The joy of reprisals1 lasted no longer than a summer storm. To hurt, tosilence, to destroy, was too easy to be satisfying. The passions of hisancestors burned low in Odo's breast: though he felt Bracciaforte's furyin his veins2 he could taste no answering gratification of revenge. Andthe spirit on which he would have spent his hatred3 was not here orthere, as an embodied4 faction5, but everywhere as an intangibleinfluence. The acqua tofana of his enemies had pervaded7 every fibre ofthe state.
The mist of anguish8 lifted, he saw himself alone among ruins. For amoment Fulvia's glowing faith had hung between him and a final vision ofthe truth; and as his convictions weakened he had replaced them with animmense pity, an all-sufficing hope. Sentimental9 verbiage10: he saw itclearly now. He had been the dupe of the old word-jugglery which wasforever confounding fact and fancy in men's minds. For it wasessentially an age of words: the world was drunk with them, as it hadonce been drunk with action; and the former was the deadlier drug of thetwo. He looked about him languidly, letting the facts of life filterslowly through his faculties11. The sources of energy were so benumbed inhim that he felt like a man whom long disease had reduced tohelplessness and who must laboriously12 begin his bodily education again.
Hate was the only passion which survived, and that was but a deafintransitive emotion coiled in his nature's depths.
Sickness at last brought its obliteration13. He sank into gulfs ofweakness and oblivion, and when the rise of the tide floated him back tolife, it was to a life as faint and colourless as infancy14. Colourlesstoo were the boundaries on which he looked out: the narrow enclosure ofwhite walls, opening on a slit15 of pale spring landscape. His hands laybefore him, white and helpless on the white coverlet of his bed. Heraised his eyes and saw de Crucis at his side. Then he began toremember. There had been preceding intervals16 of consciousness, and inone of them, in answer perhaps to some vaguely-uttered wish for lightand air, he had been carried out of the palace and the city to theBenedictine monastery17 on its wooded knoll18 beyond the Piana. Then theveil had dropped again, and his spirit had wandered in a dim place ofshades. There was a faint sweetness in coming back at last to familiarsights and sounds. They no longer hurt like pressure on an aching nerve:
they seemed rather, now, the touch of a reassuring19 hand.
As the contact with life became closer and more sustained he began towatch himself curiously20, wondering what instincts and habits of thoughtwould survive his long mental death. It was with a bitter, almostpitiable disappointment that he found the old man growing again in him.
Life, with a mocking hand, brought him the cast-off vesture of his past,and he felt himself gradually compressed again into the old passions andprejudices. Yet he wore them with a difference--they were a crampinggarment rather than a living sheath. He had brought back from his lonelyvoyagings a sense of estrangement21 deeper than any surface-affinity withthings.
As his physical strength returned, and he was able to leave his room andwalk through the long corridors to the outer air, he felt the old spellwhich the life of Monte Cassino had cast on him. The quiet garden, withits clumps22 of box and lavender between paths converging23 to the statue ofSaint Benedict; the cloisters24 paved with the monks25' nameless graves; thetraces of devotional painting left here and there on the weather-beatenwalls, like fragments of prayer in a world-worn mind: these formed acircle of tranquillising influences in which he could graduallyreacquire the habit of living.
He had never deceived himself as to the cause of the riots. He knew fromGamba and Andreoni that the liberals and the court, for once working inunison, had provoked the blind outburst of fanaticism27 which a rasherjudgment might have ascribed to the clergy28. The Dominicans, bigoted29 andeager for power, had been ready enough to serve such an end, and some ofthe begging orders had furnished the necessary points of contact withthe people; but the movement was at bottom purely30 political, andrepresented the resistance of the privileged classes to any attack ontheir inherited rights.
As such, he could no longer regard it as completely unreasonable31. He wasbeginning to feel the social and political significance of those oldrestrictions and barriers against which his early zeal32 had tilted33.
Certainly in the ideal state the rights and obligations of the differentclasses would be more evenly adjusted. But the ideal state was a figmentof the brain. The real one, as Crescenti had long ago pointed34 out, wasthe gradual and heterogeneous35 product of remote social conditions,wherein every seeming inconsistency had its roots in some bygone need,and the character of each class, with its special passions, ignorancesand prejudices, was the sum total of influences so ingrown andinveterate that they had become a law of thought. All this, however,seemed rather matter for philosophic36 musing37 than for definite action.
