I showed, when quite a child, an extreme sensibility. Every thing affected5 me violently. While yet an infant in my mother’s arms, and before I had learnt to talk, I could be wrought6 upon to a wonderful degree of anguish7 or delight by the power of music. As I grew older my feelings remained equally acute, and I was easily transported into paroxysms of pleasure or rage. It was the amusement of my relatives and of the domestics to play upon this irritable8 temperament9. I was moved to tears, tickled10 to laughter, provoked to fury, for the entertainment of company, who were amused by such a tempest of mighty11 passion in a pigmy frame. They little thought, or perhaps little heeded12 the dangerous sensibilities they were fostering. I thus became a little creature of passion, before reason was developed. In a short time I grew too old to be a plaything, and then I became a torment13. The tricks and passions I had been teased into became irksome, and I was disliked by my teachers for the very lessons they had taught me.
My mother died; and my power as a spoiled child was at an end. There was no longer any necessity to humor or tolerate me, for there was nothing to be gained by it, as I was no favorite of my father. I therefore experienced the fate of a spoiled child in such situation, and was neglected or noticed only to be crossed and contradicted. Such was the early treatment of a heart, which, if I am judge of it at all, was naturally disposed to the extremes of tenderness and affection.
My father, as I have already said, never liked me—in fact, he never Understood me; he looked upon me as wilful14 and wayward, as deficient15 in natural affection:—it was the stateliness of his own manner; the loftiness and grandeur16 of his own look that had repelled17 me from his arms. I always pictured him to myself as I had seen him clad in his senatorial robes, rustling19 with pomp and pride. The magnificence of his person had daunted20 my strong imagination. I could never approach him with the confiding21 affection of a child.
My father’s feelings were wrapped up in my elder brother. He was to be the inheritor of the family title and the family dignity, and every thing was sacrificed to him—I, as well as every thing else. It was determined22 to devote me to the church, that so my humors and myself might be removed out of the way, either of tasking my father’s time and trouble, or interfering23 with the interests of my brother. At an early age, therefore, before my mind had dawned upon the world and its delights, or known any thing of it beyond the precincts of my father’s palace, I was sent to a convent, the superior of which was my uncle, and was confided24 entirely26 to his care.
My uncle was a man totally estranged27 from the world; he had never relished28, for he had never tasted its pleasures; and he deemed rigid29 self-denial as the great basis of Christian30 virtue31. He considered every one’s temperament like his own; or at least he made them conform to it. His character and habits had an influence over the fraternity of which he was superior. A more gloomy, saturnine32 set of beings were never assembled together. The convent, too, was calculated to awaken33 sad and solitary34 thoughts. It was situated35 in a gloomy gorge36 of those mountains away south of Vesuvius. All distant views were shut out by sterile37 volcanic38 heights. A mountain stream raved39 beneath its walls, and eagles screamed about its turrets40.
I had been sent to this place at so tender an age as soon to lose all Distinct recollection of the scenes I had left behind. As my mind expanded, therefore, it formed its idea of the world from the convent and its vicinity, and a dreary42 world it appeared to me. An early tinge43 of melancholy44 was thus infused into my character; and the dismal45 stories of the monks47, about devils and evil spirits, with which they affrighted my young imagination, gave me a tendency to superstition48, which I could never effectually shake off. They took the same delight to work upon my ardent49 feelings that had been so mischievously50 exercised by my father’s household.
I can recollect41 the horrors with which they fed my heated fancy during an eruption51 of Vesuvius. We were distant from that volcano, with mountains between us; but its convulsive throes shook the solid foundations of nature. Earthquakes threatened to topple down our convent towers. A lurid52, baleful light hung in the heavens at night, and showers of ashes, borne by the wind, fell in our narrow valley. The monks talked of the earth being honey-combed beneath us; of Streams of molten lava54 raging through its veins56; of caverns57 of sulphurous flames roaring in the centre, the abodes58 of demons59 and the damned; of fiery60 gulfs ready to yawn beneath our feet. All these tales were told to the doleful accompaniment of the mountain’s thunders, whose low bellowing61 made the walls of our convent vibrate.
One of the monks had been a painter, but had retired62 from the world, and embraced this dismal life in expiation63 of some crime. He was a melancholy man, who pursued his art in the solitude64 of his cell, but made it a source of penance65 to him. His employment was to portray66, either on canvas or in waxen models, the human face and human form, in the agonies of death and in all the stages of dissolution and decay. The fearful mysteries of the charnel house were unfolded in his labors—the loathsome67 banquet of the beetle68 and the worm.—I turn with shuddering69 even from the recollection of his works. Yet, at that time, my strong, but ill-directed imagination seized with ardor70 upon his instructions in his art. Any thing was a variety from the dry studies and monotonous71 duties of the cloister72. In a little while I became expert with my pencil, and my gloomy productions were thought worthy73 of decorating some of the altars of the chapel74.
In this dismal way was a creature of feeling and fancy brought up. Every thing genial75 and amiable76 in my nature was repressed and nothing brought out but what was unprofitable and ungracious. I was ardent in my temperament; quick, mercurial77, impetuous, formed to be a creature all love and adoration78; but a leaden hand was laid on all my finer qualities. I was taught nothing but fear and hatred79. I hated my uncle, I hated the monks, I hated the convent in which I was immured80. I hated the world, and I almost hated myself, for being, as I supposed, so hating and hateful an animal.
When I had nearly attained81 the age of sixteen, I was suffered, on one occasion, to accompany one of the brethren on a mission to a distant part of the country. We soon left behind us the gloomy valley in which I had been pent up for so many years, and after a short journey among the mountains, emerged upon the voluptuous82 landscape that spreads itself about the Bay of Naples. Heavens! How transported was I, when I stretched my gaze over a vast reach of delicious sunny country, gay with groves83 and vineyards; with Vesuvius rearing its forked summit to my right; the blue Mediterranean84 to my left, with its enchanting85 coast, studded with shining towns and sumptuous86 villas88; and Naples, my native Naples, gleaming far, far in the distance.
Good God! was this the lovely world from which I had been excluded! I Had reached that age when the sensibilities are in all their bloom and freshness. Mine had been checked and chilled. They now burst forth89 with the suddenness of a retarded90 spring. My heart, hitherto unnaturally91 shrunk up, expanded into a riot of vague, but delicious emotions. The beauty of nature intoxicated93, bewildered me. The song of the peasants; their cheerful looks; their happy avocations94; the picturesque95 gayety of their dresses; their rustic96 music; their dances; all broke upon me like witchcraft97. My soul responded to the music; my heart danced in my bosom98. All the men appeared amiable, all the women lovely.
