The new Duke sat in his closet. The walls had been stripped of theirpious relics1 and lined with books, and above the fireplace hung theVenus of Giorgione, liberated2 at last from her long imprisonment3. Thewindows stood open, admitting the soft September air. Twilight4 hadfallen on the gardens, and through it a young moon floated above thecypresses.
On just such an evening three years earlier he had ridden down the slopeof the Monte Baldo with Fulvia Vivaldi at his side. How often, since, hehad relived the incidents of that night! With singular precision theysucceeded each other in his thoughts. He felt the wild sweep of thestorm across the lake, the warmth of her nearness, the sense of hercomplete trust in him; then their arrival at the inn, the dazzle oflight as they crossed the threshold, and de Crucis confronting themwithin. He heard her voice pleading with him in every accent that prideand tenderness and a noble loyalty5 could command; he felt her willslowly dominating his, like a supernatural power forcing him into hisdestined path; he felt--and with how profound an irony7 of spirit!--thepassion of self-dedication in which he had taken up his task.
He had known moments of happiness since; moments when he believed inhimself and in his calling, and felt himself indeed the man she thoughthim. That was in the exaltation of the first months, when hisopportunities had seemed as boundless8 as his dreams, and he had not yetlearned that the sovereign's power may be a kind of spiritual prison tothe man. Since then, indeed, he had known another kind of happiness, hadbeen aware of a secret voice whispering within him that she was rightand had chosen wisely for him; but this was when he had realised that helived in a prison, and had begun to admire the sumptuous10 adornment11 ofits walls. For a while the mere12 external show of power amused him, andhis imagination was charmed by the historic dignity of his surroundings.
In such a setting, against the background of such a past, it seemed easyto play the benefactor14 and friend of the people. His sensibility wastouched by the contrast, and he saw himself as a picturesque15 figurelinking the new dreams of liberty and equality to the feudal16 traditionsof a thousand years. But this masquerading soon ceased to divert him.
The round of court ceremonial wearied him, and books and art lost theirfascination. The more he varied17 his amusements the more monotonous18 theybecame, the more he crowded his life with petty duties the more empty ofachievement it seemed.
At first he had hoped to bury his personal disappointments in the taskof reconstructing his little state; but on every side he felt a muteresistance to his efforts. The philosophical19 faction20 had indeed pouredforth pamphlets celebrating his reforms, and comparing his reign9 to thereturn of the Golden Age. But it was not for the philosophers that helaboured; and the benefits of free speech, a free press, a seculareducation did not, after all, reach those over whom his heart yearned22.
It was the people he longed to serve; and the people were hungry, werefever-stricken, were crushed with tithes23 and taxes. It was hopeless totry to reach them by the diffusion24 of popular knowledge. They must firstbe fed and clothed; and before they could be fed and clothed the chainsof feudalism must be broken.
Men like Gamba and Andreoni saw this clearly enough; but it was not fromthem that help could come. The nobility and clergy25 must be coaxed26 orcoerced into sympathy with the new movement; and to accomplish thisexceeded Odo's powers. In France, the revolt from feudalism had foundsome of its boldest leaders in the very class that had most to lose bythe change; but in Italy fewer causes were at work to set suchdisinterested passions in motion. South of the Alps liberalism wasmerely one of the new fashions from France: the men ran after thepamphlets from Paris as the women ran after the cosmetics27; and thepolitics went no deeper than the powder. Even among the freestintellects liberalism resulted in a new way of thinking rather in a newway of living. Nowhere among the better classes was there any desire toattack existing institutions. The Church had never troubled the Latinconsciousness. The Renaissance28 had taught cultivated Italians how tolive at peace with a creed29 in which they no longer believed; and theireasy-going scepticism was combined with a traditional conviction thatthe priest knew better than any one how to deal with the poor, and thatthe clergy were of distinct use in relieving the individual conscienceof its obligation to its fellows.