His predominant feeling was still that of remoteness from the immediateissues of life: the soeva indignatio had been succeeded by a great calm.
The soothing38 influences of the monastic life had doubtless helped totide him over the stormy passage of returning consciousness. Hissensitiveness to these influences inclined him for the first time toconsider them analytically39. Hitherto he had regarded the Church as askilfully-adjusted engine, the product of human passions scientificallycombined to obtain the greatest sum of tangible6 results. Now he saw thathe had never penetrated40 beneath the surface. For the Church whichgrasped, contrived41, calculated, struggled for temporal possessions andused material weapons against spiritual foes--this outer Church wasnothing more than the body, which, like any other animal body, had tocare for its own gross needs, nourish, clothe, defend itself, fight fora footing among the material resistances of life--while the soul, theinner animating43 principle, might dwell aloof44 from all these things, in aclear medium of its own.
To this soul of the Church his daily life now brought him close. He feltit in the ordered beneficence of the great community, in the simplicityof its external life and the richness and suavity45 of its innerrelations. No alliance based on material interests, no love of powerworking toward a common end, could have created that harmony of thoughtand act which was reflected in every face about him. Each of these menseemed to have FOUND OUT SOMETHING of which he was still ignorant.
What it was, de Crucis tried to tell him as they paced the cloisterstogether or sat in the warm stillness of the budding garden. At thefirst news of the Duke's illness the Jesuit had hastened to Pianura. Nocompanionship could have been so satisfying to Odo. De Crucis's mentalattitude toward mankind might have been defined as an illuminatedcharity. To love men, or to understand them, is not as unusual as to doboth together; and it was the intellectual acuteness of his friend'sjudgments that made their Christian46 amenity47 so seductive to Odo.
"The highest claim of Christianity," the Jesuit said one morning, asthey sat on a worn stone bench at the end of the sunny vine-walk, "isthat it has come nearer to solving the problem of men's relations toeach other than any system invented by themselves. This, after all, isthe secret principle of the Church's vitality48. She gave a spiritualcharter of equality to mankind long before the philosophers thought ofgiving them a material one. If, all the while, she has been fighting fordominion, arrogating49 to herself special privileges, struggling topreserve the old lines of social and legal demarcation, it has beenbecause for nigh two thousand years she has cherished in her breast theone free city of the spirit, because to guard its liberties she has hadto defend and strengthen her own position. I do not ask you to considerwhence comes this insight into the needs of man, this mysterious powerover him; I ask you simply to confess them in their results. I am not ofthose who believe that God permits good to come to mankind through onechannel only, and I doubt not that now and in times past the thinkerswhom your Highness follows have done much to raise the condition oftheir fellows; but I would have you observe that, where they have doneso, it has been because, at bottom, their aims coincided with theChurch's. The deeper you probe into her secret sources of power, themore you find there, in the germ if you will, but still potentiallyactive, all those humanising energies which work together for thelifting of the race. In her wisdom and her patience she may have seenfit to withhold50 their expression, to let them seek another outlet51; butthey are there, stored in her consciousness like the archetypes of thePlatonists in the Universal Mind. It is the knowledge of this, the sureknowledge of it, which creates the atmosphere of serenity52 that you feelabout you. From the tilling of the vineyards, or the dressing53 of abeggar's sores, to the loftiest and most complicated intellectual labourimposed on him, each brother knows that his daily task is part of agreat scheme of action, working ever from imperfection to perfection,from human incompleteness to the divine completion. This sense of being,not straws on a blind wind of chance, but units in an ordered force,gives to the humblest Christian an individual security and dignity whichkings on their thrones might envy.
"But not only does the Church anticipate every tendency of mankind;alone of all powers she knows how to control and direct the passions sheexcites. This it is which makes her an auxiliary54 that no temporal princecan well despise. It is in this aspect that I would have your Highnessconsider her. Do not underrate her power because it seems based on thecommoner instincts rather than on the higher faculties of man. That isone of the sources of her strength. She can support her claims by reasonand argument, but it is because her work, like that of her divineFounder, lies chiefly among those who can neither reason nor argue, thatshe chooses to rest her appeal on the simplest and most universalemotions. As, in our towns, the streets are lit mainly by the tapersbefore the shrines55 of the saints, so the way of life would be dark tothe great multitude of men but for the light of faith burning withinthem..."Meanwhile the shufflings of destiny had brought to Trescorre the prizefor which he waited. During the Duke's illness he had been appointedregent of Pianura, and his sovereign's reluctance56 to take up the caresof government had now left him for six months in authority. The dayafter the proclaiming of the constitution Odo had withdrawn57 hissignature from it, on the ground that the concessions59 it contained wereinopportune. The functions of government went on again in the old way.