I returned to the convent, that is to say, my body returned but my heart and soul never entered there again. I could not forget this glimpse of a beautiful and a happy world; a world so suited to my natural character. I had felt so happy while in it; so different a being from what I felt myself while in the convent—that tomb of the living. I contrasted the countenances99 of the beings I had seen, full of fire and freshness and enjoyment101, with the pallid102, leaden, lack-lustre visages of the monks; the music of the dance, with the droning chant of the chapel. I had before found the exercises of the cloister wearisome; they now became intolerable. The dull round of duties wore away my spirit; my nerves became irritated by the fretful tinkling103 of the convent bell; evermore dinging among the mountain echoes; evermore calling me from my repose104 at night, my pencil by day, to attend to some tedious and mechanical ceremony of devotion.
I was not of a nature to meditate105 long, without putting my thoughts into action. My spirit had been suddenly aroused, and was now all awake within me. I watched my opportunity, fled from the convent, and made my way on foot to Naples. As I entered its gay and crowded streets, and beheld106 the variety and stir of life around me, the luxury of palaces, the splendor107 of equipages, and the pantomimic animation108 of the motley populace, I seemed as if awakened109 to a world of enchantment110, and solemnly vowed111 that nothing should force me back to the monotony of the cloister.
I had to inquire my way to my father’s palace, for I had been so young on leaving it, that I knew not its situation. I found some difficulty in getting admitted to my father’s presence, for the domestics scarcely knew that there was such a being as myself in existence, and my monastic dress did not operate in my favor. Even my father entertained no recollection of my person. I told him my name, threw myself at his feet, implored112 his forgiveness, and entreated113 that I might not be sent back to the convent.
He received me with the condescension114 of a patron rather than the kindness of a parent. He listened patiently, but coldly, to my tale of monastic grievances115 and disgusts, and promised to think what else could be done for me. This coldness blighted117 and drove back all the frank affection of my nature that was ready to spring forth at the least warmth of parental118 kindness. All my early feelings towards my father revived; I again looked up to him as the stately magnificent being that had daunted my childish imagination, and felt as if I had no pretensions119 to his sympathies. My brother engrossed120 all his care and love; he inherited his nature, and carried himself towards me with a protecting rather than a fraternal air. It wounded my pride, which was great. I could brook121 condescension from my father, for I looked up to him with awe122 as a superior being, but I could not brook patronage123 from a brother, who, I felt, was intellectually my inferior. The servants perceived that I was an unwelcome intruder in the paternal124 mansion125, and, menial-like, they treated me with neglect. Thus baffled at every point; my affections outraged126 wherever they would attach themselves, I became sullen127, silent, and despondent128. My feelings driven back upon myself, entered and preyed129 upon my own heart. I remained for some days an unwelcome guest rather than a restored son in my father’s house. I was doomed130 never to be properly known there. I was made, by wrong treatment, strange even to myself; and they judged of me from my strangeness.
I was startled one day at the sight of one of the monks of my convent, gliding131 out of my father’s room. He saw me, but pretended not to notice me; and this very hypocrisy132 made me suspect something. I had become sore and susceptible133 in my feelings; every thing inflicted134 a wound on them. In this state of mind I was treated with marked disrespect by a pampered135 minion136, the favorite servant of my father. All the pride and passion of my nature rose in an instant, and I struck him to the earth.
My father was passing by; he stopped not to inquire the reason, nor indeed could he read the long course of mental sufferings which were the real cause. He rebuked137 me with anger and scorn; he summoned all the haughtiness138 of his nature, and grandeur of his look, to give weight to the contumely with which he treated me. I felt I had not deserved it—I felt that I was not appreciated—I felt that I had that within me which merited better treatment; my heart swelled139 against a father’s injustice140. I broke through my habitual141 awe of him. I replied to him with impatience142; my hot spirit flushed in my cheek and kindled143 in my eye, but my sensitive heart swelled as quickly, and before I had half vented144 my passion I felt it suffocated145 and quenched146 in my tears. My father was astonished and incensed147 at this turning of the worm, and ordered me to my chamber148. I retired in silence, choking with contending emotions.
I had not been long there when I overheard voices in an adjoining apartment. It was a consultation149 between my father and the monk46, about the means of getting me back quietly to the convent. My resolution was taken. I had no longer a home nor a father. That very night I left the paternal roof. I got on board a vessel150 about making sail from the harbor, and abandoned myself to the wide world. No matter to what port she steered151; any part of so beautiful a world was better than my convent. No matter where I was cast by fortune; any place would be more a home to me than the home I had left behind. The vessel was bound to Genoa. We arrived there after a voyage of a few days.
As I entered the harbor, between the moles153 which embrace it, and beheld the amphitheatre of palaces and churches and splendid gardens, rising one above another, I felt at once its title to the appellation154 of Genoa the Superb. I landed on the mole152 an utter stranger, without knowing what to do, or whither to direct my steps. No matter; I was released from the thraldom155 of the convent and the humiliations of home! When I traversed the Strada Balbi and the Strada Nuova, those streets of palaces, and gazed at the wonders of architecture around me; when I wandered at close of day, amid a gay throng156 of the brilliant and the beautiful, through the green alleys157 of the Aqua Verdi, or among the colonnades158 and terraces of the magnificent Doria Gardens, I thought it impossible to be ever otherwise than happy in Genoa.
A few days sufficed to show me my mistake. My scanty159 purse was exhausted160, and for the first time in my life I experienced the sordid161 distress162 of penury163. I had never known the want of money, and had never adverted164 to the possibility of such an evil. I was ignorant of the world and all its ways; and when first the idea of destitution165 came over my mind its effect was withering166. I was wandering pensively167 through the streets which no longer delighted my eyes, when chance led my stops into the magnificent church of the Annunciata.
A celebrated168 painter of the day was at that moment superintending the placing of one of his pictures over an altar. The proficiency169 which I had acquired in his art during my residence in the convent had made me an enthusiastic amateur. I was struck, at the first glance, with the painting. It was the face of a Madonna. So innocent, so lovely, such a divine expression of maternal170 tenderness! I lost for the moment all recollection of myself in the enthusiasm of my art. I clasped my hands together, and uttered an ejaculation of delight. The painter perceived my emotion. He was flattered and gratified by it. My air and manner pleased him, and he accosted171 me. I felt too much the want of friendship to repel18 the advances of a stranger, and there was something in this one so benevolent172 and winning that in a moment he gained my confidence.
I told him my story and my situation, concealing173 only my name and rank. He appeared strongly interested by my recital174; invited me to his house, and from that time I became his favorite pupil. He thought he perceived in me extraordinary talents for the art, and his encomiums awakened all my ardor. What a blissful period of my existence was it that I passed beneath his roof. Another being seemed created within me, or rather, all that was amiable and excellent was drawn175 out. I was as recluse176 as ever I had been at the convent, but how different was my seclusion177. My time was spent in storing my mind with lofty and poetical178 ideas; in meditating179 on all that was striking and noble in history or fiction; in studying and tracing all that was sublime180 and beautiful in nature. I was always a visionary, imaginative being, but now my reveries and imaginings all elevated me to rapture181.
