretched among the rocks at Velleia.”
He paid a visit to his aunt, and could not restrain his tears when he kissed her. He was so altered, his eyes, which his excessive thinness made look larger than ever, seeming ready to start out of his head, and his whole appearance, in[493] his threadbare black cassock, was so miserable and wretched, that at her first sight of him the duchess could hardly help crying too. But a moment later, when she had told herself it was Clelia’s marriage that had so sorely changed this handsome young fellow, her feelings were as fierce as those of the archbishop, though more skilfully75 concealed77. She was cruel enough to dilate78 at length on various picturesque79 details which had marked the Marchese Crescenzi’s delightful80 entertainments. Fabrizio made no reply, but his eyes closed with a little convulsive flutter, and he turned even paler than before, which at first sight would have been taken to be impossible. At such moments of excessive misery his pallor took a greenish tint81.
Count Mosca came into the room, and the sight he beheld82 (and which appeared to him incredible) cured him, once for all, of that jealousy83 of Fabrizio which he had never ceased to feel. This gifted man made the most delicate and ingenious endeavours to rouse Fabrizio to some interest in mundane84 affairs. The count had always felt an esteem, and a certain regard for him. This regard, being no longer counterbalanced by jealousy, deepened into something approaching devotion. “He really has paid honestly for his fine position,” said Mosca to himself, as he summed up Fabrizio’s misfortunes. On pretext85 of showing him the Parmegiano, which the prince had sent the duchess, the count drew Fabrizio apart.
“Hark ye, my friend, let us speak as man to man. Can I serve you in any way? You need not fear I shall question you. But tell me, would money be of any use to you? Can interest serve you in any fashion? Speak out; you may command me—or, if you prefer it, write to me.”
Fabrizio embraced him affectionately, and talked about the picture.
“Your behaviour is a masterpiece of the most skilful76 policy,” said the count, returning to an ordinary light conversational86 tone. “You are laying up a most admirable future for yourself. The prince respects you. The populace venerates87 you. Your threadbare black suit keeps Archbishop Landriani awake o’ nights. I have some acquaintance with political business, and I vow I don’t know what advice I could give you to improve it. Your first step in society, made at five-and-twenty, has placed you in a position that is absolutely perfect. You are very much talked about at court. And do you know to what it is you owe a distinction which, at your age, is unique? To your threadbare black garments. The duchess and I, as you know, are in possession of the house Petrarch once owned, which stands on a beautiful hill in the forest, close to the river. It has struck me that if ever the small spites of envious88 folk should weary you, you might become Petrarch’s successor, and his renown89 would set off yours.” The count was racking his brains to bring a smile to the wasted melancholy90 face. But he could not do it. What made the alteration91 in Fabrizio’s countenance92 all the more striking was that until quite lately its fault, if it possessed93 one, had been its occasionally unseasonable expression of sensuous94 enjoyment95 and gay delight.
The count did not allow him to depart without telling him that in spite of the retirement in which he was living, it might look somewhat affected96 if he did not put in an appearance at court on the following Saturday—the princess-mother’s birthday. The words went through Fabrizio like a dagger97 thrust. “Good God!” thought he, “what possessed me to enter this house?” He could not think of the meeting he might have to face at court, without a shudder98. The thought of it overrode99 all others. He made up his mind that his only remaining chance was to reach the palace at the very moment when the doors of the reception rooms were thrown open.
As a matter of fact, Monsignore del Dongo’s name was one of the first to be announced at the great state entertainment, and the princess received him with all imaginable courtesy. Fabrizio kept his eyes on the clock, and as soon as the hand pointed43 to the twentieth minute of his visit, he rose to take his leave. But just at that moment the prince entered his mother’s apartment. After paying him his duty, Fabrizio was skilfully edging toward the door, when to his great discomfiture100, one of those trifles of court etiquette101 with the use of which the mistress of the robes was so well acquainted, was suddenly sprung upon him. The chamberlain in waiting ran after him to say he had been named to join the prince’s whist party. This, at Parma, is an excessive honour, far transcending102 the rank the archbishop’s coadjutor occupies in society. To play whist with the sovereign would be a special honour for the archbishop himself. Fabrizio felt the chamberlain’s words go through him like a dart103, and mortally as he hated any public scene, he very nearly told him he had been seized with a sudden attack of giddiness. But it occurred to him that this would expose him to questions, and complimentary104 condolences, even more intolerable than the game of cards would be. He hated to open his mouth that day.
Luckily, the superior general of the Franciscan Friars happened to be among the important personages who had come to offer their congratulations to the princess. This monk105, a very learned man, and worthy follower106 of Fontana and Duvoisin, had taken his stand in a distant corner of the reception room. Fabrizio placed himself in front of him, turning round so as not to see the doorway107 into the room, and began talking theology with him. But he could not prevent himself from hearing the Marchese and Marchesa Crescenzi announced. Contrary to his own expectation, Fabrizio experienced a sensation of violent anger.