It was against such deep-seated habits of thought that Odo had tostruggle. Centuries of fierce individualism, or of sullen30 apathy31 under aforeign rule, had left the Italians incapable32 of any concerted politicalaction; but suspicion, avarice33 and vanity, combined with a lurking34 fearof the Church, united all parties in a kind of passive opposition35 toreform. Thus the Duke's resolve to put the University under laydirection had excited the enmity of the Barnabites, who had been at itshead since the suppression of the Society of Jesus; his efforts topartition among the peasantry the Caccia del Vescovo, that great wastedomain of the see of Pianura, had roused a storm of fear among all wholaid claim to feudal rights; and his own personal attempts atretrenchment, which necessitated36 the suppression of numerous courtoffices, had done more than anything else to increase his unpopularity.
Even the people, in whose behalf these sacrifices were made, lookedaskance at his diminished state, and showed a perverse37 sympathy with thedispossessed officials who had taken so picturesque a part in the publicceremonials of the court. All Odo's philosophy could not fortify38 himagainst such disillusionments. He felt the lack of Fulvia'sunquestioning faith not only in the abstract beauty of the new idealsbut in their immediate39 adaptability40 to the complex conditions of life.
Only a woman's convictions, nourished on sentiment and self-sacrifice,could burn with that clear unwavering flame: his own beliefs were at themercy of every wind of doubt or ingratitude41 that blew across hisunsheltered sensibilities.
It was more than a year since he had had news of Fulvia. For a whilethey had exchanged letters, and it had been a consolation42 to tell her ofhis struggles and experiments, of his many failures and few results. Shehad encouraged him to continue the struggle, had analysed his variousplans of reform, and had given her enthusiastic support to thepartitioning of the Bishop43's fief and the secularisation of theUniversity. Her own life, she said, was too uneventful to write of; butshe spoke44 of the kindness of her hosts, the Professor and his wife, ofthe simple unceremonious way of living in the old Calvinist city, and ofthe number of distinguished45 persons drawn46 thither47 by its atmosphere ofintellectual and social freedom.
Odo suspected a certain colourlessness in the life she depicted48. Thetone of her letters was too uniformly cheerful not to suggest a lack ofemotional variety; and he knew that Fulvia's nature, however much shefancied it under the rule of reason, was in reality fed by profoundcurrents of feeling. Something of her old ardour reappeared when shewrote of the possibility of publishing her father's book. Her friends inGeneva, having heard of her difficulty with the Dutch publisher, hadundertaken to vindicate49 her claims; and they had every hope that thematter would be successfully concluded. The joy of renewed activity withwhich this letter glowed would have communicated itself to Odo had hereceived it at a different time; but it came on the day of his marriage,and since then he had never written to her.
Now he felt a sudden longing50 to break the silence between them, andseating himself at his desk he began to write. A moment later there wasa knock on the door and one of his gentlemen entered. The Count VittorioAlfieri, with a dozen horses and as many servants, was newly arrived atthe Golden Cross, and desired to know when he might have the honour ofwaiting on his Highness.
Odo felt the sudden glow of pleasure that the news of Alfieri's comingalways brought. Here was a friend at last! He forgot the constraint51 oftheir last meeting in Florence, and remembered only the happyinterchange of ideas and emotions that had been one of the quickeninginfluences of his youth.
Alfieri, in the intervening years, was grown to be one of the foremostfigures in Italy. His love for the Countess of Albany, persistingthrough the vicissitudes52 of her tragic53 marriage, had rallied thescattered forces of his nature. Ambitious to excel for her sake, to showhimself worthy54 of such a love, he had at last shaken off the strangetorpor of his youth, and revealed himself as the poet for whom Italywaited. In ten months of feverish55 effort he had poured forth21 fourteentragedies--among them the Antigone, the Virginia, and the Conjuration ofthe Pazzi. Italy started up at the sound of a new voice vibrating withpassions she had long since unlearned. Since Filicaja's thrilling appealto his enslaved country no poet had challenged the old Roman spiritwhich Petrarch had striven to rouse. While the literati were busydiscussing Alfieri's blank verse, while the grammarians wrangled56 overhis syntax and ridiculed57 his solecisms, the public, heedless of suchniceties, was glowing with the new wine which he had poured into the oldvessels of classic story. "Liberty" was the cry that rang on the lips ofall his heroes, in accents so new and stirring that his audience neverwearied of its repetition. It was no secret that his stories of ancientGreece and Rome were but allegories meant to teach the love of freedom;yet the Antigone had been performed in the private theatre of theSpanish Ambassador at Rome, the Virginia had been received with applauseon the public boards at Turin, and after the usual difficulties with thecensorship the happy author had actually succeeded in publishing hisplays at Siena. These volumes were already in Odo's hands, and amanuscript copy of the Odes to Free America was being circulated amongthe liberals in Pianura, and had been brought to his notice by Andreoni.