I looked up to my master as to a benevolent genius that had opened to me a region of enchantment. I became devotedly182 attached to him. He was not a native of Genoa, but had been drawn thither183 by the solicitation184 of several of the nobility, and had resided there but a few years, for the completion of certain works he had undertaken. His health was delicate, and he had to confide25 much of the filling up of his designs to the pencils of his scholars. He considered me as particularly happy in delineating the human countenance100; in seizing upon characteristic, though fleeting185 expressions and fixing them powerfully upon my canvas. I was employed continually, therefore, in sketching186 faces, and often when some particular grace or beauty or expression was wanted in a countenance, it was entrusted188 to my pencil. My benefactor189 was fond of bringing me forward; and partly, perhaps, through my actual skill, and partly by his partial praises, I began to be noted190 for the expression of my countenances.
Among the various works which he had undertaken, was an historical piece for one of the palaces of Genoa, in which were to be introduced the likenesses of several of the family. Among these was one entrusted to my pencil. It was that of a young girl, who as yet was in a convent for her education. She came out for the purpose of sitting for the picture. I first saw her in an apartment of one of the sumptuous palaces of Genoa. She stood before a casement191 that looked out upon the bay, a stream of vernal sunshine fell upon her, and shed a kind of glory round her as it lit up the rich crimson192 chamber. She was but sixteen years of age—and oh, how lovely! The scene broke upon me like a mere193 vision of spring and youth and beauty. I could have fallen down and worshipped her. She was like one of those fictions of poets and painters, when they would express the beau ideal that haunts their minds with shapes of indescribable perfection.
I was permitted to sketch187 her countenance in various positions, and I Fondly protracted194 the study that was undoing195 me. The more I gazed on her the more I became enamoured; there was something almost painful in my intense admiration196. I was but nineteen years of age; shy, diffident, and inexperienced. I was treated with attention and encouragement, for my youth and my enthusiasm in my art had won favor for me; and I am inclined to think that there was something in my air and manner that inspired interest and respect. Still the kindness with which I was treated could not dispel197 the embarrassment198 into which my own imagination threw me when in presence of this lovely being. It elevated her into something almost more than mortal. She seemed too exquisite199 for earthly use; too delicate and exalted200 for human attainment201. As I sat tracing her charms on my canvas, with my eyes occasionally riveted202 on her features, I drank in delicious poison that made me giddy. My heart alternately gushed204 with tenderness, and ached with despair. Now I became more than ever sensible of the violent fires that had lain dormant205 at the bottom of my soul. You who are born in a more temperate206 climate and under a cooler sky, have little idea of the violence of passion in our southern bosoms207.
A few days finished my task; Bianca returned to her convent, but her image remained indelibly impressed upon my heart. It dwelt on my imagination; it became my pervading208 idea of beauty. It had an effect even upon my pencil; I became noted for my felicity in depicting209 female loveliness; it was but because I multiplied the image of Bianca. I soothed210, and yet fed my fancy, by introducing her in all the productions of my master. I have stood with delight in one of the chapels211 of the Annunciata, and heard the crowd extol212 the seraphic beauty of a saint which I had painted; I have seen them bow down in adoration before the painting: they were bowing before the loveliness of Bianca.
I existed in this kind of dream, I might almost say delirium213, for upwards214 of a year. Such is the tenacity215 of my imagination that the image which was formed in it continued in all its power and freshness. Indeed, I was a solitary, meditative216 being, much given to reverie, and apt to foster ideas which had once taken strong possession of me. I was roused from this fond, melancholy, delicious dream by the death of my worthy benefactor. I cannot describe the pangs218 his death occasioned me. It left me alone and almost broken-hearted. He bequeathed to me his little property; which, from the liberality of his disposition219 and his expensive style of living, was indeed but small; and he most particularly recommended me, in dying, to the protection of a nobleman who had been his patron.
The latter was a man who passed for munificent220. He was a lover and an encourager of the arts, and evidently wished to be thought so. He fancied he saw in me indications of future excellence221; my pencil had already attracted attention; he took me at once under his protection; seeing that I was overwhelmed with grief, and incapable222 of exerting myself in the mansion of my late benefactor, he invited me to sojourn223 for a time in a villa87 which he possessed224 on the border of the sea, in the picturesque neighborhood of Sestri de Ponenti.
I found at the villa the Count’s only son, Filippo: he was nearly of my age, prepossessing in his appearance, and fascinating in his manners; he attached himself to me, and seemed to court my good opinion. I thought there was something of profession in his kindness, and of caprice in his disposition; but I had nothing else near me to attach myself to, and my heart felt the need of something to repose itself upon. His education had been neglected; he looked upon me as his superior in mental powers and acquirements, and tacitly acknowledged my superiority. I felt that I was his equal in birth, and that gave an independence to my manner which had its effect. The caprice and tyranny I saw sometimes exercised on others, over whom he had power, were never manifested towards me. We became intimate friends, and frequent companions. Still I loved to be alone, and to indulge in the reveries of my own imagination, among the beautiful scenery by which I was surrounded.
The villa stood in the midst of ornamented225 grounds, finely decorated With statues and fountains, and laid out into groves and alleys and shady bowers226. It commanded a wide view of the Mediterranean, and the picturesque Ligurian coast. Every thing was assembled here that could gratify the taste or agreeably occupy the mind. Soothed by the tranquillity228 of this elegant retreat, the turbulence229 of my feelings gradually subsided230, and, blending with the romantic spell that still reigned231 over my imagination, produced a soft voluptuous melancholy.
I had not been long under the roof of the Count, when our solitude was enlivened by another inhabitant. It was a daughter of a relation of the Count, who had lately died in reduced circumstances, bequeathing this only child to his protection. I had heard much of her beauty from Filippo, but my fancy had become so engrossed by one idea of beauty as not to admit of any other. We were in the central saloon of the villa when she arrived. She was still in mourning, and approached, leaning on the Count’s arm. As they ascended232 the marble portico233, I was struck by the elegance234 of her figure and movement, by the grace with which the mezzaro, the bewitching veil of Genoa, was folded about her slender form.
They entered. Heavens! what was my surprise when I beheld Bianca before me. It was herself; pale with grief; but still more matured in loveliness than when I had last beheld her. The time that had elapsed had developed the graces of her person; and the sorrow she had undergone had diffused235 over her countenance an irresistible236 tenderness.