The old abuses persisted, the old offences were condoned60: it was asthough the apathy61 of the sovereign had been communicated to his people.
Centuries of submission62 were in their blood, and for two generationsthere had been no warfare63 south of the Alps.
For the moment men's minds were turned to the great events going forwardin France. It had not yet occurred to the Italians that the recoil64 ofthese events might be felt among themselves. They were simply amusedspectators, roused at last to the significance of the show, but neverdreaming that they might soon be called from the wings to thefootlights. To de Crucis, however, the possibility of such a call wasalready present, and it was he who pressed the Duke to return to hispost. A deep reluctance held Odo back. He would have liked to linger onin the monastery, leading the tranquil26 yet busy life of the monks, andtrying to read the baffling riddle65 of its completeness. At that momentit seemed to him of vastly more importance to discover the exact natureof the soul--whether it was in fact a metaphysical entity66, as these menbelieved, or a mere67 secretion68 of the brain, as he had been taught tothink--than to go back and govern his people. For what mattered therest, if he had been mistaken about the soul?
With a start he realised that he was going as his cousin had gone--thatthis was but another form of the fatal lethargy that hung upon his race.
An effort of the will drew him back to Pianura, and made him resume thesemblance of authority; but it carried him no farther. Trescorreostensibly became prime minister, and in reality remained the head ofthe state. The Duke was present at the cabinet meetings but took no partin the direction of affairs. His mind was lost in a maze69 of metaphysicalspeculations; and even these served him merely as somecunningly-contrived toy with which to trick his leisure.
His revocation70 of the charter had necessarily separated him from Gambaand the advanced liberals. He knew that the hunchback, ever scornful ofexpediency, charged him with disloyalty to the people; but such chargescould no longer wound. The events following the Duke's birthday hadserved to crystallise the schemes of the little liberal group, and theynow formed a campaign of active opposition71 to the government, attackingit by means of pamphlets and lampoons72, and by such public speaking asthe police allowed. The new professors of the University, ardently73 insympathy with the constitutional movement, used their lectures as meansof political teaching, and the old stronghold of dogma became the centreof destructive criticism. But as yet these ideas formed but a singlelive point in the general numbness74.
Two years passed in this way. North of the Alps, all Europe wasconvulsed, while Italy was still but a sleeper75 who tosses in his sleep.
In the two Sicilies, the arrogance76 and perfidy77 of the government gave afew martyrs78 to the cause, and in Bologna there was a brief revolutionaryoutbreak; but for the most part the Italian states were sinking intoinanition. Venice, by recalling her fleet from Greece, let fall thedominion of the sea. Twenty years earlier Genoa had basely yieldedCorsica to France. The Pope condemned79 the French for their outrages81 onreligion, and his subjects murdered Basseville, the agent of the newrepublic. The sympathies and impulses of the various states were ascontradictory as they were ineffectual.
Meanwhile, in France, Europe was trying to solve at a stroke theproblems of a thousand years. All the repressed passions whichcivilisation had sought, however imperfectly, to curb83, stalked abroaddestructive as flood and fire. The great generation of theEncyclopaedists had passed away, and the teachings of Rousseau hadprevailed over those of Montesquieu and Voltaire. The sober sense of theeconomists was swept aside by the sound and fury of the demagogues, andFrance was become a very Babel of tongues. The old malady84 of words hadswept over the world like a pestilence85.
To the little Italian courts, still dozing86 in fancied security under thewing of Bourbon and Hapsburg suzerains, these rumours87 were borne by thewild flight of emigres--dead leaves loosened by the first blast of thestorm. Month by month they poured across the Alps in ever-increasingnumbers, bringing confused contradictory82 tales of anarchy88 and outrage80.