“If I were Borso Valserra” (one of the first Sforza’s generals), said he to himself, “I should go over and stab that dull marchese, with the very ivory-handled dagger Clelia gave me on that blessed day, and I would teach him to have the insolence108 of showing himself with his marchesa anywhere in my presence.” His face had altered so completely that the superior general of the Franciscans said to him:
“Is your Excellency ill?”
“I have a frightful109 headache … the light hurts me … and I am only staying on because I have been desired to join the prince’s whist party.”
At these words the superior general of the Franciscans, who was a man of the middle class, was so taken aback, that, not knowing what else to do, he began bowing to Fabrizio, who, on his side, being far more agitated110 than the superior general, fell to talking with the most extraordinary volubility. He noticed that a great silence had fallen on the room behind him, but he would not look round. Suddenly the bow of a violin was rapped against a desk, some one played a flourish, and the famous singer, Signora , sang Cimarosa’s once celebrated111 air, Quelle pupille tenere. Fabrizio stood his ground for the first few bars. But soon his anger melted within him, and he felt an intense longing39 for tears. “Good God,” he thought, “what an absurd scene! and with my priestly habit, too!” He thought it wiser to talk about himself.
“These violent headaches of mine, when I fight against them as I am doing to-night,” said he to the superior general of the Franciscans, “always end in crying fits, which might give rise to ill-natured comment, in the case of a man of our calling. So I beseech112 your most illustrious reverence113 will give me leave to look at you while I weep, and will make no remark on my condition.”
“Our provincial114 at Catanara suffers from just the very same discomfort,” said the general of the Franciscans, and he began a long story in an undertone.
The absurdity115 of the tale, which involved a recital116 of everything the provincial ate at his evening meal, made Fabrizio smile, a thing he had not done for many a day. But he soon ceased listening to the superior general. Signora was singing, in the most divine fashion, an air by Pergolese (the princess had a fondness for old-fashioned music). There was a slight noise three paces from Fabrizio. For the first time that evening he turned his head. The chair which had scraped on the parquet117 floor was occupied by the Marchesa Crescenzi, whose eyes, swimming with tears, met Fabrizio’s, which were in no better case. The marchesa bowed her head. For some seconds Fabrizio went on gazing at her. He was studying that diamond-laden head. But his eyes were full of anger and disdain118. Then, repeating to himself, “And my eyes shall never look on thee again,” he turned back to the superior general and said:
“My complaint is coming on again, worse than ever.”
And, indeed, for over half an hour Fabrizio wept abundantly. Fortunately, one of Mozart’s symphonies—vilely played, as they generally are in Italy—came to his rescue, and helped to dry his tears.
He held his ground, and never looked toward the Marchesa Crescenzi. But Signora began to sing again, and Fabrizio’s soul, relieved by the tears he had shed, passed into a state of perfect calm. Then life looked different to him. “How can I expect,” he mused, “to be able to forget her at the very outset? Would that be possible?” Then the idea occurred to him: “Can I possibly be more wretched than I have been for the last two months? And if nothing can increase my misery, why should I deny myself the pleasure of seeing her? She has forgotten her vows119, she is fickle120—is not every woman fickle? But who can deny her heavenly beauty? A glance of hers throws me into an ecstasy121, and I have to do myself violence even to look at other women, who are supposed to be the loveliest of their sex. Well, why should I not enjoy that ecstasy? At all events, it will give me a moment’s respite.”
Fabrizio knew something of mankind, but as regards passion he was without experience. Otherwise he would have told himself that the momentary122 delight in which he was about to indulge would stultify123 all the efforts he had been making for the past two months to forget Clelia.
The poor lady had only attended the reception under her husband’s compulsion. She would have departed, after the first half-hour, on the score of illness. But the marchese assured her that to send for her carriage and drive away, while many other carriages were still driving up, would be a most unusual proceeding124, and might even be taken as an indirect criticism of the entertainment offered by the princess.
“As lord in waiting,” the marchese went on, “I am bound to remain in the room, at the princess’s orders, until all the guests have retired. There may, and there no doubt will, be orders to be given to the servants—they are so careless. Would you have me allow a mere125 equerry to usurp126 this honour?”
Clelia submitted. She had not seen Fabrizio. She still hoped he might not be present at the reception. But just as the concert was beginning, when the princess gave the ladies permission to be seated, Clelia, who was anything but pushing in such matters, allowed herself to be shouldered out of the best seats, near the princess, and was forced to seek a chair at the back of the room, in the very distant corner to which Fabrizio had retired. When she reached her seat the dress of the Franciscan superior general, an unusual one in such company, caught her attention, and at first she did not notice the slight man in a plain black coat who was talking to him. Yet a certain secret impulse made her rivet127 her eyes on that person.