She blushed and trembled at seeing me, and tears rushed into her eyes, for she remembered in whose company she had been accustomed to behold237 me. For my part, I cannot express what were my emotions. By degrees I overcame the extreme shyness that had formerly238 paralyzed me in her presence. We were drawn together by sympathy of situation. We had each lost our best friend in the world; we were each, in some measure thrown upon the kindness of others. When I came to know her intellectually, all my ideal picturings of her were confirmed. Her newness to the world, her delightful239 susceptibility to every thing beautiful and agreeable in nature, reminded me of my own emotions when first I escaped from the convent. Her rectitude of thinking delighted my judgment240; the sweetness of her nature wrapped itself around my heart; and then her young and tender and budding loveliness, sent a delicious madness to my brain.
I gazed upon her with a kind of idolatry, as something more than mortal; and I felt humiliated241 at the idea of my comparative unworthiness. Yet she was mortal; and one of mortality’s most susceptible and loving compounds; for she loved me!
How first I discovered the transporting truth I cannot recollect; I believe it stole upon me by degrees, as a wonder past hope or belief. We were both at such a tender and loving age; in constant intercourse242 with each other; mingling243 in the same elegant pursuits; for music, poetry, and painting were our mutual244 delights, and we were almost separated from society, among lovely and romantic scenery! Is it strange that two young hearts thus brought together should readily twine245 round each other?
Oh, gods! what a dream—a transient dream! of unalloyed delight then passed over my soul! Then it was that the world around me was indeed a paradise, for I had a woman—lovely, delicious woman, to share it with me. How often have I rambled246 over the picturesque shores of Sestri, or climbed its wild mountains, with the coast gemmed247 with villas, and the blue sea far below me, and the slender Pharo of Genoa on its romantic promontory248 in the distance; and as I sustained the faltering249 steps of Bianca, have thought there could no unhappiness enter into so beautiful a world. Why, oh, why is this budding season of life and love so transient—why is this rosy250 cloud of love that sheds such a glow over the morning of our days so prone251 to brew252 up into the whirlwind and the storm!
I was the first to awaken from this blissful delirium of the affections. I had gained Bianca’s heart: what was I to do with it? I had no wealth nor prospects253 to entitle me to her hand. Was I to take advantage of her ignorance of the world, of her confiding affection, and draw her down to my own poverty? Was this requiting255 the hospitality of the Count?—was this requiting the love of Bianca?
Now first I began to feel that even successful love may have its bitterness. A corroding256 care gathered about my heart. I moved about the palace like a guilty being. I felt as if I had abused its hospitality—as if I were a thief within its walls. I could no longer look with unembarrassed mien257 in the countenance of the Count. I accused myself of perfidy258 to him, and I thought he read it in my looks, and began to distrust and despise me. His manner had always been ostentatious and condescending259, it now appeared cold and haughty260. Filippo, too, became reserved and distant; or at least I suspected him to be so. Heavens!—was this mere coinage of my brain: was I to become suspicious of all the world?—a poor surmising261 wretch262; watching looks and gestures; and torturing myself with misconstructions. Or if true—was I to remain beneath a roof where I was merely tolerated, and linger there on sufferance? “This is not to be endured!” exclaimed I; “I will tear myself from this state of self-abasement; I will break through this fascination263 and fly—Fly?—whither?—from the world?—for where is the world when I leave Bianca behind me?”
My spirit was naturally proud, and swelled within me at the idea of being looked upon with contumely. Many times I was on the point of declaring my family and rank, and asserting my equality, in the presence of Bianca, when I thought her relatives assumed an air of superiority. But the feeling was transient. I considered myself discarded and contemned264 by my family; and had solemnly vowed never to own relationship to them, until they themselves should claim it.
The struggle of my mind preyed upon my happiness and my health. It seemed as if the uncertainty265 of being loved would be less intolerable than thus to be assured of it, and yet not dare to enjoy the conviction. I was no longer the enraptured266 admirer of Bianca; I no longer hung in ecstasy267 on the tones of her voice, nor drank in with insatiate gaze the beauty of her countenance. Her very smiles ceased to delight me, for I felt culpable268 in having won them.
She could not but be sensible of the change in me, and inquired the cause with her usual frankness and simplicity269. I could not evade270 the inquiry271, for my heart was full to aching. I told her all the conflict of my soul; my devouring272 passion, my bitter self-upbraiding. “Yes!” said I, “I am unworthy of you. I am an offcast from my family—a wanderer—a nameless, homeless wanderer, with nothing but poverty for my portion, and yet I have dared to love you—have dared to aspire273 to your love!”
My agitation274 moved her to tears; but she saw nothing in my situation so hopeless as I had depicted275 it. Brought up in a convent, she knew nothing of the world, its wants, its cares;—and, indeed, what woman is a worldly casuist in matters of the heart!—Nay, more—she kindled into a sweet enthusiasm when she spoke276 of my fortunes and myself. We had dwelt together on the works of the famous masters. I had related to her their histories; the high reputation, the influence, the magnificence to which they had attained;—the companions of princes, the favorites of kings, the pride and boast of nations. All this she applied277 to me. Her love saw nothing in their greatest productions that I was not able to achieve; and when I saw the lovely creature glow with fervor278, and her whole countenance radiant with the visions of my glory, which seemed breaking upon her, I was snatched up for the moment into the heaven of her own imagination.
I am dwelling279 too long upon this part of my story; yet I cannot help Lingering over a period of my life, on which, with all its cares and conflicts, I look back with fondness; for as yet my soul was unstained by a crime. I do not know what might have been the result of this struggle between pride, delicacy280, and passion, had I not read in a Neapolitan gazette an account of the sudden death of my brother. It was accompanied by an earnest inquiry for intelligence concerning me, and a prayer, should this notice meet my eye, that I would hasten to Naples, to comfort an infirm and afflicted281 father.
I was naturally of an affectionate disposition; but my brother had never been as a brother to me; I had long considered myself as disconnected from him, and his death caused me but little emotion. The thoughts of my father, infirm and suffering, touched me, however, to the quick; and when I thought of him, that lofty, magnificent being, now bowed down and desolate282, and suing to me for comfort, all my resentment283 for past neglect was subdued284, and a glow of filial affection was awakened within me.
The predominant feeling, however, that overpowered all others was transport at the sudden change in my whole fortunes. A home—a name—a rank—wealth awaited me; and love painted a still more rapturous prospect254 in the distance. I hastened to Bianca, and threw myself at her feet. “Oh, Bianca,” exclaimed I, “at length I can claim you for my own. I am no longer a nameless adventurer, a neglected, rejected outcast. Look—read, behold the tidings that restore me to my name and to myself!”
I will not dwell on the scene that ensued. Bianca rejoiced in the reverse of my situation, because she saw it lightened my heart of a load of care; for her own part she had loved me for myself, and had never doubted that my own merits would command both fame and fortune.
I now felt all my native pride buoyant within me; I no longer walked with my eyes bent285 to the dust; hope elevated them to the skies; my soul was lit up with fresh fires, and beamed from my countenance.