Among those whom chance thus carried to Pianura were certain familiarsof the Duke's earlier life--the Count Alfieri and his royal mistress,flying from Paris, and arriving breathless with the tale of theirprivate injuries. To the poet of revolt this sudden realisation of hisdoctrines seemed in fact a purely personal outrage. It was as though aman writing an epic89 poem on an earthquake should suddenly find himselfengulphed. To Alfieri the downfall of the French monarchy90 and thetriumph of democratic ideas meant simply that his French investments hadshrunk to nothing, and that he, the greatest poet of the age, had beenobliged, at an immense sacrifice of personal dignity, to plead with adrunken mob for leave to escape from Paris. To the wider aspect of the"tragic farce," as he called it, his eyes remained obstinately91 closed.
He viewed the whole revolutionary movement as a conspiracy92 against hiscomfort, and boasted that during his enforced residence in France he hadnot so much as exchanged a word with one of the "French slaves,instigators of false liberty," who, by trying to put into action theprinciples taught in his previous works, had so grievously interferedwith the composition of fresh masterpieces.
The royal pretensions93 of the Countess of Albany--pretentions affirmedrather than abated94 as the tide of revolution rose--made it impossiblethat she should be received at the court of Pianura; but the Duke founda mild entertainment in Alfieri's company. The poet's revulsion offeeling seemed to Odo like the ironic95 laughter of the fates. Histhoughts returned to the midnight meetings of the Honey Bees, and to thefirst vision of that face which men had lain down their lives to see.
Men had looked on that face since then, and its horror was reflected intheir own.
Other fugitives96 to Pianura brought another impression of events--thatcomic note which life, the supreme97 dramatic artist, never omits from hertragedies. These were the Duke's old friend the Marquis de Coeur-Volant,fleeing from his chateau98 as the peasants put the torch to it, andarriving in Pianura destitute99, gouty and middle-aged100, but imperturbableand epigrammatic as ever. With him came his Marquise, a dark-eyed lady,stout101 to unwieldiness and much given to devotion, in whom it waswhispered (though he introduced her as the daughter of a VenetianSenator) that a reminiscent eye might still detect the outline of thegracefullest Columbine who had ever flitted across the Italian stage.
These visitors were lodged102 by the Duke's kindness in the PalazzoCerveno, near the ducal residence; and though the ladies of Pianura wereinclined to look askance on the Marquise's genealogy103, yet his Highness'scondescension, and her own edifying104 piety105, had soon allayed106 thesescruples, and the salon107 of Madame de Coeur-Volant became the rival ofMadame d'Albany's.
It was, in fact, the more entertaining of the two; for, in spite of hislady's austere108 views, the Marquis retained that gift of socialflexibility that was already becoming the tradition of a happier day. Tothe Marquis, indeed, the revolution was execrable not so much because ofthe hardships it inflicted109, as because it was the forerunner110 of socialdissolution--the breaking-up of the regime which had made manners thehighest morality, and conversation the chief end of man. He could havelived gaily111 on a crust in good company and amid smiling faces; but thesocial deficiencies of Pianura were more difficult to endure than anymaterial privation. In Italy, as the Marquis had more than onceremarked, people loved, gambled, wrote poetry, and patronised the arts;but, alas112, they did not converse113. Coeur-Volant could not conceal114 fromhis Highness that there was no conversation in Pianura; but he did hisbest to fill the void by the constant exercise of his own gift in thatdirection, and to Odo at least his talk seemed as good as it wascopious. Misfortune had given a finer savour to the Marquis'sphilosophy, and there was a kind of heroic grace in his undisturbedcultivation of the amenities115.
While the Marquis was struggling to preserve the conversational116 art, andAlfieri planning the savage117 revenge of the Misogallo, the course ofaffairs in France had gained a wilder impetus118. The abolition119 of thenobility, the flight and capture of the King, his enforced declarationof war against Austria, the massacres120 of Avignon, the sack of theTuileries--such events seemed incredible enough till the next hadcrowded them out of mind. The new year rose in blood and mounted to abloodier noon. All the old defences were falling. Religion, monarchy,law, were sucked down into the whirlpool of liberated121 passions. Acrossthat sanguinary scene passed, like a mocking ghost, the philosophers'
vision of the perfectibility of man. Man was free at last--freer thanhis would-be liberators had ever dreamed of making him--and he used hisfreedom like a beast. For the multitude had risen--that multitude whichno man could number, which even the demagogues who ranted122 in its namehad never seriously reckoned with--that dim, grovellingindistinguishable mass on which the whole social structure rested. Itwas as though the very soil moved, rising in mountains or yawning inchasms about the feet of those who had so long securely battened on it.