To those hopeful spirits who looked for the near approach of a happierera, Alfieri was the inspired spokesman of reform, the heaven-sentprophet who was to lead his country out of bondage58. The eyes of theItalian reformers were fixed59 with passionate60 eagerness on the course ofevents in England and France. The conclusion of peace between Englandand America, recently celebrated61 in Alfieri's fifth Ode, seemed to themost sceptical convincing proof that the rights of man were destined6 toa speedy triumph throughout the civilised world. It was not of a unitedItaly that these enthusiasts62 dreamed. They were not so much patriots63 asphilanthropists; for the teachings of Rousseau and his school, whileintensifying the love of man for man, had proportionately weakened thesense of patriotism64, of the interets du clocher. The new man pridedhimself on being a citizen of the world, on sympathising as warmly withthe poetic65 savage66 of Peru as with his own prosaic67 and narrow-mindedneighbours. Indeed, the prevalent belief that the savage's mode of lifewas much nearer the truth than that of civilised Europeans, made itappear superfluous68 to enter into the grievances69 and difficulties of whatwas but a passing phase of human development. To cast off clothes andcodes, and live in a peaceful socialism "under the amiable70 reign ofTruth and Nature," seemed on the whole much easier than to undertake thesystematic reform of existing abuses.
To such dreamers--whose ideas were those of the majority of intelligentmen in France and Italy--Alfieri's high-sounding tirades71 embodied72 thenoblest of political creeds73; and even the soberer judgment74 of statesmenand men of affairs was captivated by the grandeur75 of his verse and theheroic audacity76 of his theme. For the first time in centuries theItalian Muse13 spoke with the voice of a man; and every man's heart inItaly sprang up at the call.
In the midst of these triumphs, fate in the shape of Cardinal77 York hadmomentarily separated Alfieri from his mistress, despatching thetoo-tender Countess to a discreet78 retreat in Alsace, and signifying toher turbulent adorer that he was not to follow her. Distracted by thisprohibition, Alfieri had resumed the nomadic79 habits of his youth, nowwandering from one Italian city to another, now pushing as far as Paris,which he hated but was always revisiting, now dashing across the Channelto buy thoroughbreds in England--for his passion for horses wasunabated. He was lately returned from such an expedition, having led hiscavalcade across the Alps in person, with a boyish delight in theastonishment which this fantastic exploit excited.
The meeting between the two friends was all that Odo could have wished.
Though affecting to scorn the courts of princes, Alfieri was not averseto showing himself there as the poet of the democracy, and to hearinghis heroes mouth their tyrannicidal speeches on the boards of royal andducal stages. He had lately made some stay in Milan, where he hadarrived in time to see his Antigone performed before the vice-regalcourt, and to be enthusiastically acclaimed80 as the high-priest ofliberty by a community living placidly81 under the Austrian yoke82. Alfieriwas not the man to be struck by such incongruities83. It was his fate toformulate creeds in which he had no faith: to recreate the politicalideals of Italy while bitterly opposed to any actual effort at reform,and to be regarded as the mouthpiece of the Revolution while heexecrated the Revolution with the whole force of his traditionalinstincts. As usual he was too deeply engrossed84 in his own affairs tofeel much interest in any others; but it was enough for Odo to clasp thehand of the man who had given a voice to the highest aspirations85 of hiscountrymen. The poet gave more than he could expect from the friend; andhe was satisfied to listen to Alfieri's account of his triumphs,interspersed with bitter diatribes86 against the public whose applause hecourted, and the Pope to whom, on bended knee, he had offered a copy ofhis plays.
Odo eagerly pressed Alfieri to remain in Pianura, offering to put one ofthe ducal villas87 at his disposal, and suggesting that the Virginiashould be performed before the court on the Duchess's birthday.