I wished to impart the change in my circumstances to the Count; to let him know who and what I was, and to make formal proposals for the hand of Bianca; but the Count was absent on a distant estate. I opened my whole soul to Filippo. Now first I told him of my passion; of the doubts and fears that had distracted me, and of the tidings that had suddenly dispelled286 them. He overwhelmed me with congratulations and with the warmest expressions of sympathy. I embraced him in the fullness of my heart. I felt compunctious for having suspected him of coldness, and asked him forgiveness for having ever doubted his friendship.
Nothing is so warm, and enthusiastic as a sudden expansion of the heart between young men. Filippo entered into our concerns with the most eager interest. He was our confidant and counsellor. It was determined that I should hasten at once to Naples to re-establish myself in my father’s affections and my paternal home, and the moment the reconciliation287 was effected and my father’s consent insured, I should return and demand Bianca of the Count. Filippo engaged to secure his father’s acquiescence288; indeed, he undertook to watch over our interests, and was the channel through which we were to correspond.
My parting with Bianca was tender—delicious—agonizing.
It was in a little pavilion of the garden which had been one of our favorite resorts. How often and often did I return to have one more adieu—to have her look once more on me in speechless emotion—to enjoy once more the rapturous sight of those tears streaming down her lovely cheeks—to seize once more on that delicate hand, the frankly289 accorded pledge of love, and cover it with tears and kisses! Heavens! There is a delight even in the parting agony of two lovers worth a thousand tame pleasures of the world. I have her at this moment before my eyes—at the window of the pavilion, putting aside the vines that clustered about the casement—her light form beaming forth in virgin290 white—her countenance all tears and smiles—sending a thousand and a thousand adieus after me, as, hesitating, in a delirium of fondness and agitation, I faltered291 my way down the avenue.
As the bark bore me out of the harbor of Genoa, how eagerly my eyes Stretched along the coast of Sestri, till it discerned the villa gleaming from among trees at the foot of the mountain. As long as day lasted, I gazed and gazed upon it, till it lessened292 and lessened to a mere white speck293 in the distance; and still my intense and fixed294 gaze discerned it, when all other objects of the coast had blended into indistinct confusion, or were lost in the evening gloom.
On arriving at Naples, I hastened to my paternal home. My heart yearned295 for the long-withheld blessing296 of a father’s love. As I entered the proud portal of the ancestral palace, my emotions were so great that I could not speak. No one knew me. The servants gazed at me with curiosity and surprise. A few years of intellectual elevation297 and development had made a prodigious298 change in the poor fugitive299 stripling from the convent. Still that no one should know me in my rightful home was overpowering. I felt like the prodigal300 son returned. I was a stranger in the house of my father. I burst into tears, and wept aloud. When I made myself known, however, all was changed. I who had once been almost repulsed301 from its walls, and forced to fly as an exile, was welcomed back with acclamation, with servility. One of the servants hastened to prepare my father for my reception; my eagerness to receive the paternal embrace was so great that I could not await his return; but hurried after him.
What a spectacle met my eyes as I entered the chamber! My father, whom I had left in the pride of vigorous age, whose noble and majestic302 bearing had so awed303 my young imagination, was bowed down and withered304 into decrepitude305. A paralysis306 had ravaged307 his stately form, and left it a shaking ruin. He sat propped309 up in his chair, with pale, relaxed visage and glassy, wandering eye. His intellects had evidently shared in the ravage308 of his frame. The servant was endeavoring to make him comprehend the visitor that was at hand. I tottered310 up to him and sunk at his feet. All his past coldness and neglect were forgotten in his present sufferings. I remembered only that he was my parent, and that I had deserted311 him. I clasped his knees; my voice was almost stifled312 with convulsive sobs314. “Pardon—pardon—oh my father!” was all that I could utter. His apprehension315 seemed slowly to return to him. He gazed at me for some moments with a vague, inquiring look; a convulsive tremor316 quivered about his lips; he feebly extended a shaking hand, laid it upon my head, and burst into an infantine flow of tears.
From that moment he would scarcely spare me from his sight. I appeared the only object that his heart responded to in the world; all else was as a blank to him. He had almost lost the powers of speech, and the reasoning faculty317 seemed at an end. He was mute and passive; excepting that fits of child-like weeping would sometimes come over him without any immediate318 cause. If I left the room at any time, his eye was incessantly319 fixed on the door till my return, and on my entrance there was another gush203 of tears.
To talk with him of my concerns, in this ruined state of mind, would have been worse than useless; to have left him, for ever so short a time, would have been cruel, unnatural92. Here then was a new trial for my affections. I wrote to Bianca an account of my return and of my actual situation; painting in colors vivid, for they were true, the torments320 I suffered at our being thus separated; for to the youthful lover every day of absence is an age of love lost. I enclosed the letter in one to Filippo, who was the channel of our correspondence. I received a reply from him full of friendship and sympathy; from Bianca full of assurances of affection and constancy.
Week after week, month after month elapsed, without making any change in my circumstances. The vital flame, which had seemed nearly extinct when first I met my father, kept fluttering on without any apparent diminution321. I watched him constantly, faithfully—I had almost said patiently. I knew that his death alone would set me free; yet I never at any moment wished it. I felt too glad to be able to make any atonement for past disobedience; and, denied as I had been all endearments322 of relationship in my early days, my heart yearned towards a father, who, in his age and helplessness, had thrown himself entirely on me for comfort. My passion for Bianca gained daily more force from absence; by constant meditation323 it wore itself a deeper and deeper channel. I made no new friends nor acquaintances; sought none of the pleasures of Naples which my rank and fortune threw open to me. Mine was a heart that confined itself to few objects, but dwelt upon those with the intenser passion. To sit by my father, and administer to his wants, and to meditate on Bianca in the silence of his chamber, was my constant habit. Sometimes I amused myself with my pencil in portraying324 the image that was ever present to my imagination. I transferred to canvas every look and smile of hers that dwelt in my heart. I showed them to my father in hopes of awakening325 an interest in his bosom for the mere shadow of my love; but he was too far sunk in intellect to take any more than a child-like notice of them.
When I received a letter from Bianca it was a new source of solitary luxury. Her letters, it is true, were less and less frequent, but they were always full of assurances of unabated affection. They breathed not the frank and innocent warmth with which she expressed herself in conversation, but I accounted for it from the embarrassment which inexperienced minds have often to express themselves upon paper. Filippo assured me of her unaltered constancy. They both lamented326 in the strongest terms our continued separation, though they did justice to the filial feeling that kept me by my father’s side.
Nearly eighteen months elapsed in this protracted exile. To me they were so many ages. Ardent and impetuous by nature, I scarcely know how I should have supported so long an absence, had I not felt assured that the faith of Bianca was equal to my own. At length my father died. Life went from him almost imperceptibly. I hung over him in mute affliction, and watched the expiring spasms327 of nature. His last faltering accents whispered repeatedly a blessing on me—alas328! how has it been fulfilled!