The earth shook, the sun and moon were darkened, and the people, theterrible unknown people, had put in the sickle123 to the harvest.
Italy roused herself at last. The emissaries of the new France wereswarming across the Alps, pervading124 the peninsula as the Jesuits hadonce pervaded Europe; and in the mind of a young general of therepublican army visions of Italian conquest were already forming. InPianura the revolutionary agents found a strong republican party headedby Gamba and his friends, and a government weakened by debt anddissensions. The air was thick with intrigue125. The little army could nolonger be counted on, and a prolonged bread-riot had driven Trescorreout of the ministry126 and compelled the Duke to appoint Andreoni in hisplace. Behind Andreoni stood Gamba and the radicals127. There could be nodoubt which way the fortunes of the duchy tended. The Duke's would-beprotectors, Austria and the Holy See, were too busy organising the hastycoalition of the powers to come to his aid, had he cared to call onthem. But to do so would have been but another way of annihilation. Topreserve the individuality of his state, or to merge128 it in the vision ofa United Italy, seemed to him the only alternatives worth fighting for.
The former was a futile129 dream, the latter seemed for a brief momentpossible. Piedmont, ever loyal to the monarchical130 principle, was callingon her sister states to arm themselves against the French invasion. Butthe response was reluctant and uncertain. Private ambitions and pettyjealousies hampered131 every attempt at union. Austria, the Bourbons andthe Holy See held the Italian principalities in a network of conflictinginterests and obligations that rendered free action impossible. SadlyVictor Amadeus armed himself alone against the enemy.
Under such conditions Odo could do little to direct the course ofevents. They had passed into more powerful hands than his. But he couldat least declare himself for or against the mighty132 impulse which wasbehind them. The ideas he had striven for had triumphed at last, and hissurest hold on authority was to share openly in their triumph. Aprofound horror dragged him back. The new principles were not those forwhich he had striven. The goddess of the new worship was but a bloodyMaenad who had borrowed the attributes of freedom. He could not bow theknee in such a charnel-house. Tranquilly133, resolutely134, he took up thepolicy of repression135. He knew the attempt was foredoomed to failure, butthat made no difference now: he was simply acting136 out the inevitable137.
The last act came with unexpected suddenness. The Duke woke one morningto find the citadel138 in the possession of the people. The impregnablestronghold of Bracciaforte was in the hands of the serfs whose fathershad toiled139 to build it, and the last descendant of Bracciaforte wasvirtually a prisoner in his palace. The revolution took place quietly,without violence or bloodshed. Andreoni waited on the Duke, and acabinet-council was summoned. The ministers affected140 to have yieldedreluctantly to popular pressure. All they asked was a constitution andthe assurance that no resistance would be offered to the French.
The Duke requested a few hours for deliberation. Left alone, he summonedthe Duchess's chamberlain. The ducal pair no longer met save onoccasions of state: they had not exchanged a word since the death ofFulvia Vivaldi. Odo sent word to her Highness that he could no longeranswer for her security while she remained in the duchy, and that hebegged her to leave immediately for Vienna. She replied that she wasobliged for his warning, but that while he remained in Pianura her placewas at his side. It was the answer he had expected--he had never doubtedher courage--but it was essential to his course that she should leavethe duchy without delay, and after a moment's reflection he wrote aletter in which he informed her that he must insist on her obedience141. Noanswer was returned, but he learned that she had turned white, andtearing the letter in shreds142 had called for her travelling-carriagewithin the hour. He sent to enquire143 when he might take leave of her, butshe excused herself on the plea of indisposition, and before nightfallhe heard the departing rattle144 of her wheels.
He immediately summoned Andreoni and announced his unconditional145 refusalof the terms proposed to him. He would not give a constitution orpromise allegiance to the French. The minister withdrew, and Odo wasleft alone. He had dismissed his gentlemen, and as he sat in his closeta sense of deathlike isolation146 came over him. Never had the palaceseemed so silent or so vast. He had not a friend to turn to. De Cruciswas in Germany, and Trescorre, it was reported, had privately147 attendedthe Duchess in her flight. The waves of destiny seemed closing over Odo,and the circumstances of his past rose, poignant148 and vivid, before hisdrowning sight.