"It is true," he said, "that we can offer you but an indifferent companyof actors; but it might be possible to obtain one or two of the leadingtragedians from Turin or Milan, so that the principal parts should atleast be worthily88 filled."Alfieri replied with a contemptuous gesture. "Your Highness, our leadingtragedians are monkeys trained to dance to the tune89 of Goldoni andMetastasio. The best are no better than the worst. We have no tragediansin Italy because--hitherto--we have had no tragic dramatist." He drewhimself up and thrust a hand in his bosom90. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "if Icould see the part of Virginia acted by the lady who recently recited,before a small company in Milan, my Odes to Free America! There indeedwere fire, sublimity91 and passion! And the countenance92 had not lost itsfreshness, the eye its lustre93. But," he suddenly added, "your Highnessknows of whom I speak. The lady is Fulvia Vivaldi, the daughter of thephilosopher at whose feet we sat in our youth."Fulvia Vivaldi! Odo raised his head with a start. She had left Genevathen, had returned to Italy. The Alps no longer divided them--a scantday's journey would bring him to her side! It was strange how the merethought seemed to fill the room with her presence. He felt her in thequickened beat of his pulses, in the sudden lightness of the air, in alifting and widening of the very bounds of thought.
From Alfieri he learned that she had lived for some months in thehousehold of the distinguished naturalist94, Count Castiglione, with whosedaughter's education she was charged. In such surroundings her wit andlearning could not fail to attract the best company of Milan, and shewas become one of the most noted95 figures of the capital. There had beensome talk of offering her the chair of poetry at the Brera; but thereport of her liberal views had deterred96 the faculty97. Meanwhile the veryfact that she represented the new school of thought gave an added zestto her conversation in a society which made up for its mild servitudeunder the Austrian by much talk of liberalism and independence. TheSignorina Vivaldi became the fashion. The literati celebrated herscholarship, the sonneteers her eloquence98 and beauty; and no foreigneron the grand tour was content to leave Milan without having beheld99 thefair prodigy100 and heard her recite Petrarch's Ode to Italy, or the latestelegy of Pindamonte.
Odo scarce knew with what feelings he listened. He could not butacknowledge that such a life was better suited to one of Fulvia's giftsand ambitions than the humdrum101 existence of a Swiss town; yet his firstsensation was one of obscure jealousy102, of reluctance103 to think of her ashaving definitely broken with the past. He had pictured her as adrift,like himself, on a dark sea of uncertainties104; and to learn that she hadfound a safe anchorage was almost to feel himself deserted105.
The court was soon busy with preparations for the coming performance. Acelebrated actress from Venice was engaged to play the part of Virginia,and the rehearsals106 went rapidly forward under the noble author'ssupervision. At last the great day arrived, and for the first time inthe history of the little theatre, operetta and pastoral were replacedby the buskined Muse of tragedy. The court and all the nobility werepresent, and though it was no longer thought becoming for ecclesiasticsto visit the theatre, the easy-going Bishop appeared in a side-box incompany with his chaplains and the Vicar-general.
The performance was brilliantly successful. Frantic107 applause greeted thetirades of the young Icilius. Every outburst against the abuse ofprivileges and the insolence108 of the patricians109 was acclaimed byministers and courtiers, and the loudest in approval were the MarquessPievepelago, the recognised representative of the clericals, theMarchioness of Boscofolto, whose harsh enforcement of her feudal rightswas among the bitterest grievances of the peasantry, and the goodBishop, who had lately roused himself from his habitual110 indolence tooppose the threatened annexation111 of the Caccia del Vescovo. One and allproclaimed their ardent112 sympathy with the proletariat, their scorn oftyranny and extortion in high places; and if the Marchioness, on herreturn home, ordered one of her linkmen to be flogged for having trod onher gown; if Pievepelago the next morning refused to give audience to apoor devil of a pamphleteer that was come to ask his intercession withthe Holy Office; if the Bishop at the same moment concluded the purchaseof six able-bodied Turks from the galleys113 of his Serenity115 the Doge ofGenoa--it is probable that, like the illustrious author of the drama,all were unconscious of any incongruity116 between their sentiments andactions.