When I had paid due honors to his remains329, and laid them in the tomb of our ancestors, I arranged briefly330 my affairs; put them in a posture331 to be easily at my command from a distance, and embarked332 once more, with a bounding heart, for Genoa.
Our voyage was propitious333, and oh! what was my rapture when first, in the dawn of morning, I saw the shadowy summits of the Apennines rising almost like clouds above the horizon. The sweet breath of summer just moved us over the long wavering billows that were rolling us on towards Genoa. By degrees the coast of Sestri rose like a sweet creation of enchantment from the silver bosom of the deep. I behold the line of villages and palaces studding its borders. My eye reverted334 to a well-known point, and at length, from the confusion of distant objects, it singled out the villa which contained Bianca. It was a mere speck in the landscape, but glimmering335 from afar, the polar star of my heart.
Again I gazed at it for a livelong summer’s day; but oh how different the emotions between departure and return. It now kept growing and growing, instead of lessening336 on my sight. My heart seemed to dilate337 with it. I looked at it through a telescope. I gradually defined one feature after another. The balconies of the central saloon where first I met Bianca beneath its roof; the terrace where we so often had passed the delightful summer evenings; the awning338 that shaded her chamber window—I almost fancied I saw her form beneath it. Could she but know her lover was in the bark whose white sail now gleamed on the sunny bosom of the sea! My fond impatience increased as we neared the coast. The ship seemed to lag lazily over the billows; I could almost have sprung into the sea and swam to the desired shore.
The shadows of evening gradually shrouded339 the scene, but the moon arose in all her fullness and beauty and shed the tender light so dear to lovers, over the romantic coast of Sestri. My whole soul was bathed in unutterable tenderness. I anticipated the heavenly evenings I should pass in wandering with Bianca by the light of that blessed moon.
It was late at night before we entered the harbor. As early next morning as I could get released from the formalities of landing I threw myself on horseback and hastened to the villa. As I galloped340 round the rocky promontory on which stands the Faro, and saw the coast of Sestri opening upon me, a thousand anxieties and doubts suddenly sprang up in my bosom. There is something fearful in returning to those we love, while yet uncertain what ills or changes absence may have effected. The turbulence of my agitation shook my very frame. I spurred my horse to redoubled speed; he was covered with foam341 when we both arrived panting at the gateway342 that opened to the grounds around the villa. I left my horse at a cottage and walked through the grounds, that I might regain343 tranquillity for the approaching interview. I chid344 myself for having suffered mere doubts and surmises346 thus suddenly to overcome me; but I was always prone to be carried away by these gusts116 of the feelings.
On entering the garden everything bore the same look as when I had left it; and this unchanged aspect of things reassured347 me. There were the alleys in which I had so often walked with Bianca; the same shades under which we had so often sat during the noontide. There were the same flowers of which she was fond; and which appeared still to be under the ministry348 of her hand. Everything around looked and breathed of Bianca; hope and joy flushed in my bosom at every step. I passed a little bower227 in which we had often sat and read together. A book and a glove lay on the bench. It was Bianca’s glove; it was a volume of the Metestasio I had given her. The glove lay in my favorite passage. I clasped them to my heart. “All is safe!” exclaimed I, with rapture, “she loves me! she is still my own!”
I bounded lightly along the avenue down which I had faltered so slowly at my departure. I beheld her favorite pavilion which had witnessed our parting scene. The window was open, with the same vine clambering about it, precisely349 as when she waved and wept me an adieu. Oh! how transporting was the contrast in my situation. As I passed near the pavilion, I heard the tones of a female voice. They thrilled through me with an appeal to my heart not to be mistaken. Before I could think, I felt they were Bianca’s. For an instant I paused, overpowered with agitation. I feared to break in suddenly upon her. I softly ascended the steps of the pavilion. The door was open. I saw Bianca seated at a table; her back was towards me; she was warbling a soft melancholy air, and was occupied in drawing. A glance sufficed to show me that she was copying one of my own paintings. I gazed on her for a moment in a delicious tumult350 of emotions. She paused in her singing; a heavy sigh, almost a sob313 followed. I could no longer contain myself. “Bianca!” exclaimed I, in a half smothered351 voice. She started at the sound; brushed back the ringlets that hung clustering about her face; darted352 a glance at me; uttered a piercing shriek353 and would have fallen to the earth, had I not caught her in my arms.
“Bianca! my own Bianca!” exclaimed I, folding her to my bosom; my voice stifled in sobs of convulsive joy. She lay in my arms without sense or motion. Alarmed at the effects of my own precipitation, I scarce knew what to do. I tried by a thousand endearing words to call her back to consciousness. She slowly recovered, and half opening her eyes—“where am I?” murmured she faintly. “Here,” exclaimed I, pressing her to my bosom. “Here! close to the heart that adores you; in the arms of your faithful Ottavio!”
“Oh no! no! no!” shrieked354 she, starting into sudden life and terror—“away! away! leave me! leave me!”
She tore herself from my arms; rushed to a corner of the saloon, and covered her face with her hands, as if the very sight of me were baleful. I was thunderstruck—I could not believe my senses. I followed her, trembling, confounded. I endeavored to take her hand, but she shrunk from my very touch with horror.
“Good heavens, Bianca,” exclaimed I, “what is the meaning of this? Is this my reception after so long an absence? Is this the love you professed355 for me?”
At the mention of love, a shuddering ran through her. She turned to me a face wild with anguish. “No more of that! no more of that!” gasped356 she—“talk not to me of love—I—I—am married!”
I reeled as if I had received a mortal blow. A sickness struck to my very heart. I caught at a window frame for support. For a moment or two, everything was chaos357 around me. When I recovered, I beheld Bianca lying on a sofa; her face buried in a pillow, and sobbing358 convulsively. Indignation at her fickleness359 for a moment overpowered every other feeling.
“Faithless—perjured—” cried I, striding across the room. But another glance at that beautiful being in distress, checked all my wrath360. Anger could not dwell together with her idea in my soul.
“Oh, Bianca,” exclaimed I, in anguish, “could I have dreamt of this; could I have suspected you would have been false to me?”
She raised her face all streaming with tears, all disordered with emotion, and gave me one appealing look—“False to you!—they told me you were dead!”
“What,” said I, “in spite of our constant correspondence?”
She gazed wildly at me—“correspondence!—what correspondence?”
“Have you not repeatedly received and replied to my letters?”
She clasped her hands with solemnity and fervor—“As I hope for mercy, never!”
“It was reported that the ship in which you embarked for Naples perished at sea.”
“But who told you the report?”
She paused for an instant, and trembled—
“Filippo!”
“Oh do not curse him—do not curse him!” exclaimed she—“He is—he is —my husband!”