And suddenly, in that moment of failure and abandonment, it seemed tohim again that life was worth the living. His indifference149 fell from himlike a garment. The old passion of action awoke and he felt a new warmthin his breast. After all, the struggle was not yet over: though Piedmonthad called in vain on the Italian states, an Italian sword might stillbe drawn58 in her service. If his people would not follow him againstFrance he could still march against her alone. Old memories hummed inhim at the thought. He recalled how his Piedmontese ancestors had goneforth against the same foe42, and the stout Donnaz blood began to bubblein his veins.
A knock roused him and Gamba entered by the private way. His appearancewas not unexpected to Odo, and served only to reinforce his new-foundenergy. He felt that the issue was at hand. As he expected, Gamba hadbeen sent to put before him more forcibly and unceremoniously the veiledthreat of the ministers. But the hunchback had come also to plead withhis master in his own name, and in the name of the ideas for which theyhad once laboured together. He could not believe that the Duke'sreaction was more than momentary151. He could not calculate the strength ofthe old associations which, now that the tide had set the other way,were dragging Odo back to the beliefs and traditions of his caste.
The Duke listened in silence; then he said: "Discussion is idle. I haveno answer to give but that which I have already given." He rose from hisseat in token of dismissal.
The moment was painful to both men. Gamba drew nearer and fell at theDuke's feet.
"Your Highness," he said, "consider what this means. We hold the statein our hands. If you are against us you are powerless. If you are withus we can promise you more power than you ever dreamed of possessing."The Duke looked at him with a musing smile. "It is as though you offeredme gold in a desert island," he said. "Do not waste such poor bribes152 onme. I care for no power but the power to wipe out the work of these lastyears. Failing that, I want nothing that you or any other man can give."Gamba was silent a moment. He turned aside into the embrasure of thewindow, and when he spoke153 again it was in a voice broken with grief.
"Your Highness," he said, "if your choice is made, ours is made also. Itis a hard choice, but these are fratricidal hours. We have come to theparting of the ways."The Duke made no sign, and Gamba went on with gathering154 anguish: "Wewould have gone to the world's end with your Highness for our leader!""With a leader whom you could lead," Odo interposed. He went up to Gambaand laid a hand on his shoulder. "Speak out, man," he said. "Say whatyou were sent to say. Am I a prisoner?"The hunchback burst into tears. Odo, with his arms crossed, stoodleaning against the window. The other's anguish seemed to deepen hisdetachment.
"Your Highness--your Highness--" Gamba stammered155.
The Duke made an impatient gesture. "Come, make an end," he said.
Gamba fell back with a profound bow.
"We do not ask the surrender of your Highness's person," he said.
"Not even that?" Odo returned with a faint sneer156.
Gamba flushed to the temples, but the retort died on his lips.
"Your Highness," he said, scarce above a whisper, "the gates areguarded; but the word for tonight is 'Humilitas.'" He knelt and kissedOdo's hand. Then he rose and passed out of the room...
***Before dawn the Duke left the palace. The high emotions of the night hadebbed. He saw himself now, in the ironic light of morning, as a fugitivetoo harmless to be worth pursuing. His enemies had let him keep hissword because they had no cause to fear it. Alone he passed through thegardens of the palace, and out into the desert darkness of the streets.
Skirting the wall of the Benedictine convent where Fulvia had lodged, hegained a street leading to the marketplace. In the pallor of the waningnight the ancient monuments of his race stood up mournful and desertedas a line of tombs. The city seemed a grave-yard and he the ineffectualghost of its dead past. He reached the gates and gave the watchword. Thegates were guarded, as he had been advised; but the captain of the watchlet him pass without show of hesitation158 or curiosity. Though he made noeffort at disguise he went forth150 unrecognised, and the city closed herdoors on him as carelessly as on any passing wanderer.
Beyond the gates a lad from the ducal stables waited with a horse. Odosprang into the saddle and rode on toward Pontesordo. The darkness wasgrowing thinner, and the meagre details of the landscape, with itshuddled farm-houses and mulberry-orchards, began to define themselves ashe advanced. To his left the field stretched, grey and sodden159; ahead, onhis right, hung the dark woods of the ducal chase. Presently a bend ofthe road brought him within sight of the keep of Pontesordo. His way ledpast it, toward Valsecca; but some obscure instinct laid a detaininghand on him, and at the cross-roads he bent160 to the right and rode acrossthe marshland to the old manor-house.