“Every man here is in uniform, or wears a richly embroidered128 coat. Who can that young man in the plain black suit be?” She was gazing at him attentively129, when a lady, passing to a seat near her, jerked her chair. Fabrizio turned his head. So altered was he that she did not recognise him. She said to herself at first: “Here is somebody who is like him. It must be his elder brother. But I thought he was only a few years older, and this man must be five-and-forty.” Suddenly she recognised him by the way his lips moved.
“Poor fellow, how he has suffered!” she thought. And she bowed her head, not on account of her vow, but crushed by her misery. Her heart was swelling130 with pity. He had not looked anything like that, even after he had been shut up nine months in prison. She did not look at him again. But though her eyes were not exactly turned toward him, she was conscious of his every movement.
When the concert came to an end, she saw him go over to the prince’s card-table, which was set out a few paces from the throne. When she saw Fabrizio thus removed some distance from her she breathed more freely.
But the Marchese Crescenzi had been very much disturbed at seeing his wife banished131 so far from the throne. He spent the whole evening trying to persuade a lady who was sitting three chairs from the princess, and whose husband was under pecuniary132 obligations to himself, that she had better change places with the marchesa. The poor lady objected, as was natural. Then he went and fetched the husband, who owed him money. This gentleman made his better-half listen to the dreary133 voice of reason, and at last the marchese had the pleasure of arranging the exchange, and went to fetch his wife. “You are always far too retiring,” he said. “Why do you walk about with your eyes cast down? You will be taken for one of these middle-class women who are astonished at finding themselves here, and whom everybody else is astounded to see. That crazy woman the mistress of the robes is always doing that sort of thing. And then they talk about checking the progress of Jacobinism! Recollect134 that your husband holds the highest position of any man at the princess’s court. And supposing the republicans should succeed in pulling down the court, and even the nobility, your husband would still be the richest man in this country. That is a notion you do not consider half enough.”
The chair in which the marchese had the pleasure of seating his wife stood not more than six paces from the prince’s card-table. Clelia could only see Fabrizio’s profile, but she was so struck by his thinness, and especially by his air of utter indifference to anything that might happen to him in this world—he, who in old days had his word to say about every incident that occurred—that she ended by coming to the frightful conclusion that Fabrizio was completely altered, that he had forgotten her, and that his extreme emaciation135 must result from the severe fasting his piety had enjoined136. Clelia was confirmed in this sad conviction by the conversation of all who sat near her. The coadjutor’s name was on every tongue; every one was seeking the reason of the special favour which had been shown him. How was it that he, young as he was, had been admitted to the prince’s card-table? A great effect was produced by the indifferent politeness and haughty137 air with which he dealt his cards, even when he cut them for his Highness.
“It really is incredible,” exclaimed the old courtiers. “The favour his aunt enjoys has quite turned his head.… But Heaven be thanked, that will not last long! Our sovereign does not like people who assume such airs of superiority.” The duchess went up to the prince, and the courtiers, who remained at a respectful distance from the card-table, so that they could only catch a few chance words of the prince’s conversation, noticed that Fabrizio flushed deeply. “No doubt,” thought they, “his aunt has chidden him for his fine show of indifference.” Fabrizio had just overheard Clelia’s voice; she was answering the princess, who, in her progress round the room, had addressed a few words to the wife of her lord in waiting. At last the moment came when Fabrizio had to change his place at the whist-table. This brought him exactly opposite Clelia, and several times he gave himself up to the delight of looking at her. The poor marchesa, feeling his eyes upon her, quite lost countenance. Several times she forgot what she owed her vow, and in her longing to read Fabrizio’s heart, she fixed her eyes upon his face.
When the prince had finished playing, the ladies rose to go into the supper room. There was some little confusion, and Fabrizio found himself close to Clelia. His resolution was still strong, but he happened to recognise a very slight perfume which she was in the habit of putting in her dress, and this sensation overmastered all his determination. He drew near her, and murmured, in an undertone, and as if to himself, two lines out of the sonnet138 from Petrarch which he had sent her printed on a silken handkerchief from the Lago Maggiore. “How great was my happiness when the outer world thought me wretched! and now, how altered is my fate!”
“No, he has not forgotten me,” thought Clelia in a passion of joy. “That noble heart is not unfaithful.”
“Non! vous ne me verrez jamais changer
Beaux yeux, qui m’avez appris à aimer!”
She ventured to say these two lines from Petrarch to herself.