This was all that was wanting to unfold the perfidy that had been practised upon me. My blood boiled like liquid fire in my veins. I gasped with rage too great for utterance363. I remained for a time bewildered by the whirl of horrible thoughts that rushed through my mind. The poor victim of deception364 before me thought it was with her I was incensed. She faintly murmured forth her exculpation365. I will not dwell upon it. I saw in it more than she meant to reveal. I saw with a glance how both of us had been betrayed. “‘Tis well!” muttered I to myself in smothered accents of concentrated fury. “He shall account to me for this!”
Bianca overhead me. New terror flashed in her countenance. “For mercy’s sake do not meet him—say nothing of what has passed—for my sake say nothing to him—I only shall be the sufferer!”
A new suspicion darted across my mind—“What!” exclaimed I—“do you then fear him—is he unkind to you—tell me,” reiterated366 I, grasping her hand and looking her eagerly in the face—“tell me—dares he to use you harshly!”
“No! no! no!” cried she faltering and embarrassed; but the glance at her face had told me volumes. I saw in her pallid and wasted features; in the prompt terror and subdued agony of her eye a whole history of a mind broken down by tyranny. Great God! and was this beauteous flower snatched from me to be thus trampled367 upon? The idea roused me to madness. I clinched my teeth and my hands; I foamed368 at the mouth; every passion seemed to have resolved itself into the fury that like a lava boiled within my heart. Bianca shrunk from me in speechless affright. As I strode by the window my eye darted down the alley53. Fatal moment! I beheld Filippo at a distance! My brain was in a delirium—I sprang from the pavilion, and was before him with the quickness of lightning. He saw me as I came rushing upon him—he turned pale, looked wildly to right and left, as if he would have fled, and trembling drew his sword.
“Wretch!” cried I, “well may you draw your weapon!”
I spake not another word—I snatched forth a stiletto, put by the sword which trembled in his hand, and buried my poniard in his bosom. He fell with the blow, but my rage was unsated. I sprang upon him with the blood-thirsty feeling of a tiger; redoubled my blows; mangled369 him in my frenzy370, grasped him by the throat, until with reiterated wounds and strangling convulsions he expired in my grasp. I remained glaring on the countenance, horrible in death, that seemed to stare back with its protruded371 eyes upon me. Piercing shrieks372 roused me from my delirium. I looked round and beheld Bianca flying distractedly towards us. My brain whirled. I waited not to meet her, but fled from the scene of horror. I fled forth from the garden like another Cain, a hell within my bosom, and a curse upon my head. I fled without knowing whither—almost without knowing why—my only idea was to get farther and farther from the horrors I had left behind; as if I could throw space between myself and my conscience. I fled to the Apennines, and wandered for days and days among their savage373 heights. How I existed I cannot tell—what rocks and precipices374 I braved, and how I braved them, I know not. I kept on and on—trying to outtravel the curse that clung to me. Alas, the shrieks of Bianca rung for ever in my ear. The horrible countenance of my victim was for ever before my eyes. “The blood of Filippo cried to me from the ground.” Rocks, trees, and torrents375 all resounded376 with my crime.
Then it was I felt how much more insupportable is the anguish of remorse377 than every other mental pang217. Oh! could I but have cast off this crime that festered in my heart; could I but have regained378 the innocence379 that reigned in my breast as I entered the garden at Sestri; could I but have restored my victim to life, I felt as if I could look on with transport even though Bianca were in his arms.
By degrees this frenzied380 fever of remorse settled into a permanent malady381 of the mind. Into one of the most horrible that ever poor wretch was cursed with. Wherever I went, the countenance of him I had slain382 appeared to follow me. Wherever I turned my head I beheld it behind me, hideous383 with the contortions384 of the dying moment. I have tried in every way to escape from this horrible phantom385; but in vain. I know not whether it is an illusion of the mind, the consequence of my dismal education at the convent, or whether a phantom really sent by heaven to punish me; but there it ever is—at all times—in all places—nor has time nor habit had any effect in familiarizing me with its terrors. I have travelled from place to place, plunged386 into amusements—tried dissipation and distraction387 of every kind—all—all in vain.
I once had recourse to my pencil as a desperate experiment. I painted an exact resemblance of this phantom face. I placed it before me in hopes that by constantly contemplating388 the copy I might diminish the effect of the original. But I only doubled instead of diminishing the misery389.
Such is the curse that has clung to my footsteps—that has made my life a burthen—but the thoughts of death, terrible. God knows what I have suffered. What days and days, and nights and nights, of sleepless390 torment. What a never-dying worm has preyed upon my heart; what an unquenchable fire has burned within my brain. He knows the wrongs that wrought upon my poor weak nature; that converted the tenderest of affections into the deadliest of fury. He knows best whether a frail391 erring392 creature has expiated393 by long-enduring torture and measureless remorse, the crime of a moment of madness. Often, often have I prostrated394 myself in the dust, and implored that he would give me a sign of his forgiveness, and let me die.—
Thus far had I written some time since. I had meant to leave this record of misery and crime with you, to be read when I should be no more. My prayer to heaven has at length been heard. You were witness to my emotions last evening at the performance of the Miserere; when the vaulted395 temple resounded with the words of atonement and redemption. I heard a voice speaking to me from the midst of the music; I heard it rising above the pealing361 of the organ and the voices of the choir396; it spoke to me in tones of celestial397 melody; it promised mercy and forgiveness, but demanded from me full expiation. I go to make it. To-morrow I shall be on my way to Genoa to surrender myself to justice. You who have pitied my sufferings; who have poured the balm of sympathy into my wounds, do not shrink from my memory with abhorrence398 now that you know my story. Recollect, when you read of my crime I shall have atoned399 for it with my blood!
When the Baronet had finished, there was an universal desire expressed to see the painting of this frightful400 visage. After much entreaty401 the Baronet consented, on condition that they should only visit it one by one. He called his housekeeper402 and gave her charge to conduct the gentlemen singly to the chamber. They all returned varying in their stories: some affected in one way, some in another; some more, some less; but all agreeing that there was a certain something about the painting that had a very odd effect upon the feelings.
I stood in a deep bow window with the Baronet, and could not help expressing my wonder. “After all,” said I, “there are certain mysteries in our nature, certain inscrutable impulses and influences, that warrant one in being superstitious403. Who can account for so many persons of different characters being thus strangely affected by a mere painting?”
“And especially when not one of them has seen it!” said the Baronet with a smile.
“How?” exclaimed I, “not seen it?”
“Not one of them?” replied he, laying his finger on his lips in sign of secrecy404. “I saw that some of them were in a bantering405 vein55, and I did not choose that the memento406 of the poor Italian should be made a jest of. So I gave the housekeeper a hint to show them all to a different chamber!”
Thus end the Stories of the Nervous Gentleman.