The farmyard lay hushed and deserted157. The peasants who lived there wouldsoon be afoot; but for the moment Odo had the place to himself. Hetethered his horse to a gate-post and walked across the roughcobble-stones to the chapel162. Its floor was still heaped with farm-toolsand dried vegetables, and in the dimness a heavier veil of dust seemedto obscure the painted walls. Odo advanced, picking his way among brokenploughshares and stacks of maize163, till he stood near the old marblealtar, with its sea-gods and acanthus volutes. The place laid itstranquillising hush161 on him, and he knelt on the step beneath the altar.
Something stirred in him as he knelt there--a prayer, yet not aprayer--a reaching out, obscure and inarticulate, toward all that hadsurvived of his early hopes and faiths, a loosening of old founts ofpity, a longing164 to be somehow, somewhere reunited to his old belief inlife.
How long he knelt he knew not; but when he looked up the chapel was fullof a pale light, and in the first shaft165 of the sunrise the face of SaintFrancis shone out on him...He went forth into the daybreak and rode awaytoward Piedmont.
The End
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reprisals
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veins
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hatred
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embodied
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faction
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tangible
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pervaded
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anguish
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sentimental
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verbiage
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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13
obliteration
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| n.涂去，删除；管腔闭合 | |
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14
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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15
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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16
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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17
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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18
knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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19
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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20
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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21
estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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22
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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23
converging
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| adj.收敛[缩]的，会聚的，趋同的v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的现在分词 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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24
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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25
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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26
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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27
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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28
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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29
bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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30
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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31
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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32
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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33
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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34
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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35
heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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36
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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37
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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38
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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39
analytically
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| adv.有分析地，解析地 | |
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40
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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41
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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42
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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43
animating
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| v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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44
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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45
suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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46
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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47
amenity
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| n.pl.生活福利设施，文娱康乐场所；（不可数）愉快，适意 | |
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48
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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49
arrogating
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| v.冒称，妄取( arrogate的现在分词 )；没来由地把…归属（于） | |
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50
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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51
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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52
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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53
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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54
auxiliary
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| adj.辅助的，备用的 | |
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55
shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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56
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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57
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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58
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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59
concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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60
condoned
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| v.容忍，宽恕，原谅( condone的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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62
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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63
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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64
recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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65
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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66
entity
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| n.实体，独立存在体，实际存在物 | |
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67
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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68
secretion
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| n.分泌 | |
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69
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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70
revocation
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| n.废止，撤回 | |
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71
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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72
lampoons
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| n.讽刺文章或言辞( lampoon的名词复数 )v.冷嘲热讽，奚落( lampoon的第三人称单数 ) | |
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73
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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74
numbness
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| n.无感觉，麻木，惊呆 | |
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75
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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76
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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77
perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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78
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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79
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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80
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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81
outrages
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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82
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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83
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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84
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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85
pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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86
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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87
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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88
anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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89
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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90
monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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91
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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92
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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93
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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94
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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95
ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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96
fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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97
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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98
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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99
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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100
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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102
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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103
genealogy
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| n.家系，宗谱 | |
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104
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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105
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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106
allayed
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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108
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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109
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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110
forerunner
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| n.前身，先驱（者），预兆，祖先 | |
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111
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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112
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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113
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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114
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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115
amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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116
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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117
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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118
impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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119
abolition
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| n.废除，取消 | |
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120
massacres
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| 大屠杀( massacre的名词复数 )； 惨败 | |
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121
liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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122
ranted
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的过去式和过去分词 )；大叫大嚷地以…说教；气愤地)大叫大嚷；不停地大声抱怨 | |
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123
sickle
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| n.镰刀 | |
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124
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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125
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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126
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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127
radicals
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| n.激进分子( radical的名词复数 )；根基；基本原理；[数学]根数 | |
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128
merge
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| v.(使)结合，(使)合并，(使)合为一体 | |
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129
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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130
monarchical
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| adj. 国王的，帝王的，君主的，拥护君主制的 =monarchic | |
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131
hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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133
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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134
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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135
repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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136
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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137
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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138
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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139
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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140
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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141
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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142
shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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143
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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144
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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145
unconditional
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| adj.无条件的，无限制的，绝对的 | |
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146
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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147
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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148
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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149
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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150
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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151
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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152
bribes
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| n.贿赂( bribe的名词复数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂v.贿赂( bribe的第三人称单数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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153
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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154
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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155
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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157
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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158
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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159
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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160
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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161
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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162
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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163
maize
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| n.玉米 | |
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164
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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165
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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