Immediately after supper the princess retired. The prince had followed her to her own apartments, and did not reappear in the reception-room. As soon as this news spread, every one tried to go away at once, and confusion reigned139 supreme140 in all the anterooms. Clelia found herself quite near Fabrizio. The deep misery of his expression filled her with pity. “Let us forget the past,” she said, “and keep this in memory of our friendship.” As she said the word she put out her fan, so that he might take it.
In one moment everything changed to Fabrizio’s eyes. He was another man. The very next morning he announced that his retreat was at an end, and went back to his splendid rooms in the Palazzo Sanseverina.
The archbishop said, and believed, that the favour the prince had shown Fabrizio by summoning him to his card-table had turned the new-fledged saint’s head. The duchess perceived that he had come to an understanding with Clelia. That thought, which increased twofold the pain of the memory of her own fatal promise, made her finally resolve to absent herself for a while. People were astonished at her folly141. “What! Leave court at the very moment when her favour appeared to know no limits!”
The count, who was perfectly happy now that he was satisfied there was no love between Fabrizio and the duchess, said to his friend: “This new prince of ours is the very incarnation of virtue142, but I once called him ‘that child.’ Will he never forgive me? I only see one means of thoroughly143 regaining144 my credit with him, and that is by absence. I will make myself perfectly charming and respectful, and then I will fall ill, and ask leave to retire. You will grant me permission to do so, now that Fabrizio’s fortunes are assured. But,” he added, with a laugh, “will you make the immense sacrifice of changing the high and mighty145 title of duchess for a much humbler one, for my sake? I am entertaining myself by leaving all the business here in a state of the most inextricable confusion. I had four or five hard-working men in my various ministries146; I had them all pensioned off, two months ago, because they read the French newspapers, and I have replaced them with first-class simpletons.”
“Once we are gone, the prince will find himself in such difficulties that, in spite of his horror of Rassi’s character, I have no doubt he will be obliged to recall him, and I only await my orders from the tyrant147 who rules my fate to write the most affectionate and friendly letter to my friend Rassi, and tell him I have every reason to hope his merits will soon be properly recognised.”
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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lurking
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pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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8
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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9
augured
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| v.预示，预兆，预言( augur的过去式和过去分词 )；成为预兆；占卜 | |
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10
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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11
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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12
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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13
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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14
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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15
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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16
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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17
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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18
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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19
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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20
displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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21
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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22
bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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23
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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24
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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25
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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26
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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27
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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28
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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29
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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30
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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31
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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32
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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33
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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34
emanated
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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35
witticism
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| n.谐语，妙语 | |
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36
faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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37
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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38
dissertation
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| n.（博士学位）论文，学术演讲，专题论文 | |
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39
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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40
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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41
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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42
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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43
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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44
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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45
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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46
extradition
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| n.引渡（逃犯） | |
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47
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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48
nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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49
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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50
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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51
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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52
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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53
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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54
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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55
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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56
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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57
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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58
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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59
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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60
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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61
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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62
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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63
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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64
genealogy
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| n.家系，宗谱 | |
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65
edifying
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|
| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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66
engraver
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| n.雕刻师，雕工 | |
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67
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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68
humility
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|
| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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69
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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70
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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71
wont
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|
| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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72
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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73
contravened
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| v.取消，违反( contravene的过去式 ) | |
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74
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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75
skilfully
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|
| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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76
skilful
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|
| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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77
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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78
dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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79
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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80
delightful
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|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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81
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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82
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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83
jealousy
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|
| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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84
mundane
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|
| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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85
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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86
conversational
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|
| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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87
venerates
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| 敬重（某人或某事物），崇敬( venerate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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88
envious
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|
| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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89
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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90
melancholy
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|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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91
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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92
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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93
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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94
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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95
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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96
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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97
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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98
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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99
overrode
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| 越控( override的过去式 )； （以权力）否决； 优先于； 比…更重要 | |
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100
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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101
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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102
transcending
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的现在分词 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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103
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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104
complimentary
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|
| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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105
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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106
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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107
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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108
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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109
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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110
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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111
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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112
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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113
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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114
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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115
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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116
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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117
parquet
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| n.镶木地板 | |
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118
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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119
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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120
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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121
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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122
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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123
stultify
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| v.愚弄；使呆滞 | |
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124
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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125
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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126
usurp
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| vt.篡夺，霸占；vi.篡位 | |
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127
rivet
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| n.铆钉；vt.铆接，铆牢；集中(目光或注意力) | |
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128
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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129
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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130
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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131
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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133
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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134
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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135
emaciation
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| n.消瘦，憔悴，衰弱 | |
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136
enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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138
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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139
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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140
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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141
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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142
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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143
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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144
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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145
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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146
ministries
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| （政府的）部( ministry的名词复数 )； 神职； 牧师职位； 神职任期 | |
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147
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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