As to Odo, seated in the state box, with Maria Clementina at his side,and the court dignitaries grouped in the background, he had not listenedto a dozen lines before all sense of his surroundings vanished and hebecame the passive instrument on which the poet played his mightyharmonies. All the incidental difficulties of life, all the vacillationsof an unsatisfied spirit, were consumed in that energising emotion whichseemed to leave every faculty stripped for action. Profounder meaningand more subtle music he had found in the great poets of the past; buthere was an appeal to the immediate needs of the hour, uttered in notesas thrilling as a trumpet-call, and brought home to every sense by thevivid imagery of the stage. Once more he felt the old ardour of beliefthat Fulvia's nearness had fanned in him. His convictions had flaggedrather than his courage: now they started up as at her summons, and heheard the ring of her voice in every line.
He left the theatre still vibrating with this new inrush of life, andjealous of any interruption that should check it. The Duchess's birthdaywas being celebrated by illuminations and fireworks, and throngs117 ofmerry-makers filled the moonlit streets; but Odo, after appearing for amoment at his wife's side on the balcony above the public square,withdrew quietly to his own apartments. The casement118 of his closet stoodwide, and he leaned against the window-frame, looking out on the silentradiance of the gardens. As he stood there he saw two figures flitacross the farther end of one of the long alleys114. The moonlightsurrendered them for a moment, the shade almost instantly reclaimingthem--strayed revellers, doubtless, escaping from the lights and musicof the Duchess's circle.
A knock roused the Duke and he remembered that he had bidden Gamba waiton him after the performance. He had been curious to hear whatimpression Alfieri's drama had produced upon the hunchback; but now anyinterruption seemed unwelcome, and he turned to Gamba with a gesture ofdismissal.
The latter however remained on the threshold.
"Your Highness," he said, "the bookseller Andreoni craves119 the privilegeof an audience.""Andreoni? At this hour?""For reasons so urgent that he makes no doubt of your Highness'sconsent; and to prove his good faith, and the need of presenting himselfat so undue120 an hour, and in this private manner, he charged me to givethis to your Highness."He laid in the Duke's hand a small object in blackened silver, which onnearer inspection121 proved to be the ducal coat-of-arms.
Odo stood gazing fixedly122 at this mysterious token, which seemed to comeas an answer to his inmost thoughts. His heart beat high with confusedhopes and fears, and he could hardly control the voice in which heanswered: "Bid Andreoni come to me."
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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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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feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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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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tithes
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| n.（宗教捐税）什一税，什一的教区税，小部分( tithe的名词复数 ) | |
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diffusion
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| n.流布；普及；散漫 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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cosmetics
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| n.化妆品 | |
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renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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necessitated
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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fortify
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| v.强化防御，为…设防；加强，强化 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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adaptability
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| n.适应性 | |
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ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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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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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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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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vindicate
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| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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wrangled
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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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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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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enthusiasts
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| n.热心人，热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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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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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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tirades
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| 激烈的长篇指责或演说( tirade的名词复数 ) | |
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embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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nomadic
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| adj.流浪的；游牧的 | |
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acclaimed
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| adj.受人欢迎的 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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incongruities
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| n.不协调( incongruity的名词复数 )；不一致；不适合；不协调的东西 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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diatribes
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| n.谩骂，讽刺( diatribe的名词复数 ) | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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worthily
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| 重要地，可敬地，正当地 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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naturalist
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| n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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uncertainties
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| 无把握( uncertainty的名词复数 )； 不确定； 变化不定； 无把握、不确定的事物 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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rehearsals
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| n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 )；排练；复述；重复 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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108
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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patricians
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| n.（古罗马的）统治阶层成员( patrician的名词复数 )；贵族，显贵 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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annexation
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| n.吞并，合并 | |
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112
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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galleys
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| n.平底大船，战舰( galley的名词复数 )；（船上或航空器上的）厨房 | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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115
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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117
throngs
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| n.人群( throng的名词复数 )v.成群，挤满( throng的第三人称单数 ) | |
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118
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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craves
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| 渴望，热望( crave的第三人称单数 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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