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expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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entirely
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estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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saturnine
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| adj.忧郁的，沉默寡言的，阴沉的，感染铅毒的 | |
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awaken
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solitary
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situated
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gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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38
volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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39
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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40
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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41
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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42
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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43
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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44
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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45
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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46
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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47
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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48
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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49
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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50
mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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51
eruption
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| n.火山爆发；（战争等）爆发；（疾病等）发作 | |
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52
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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53
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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54
lava
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| n.熔岩，火山岩 | |
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55
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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56
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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57
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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58
abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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59
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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60
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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61
bellowing
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的现在分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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62
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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63
expiation
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| n.赎罪，补偿 | |
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64
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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65
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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66
portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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67
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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68
beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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69
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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70
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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71
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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72
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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73
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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74
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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75
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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76
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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77
mercurial
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| adj.善变的，活泼的 | |
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78
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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79
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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80
immured
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| v.禁闭，监禁( immure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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82
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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83
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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84
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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85
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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86
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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87
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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88
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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89
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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90
retarded
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| a.智力迟钝的，智力发育迟缓的 | |
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91
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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92
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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93
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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94
avocations
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| n.业余爱好，嗜好( avocation的名词复数 )；职业 | |
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95
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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96
rustic
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|
| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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97
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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98
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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99
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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100
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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101
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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102
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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103
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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104
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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105
meditate
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|
| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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106
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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107
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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108
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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109
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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110
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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111
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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112
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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115
grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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116
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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117
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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118
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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119
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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120
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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121
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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122
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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123
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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124
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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125
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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126
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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127
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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128
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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129
preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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130
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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131
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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132
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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133
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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134
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
minion
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| n.宠仆；宠爱之人 | |
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137
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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139
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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140
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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141
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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142
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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143
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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144
vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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145
suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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146
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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147
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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148
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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149
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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150
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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151
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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152
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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153
moles
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| 防波堤( mole的名词复数 )； 鼹鼠； 痣； 间谍 | |
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154
appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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155
thraldom
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| n.奴隶的身份，奴役，束缚 | |
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156
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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157
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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158
colonnades
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| n.石柱廊( colonnade的名词复数 ) | |
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159
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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160
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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161
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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162
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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163
penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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164
adverted
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| 引起注意（advert的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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165
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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166
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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167
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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168
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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169
proficiency
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| n.精通，熟练，精练 | |
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170
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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171
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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172
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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173
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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174
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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175
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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176
recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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177
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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178
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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179
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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180
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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181
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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182
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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183
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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184
solicitation
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| n.诱惑；揽货；恳切地要求；游说 | |
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185
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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186
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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187
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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188
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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189
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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190
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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191
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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192
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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193
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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194
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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195
undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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196
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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197
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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198
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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199
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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200
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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201
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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202
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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203
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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204
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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205
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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206
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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207
bosoms
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|
| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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208
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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209
depicting
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| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
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210
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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211
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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212
extol
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| v.赞美，颂扬 | |
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213
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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214
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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215
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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216
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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217
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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218
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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219
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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220
munificent
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| adj.慷慨的，大方的 | |
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221
excellence
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|
| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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222
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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223
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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224
possessed
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|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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225
ornamented
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|
| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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226
bowers
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| n.（女子的）卧室( bower的名词复数 )；船首锚；阴凉处；鞠躬的人 | |
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227
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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228
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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229
turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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230
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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231
reigned
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|
| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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232
ascended
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|
| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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233
portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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234
elegance
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|
| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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235
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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236
irresistible
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|
| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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237
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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238
formerly
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|
| adv.从前，以前 | |
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239
delightful
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|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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240
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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241
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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242
intercourse
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|
| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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243
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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244
mutual
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|
| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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245
twine
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|
| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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246
rambled
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|
| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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247
gemmed
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| 点缀（gem的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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248
promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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249
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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250
rosy
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|
| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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251
prone
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|
| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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252
brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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253
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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254
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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255
requiting
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| v.报答( requite的现在分词 )；酬谢；回报；报复 | |
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256
corroding
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| 使腐蚀，侵蚀( corrode的现在分词 ) | |
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257
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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258
perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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259
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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260
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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261
surmising
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的现在分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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262
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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263
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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264
contemned
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| v.侮辱，蔑视( contemn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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265
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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266
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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267
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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268
culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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269
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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270
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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271
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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272
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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273
aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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274
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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275
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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276
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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277
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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278
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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279
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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280
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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281
afflicted
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|
| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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282
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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283
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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284
subdued
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|
| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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285
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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286
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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287
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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288
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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289
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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290
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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291
faltered
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|
| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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292
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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293
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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294
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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295
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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296
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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297
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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298
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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299
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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300
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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301
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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302
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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303
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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304
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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305
decrepitude
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| n.衰老；破旧 | |
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306
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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307
ravaged
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| 毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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308
ravage
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| vt.使...荒废，破坏...；n.破坏，掠夺，荒废 | |
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309
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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310
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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311
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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312
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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313
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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314
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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315
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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316
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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317
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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318
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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319
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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320
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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321
diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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322
endearments
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| n.表示爱慕的话语，亲热的表示( endearment的名词复数 ) | |
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323
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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324
portraying
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| v.画像( portray的现在分词 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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325
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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326
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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327
spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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328
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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329
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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330
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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331
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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332
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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333
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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334
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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335
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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336
lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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337
dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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338
awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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339
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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340
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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341
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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342
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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343
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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344
chid
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| v.责骂，责备( chide的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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345
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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346
surmises
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|
| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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347
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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348
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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349
precisely
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|
| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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350
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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351
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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352
darted
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|
| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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353
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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354
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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355
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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356
gasped
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|
| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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357
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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358
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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359
fickleness
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| n.易变；无常；浮躁；变化无常 | |
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360
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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361
pealing
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的现在分词 ) | |
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362
clinched
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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363
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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364
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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365
exculpation
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| n.使无罪，辩解 | |
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366
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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367
trampled
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|
| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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368
foamed
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| 泡沫的 | |
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369
mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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370
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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371
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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372
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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373
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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374
precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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375
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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376
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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377
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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378
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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379
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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380
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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381
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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382
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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383
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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384
contortions
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| n.扭歪，弯曲；扭曲，弄歪，歪曲( contortion的名词复数 ) | |
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385
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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386
plunged
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|
| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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387
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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388
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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389
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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390
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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391
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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392
erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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393
expiated
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|
| v.为（所犯罪过）接受惩罚，赎（罪）( expiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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394
prostrated
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|
| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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395
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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396
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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397
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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398
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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399
atoned
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|
| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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400
frightful
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|
| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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401
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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402
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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403
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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404
secrecy
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|
| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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405
bantering
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|
| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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406
memento
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| n.纪念品，令人回忆的东西 | |
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