Between two worlds life hovers1 like a star
‘Twixt night and morn.
Byron.
When Glyndon left Viola, as recorded in the concluding chapter of the second division of this work, he was absorbed again in those mystical desires and conjectures2 which the haunting recollection of Zanoni always served to create. And as he wandered through the streets, he was scarcely conscious of his own movements till, in the mechanism3 of custom, he found himself in the midst of one of the noble collections of pictures which form the boast of those Italian cities whose glory is in the past. Thither4 he had been wont5, almost daily, to repair, for the gallery contained some of the finest specimens6 of a master especially the object of his enthusiasm and study. There, before the works of Salvator, he had often paused in deep and earnest reverence7. The striking characteristic of that artist is the “Vigour of Will;” void of the elevated idea of abstract beauty, which furnishes a model and archetype to the genius of more illustrious order, the singular energy of the man hews8 out of the rock a dignity of his own. His images have the majesty9, not of the god, but the savage10; utterly11 free, like the sublimer13 schools, from the common-place of imitation,— apart, with them, from the conventional littleness of the Real,— he grasps the imagination, and compels it to follow him, not to the heaven, but through all that is most wild and fantastic upon earth; a sorcery, not of the starry14 magian, but of the gloomy wizard,— a man of romance whose heart beat strongly, griping art with a hand of iron, and forcing it to idealise the scenes of his actual life. Before this powerful will, Glyndon drew back more awed15 and admiring than before the calmer beauty which rose from the soul of Raphael, like Venus from the deep.
And now, as awaking from his reverie, he stood opposite to that wild and magnificent gloom of Nature which frowned on him from the canvas, the very leaves on those gnome-like, distorted trees seemed to rustle18 sibylline19 secrets in his ear. Those rugged20 and sombre Apennines, the cataract21 that dashed between, suited, more than the actual scenes would have done, the mood and temper of his mind. The stern, uncouth22 forms at rest on the crags below, and dwarfed23 by the giant size of the Matter that reigned24 around them, impressed him with the might of Nature and the littleness of Man. As in genius of the more spiritual cast, the living man, and the soul that lives in him, are studiously made the prominent image; and the mere26 accessories of scene kept down, and cast back, as if to show that the exile from paradise is yet the monarch27 of the outward world,— so, in the landscapes of Salvator, the tree, the mountain, the waterfall, become the principal, and man himself dwindles28 to the accessory. The Matter seems to reign25 supreme29, and its true lord to creep beneath its stupendous shadow. Inert30 matter giving interest to the immortal31 man, not the immortal man to the inert matter. A terrible philosophy in art!
While something of these thoughts passed through the mind of the painter, he felt his arm touched, and saw Nicot by his side.
“A great master,” said Nicot, “but I do not love the school.”
“I do not love, but I am awed by it. We love the beautiful and serene32, but we have a feeling as deep as love for the terrible and dark.”
“True,” said Nicot, thoughtfully. “And yet that feeling is only a superstition33. The nursery, with its tales of ghosts and goblins, is the cradle of many of our impressions in the world. But art should not seek to pander34 to our ignorance; art should represent only truths. I confess that Raphael pleases me less, because I have no sympathy with his subjects. His saints and virgins35 are to me only men and women.”
“And from what source should painting, then, take its themes?”
“From history, without doubt,” returned Nicot, pragmatically,—“those great Roman actions which inspire men with sentiments of liberty and valour, with the virtues37 of a republic. I wish the cartoons of Raphael had illustrated38 the story of the Horatii; but it remains39 for France and her Republic to give to posterity40 the new and the true school, which could never have arisen in a country of priestcraft and delusion41.”
“And the saints and virgins of Raphael are to you only men and women?” repeated Glyndon, going back to Nicot’s candid42 confession43 in amaze, and scarcely hearing the deductions44 the Frenchman drew from his proposition.
“Assuredly. Ha, ha!” and Nicot laughed hideously45, “do you ask me to believe in the calendar, or what?”
“But the ideal?”
“The ideal!” interrupted Nicot. “Stuff! The Italian critics, and your English Reynolds, have turned your head. They are so fond of their ‘gusto grande,’ and their ‘ideal beauty that speaks to the soul!’— soul!— IS there a soul? I understand a man when he talks of composing for a refined taste,— for an educated and intelligent reason; for a sense that comprehends truths. But as for the soul,— bah!— we are but modifications46 of matter, and painting is modification47 of matter also.”
Glyndon turned his eyes from the picture before him to Nicot, and from Nicot to the picture. The dogmatist gave a voice to the thoughts which the sight of the picture had awakened48. He shook his head without reply.
“Tell me,” said Nicot, abruptly49, “that imposter,— Zanoni!— oh! I have now learned his name and quackeries, forsooth,— what did he say to thee of me?”
“Of thee? Nothing; but to warn me against thy doctrines50.”
“Aha! was that all?” said Nicot. “He is a notable inventor, and since, when we met last, I unmasked his delusions51, I thought he might retaliate52 by some tale of slander53.”
“Unmasked his delusions!— how?”
“A dull and long story: he wished to teach an old doting54 friend of mine his secrets of prolonged life and philosophical55 alchemy. I advise thee to renounce56 so discreditable an acquaintance.”
With that Nicot nodded significantly, and, not wishing to be further questioned, went his way.
Glyndon’s mind at that moment had escaped to his art, and the comments and presence of Nicot had been no welcome interruption. He turned from the landscape of Salvator, and his eye falling on a Nativity by Coreggio, the contrast between the two ranks of genius struck him as a discovery. That exquisite57 repose58, that perfect sense of beauty, that strength without effort, that breathing moral of high art, which speaks to the mind through the eye, and raises the thoughts, by the aid of tenderness and love, to the regions of awe16 and wonder,— ay! THAT was the true school. He quitted the gallery with reluctant steps and inspired ideas; he sought his own home. Here, pleased not to find the sober Mervale, he leaned his face on his hands, and endeavoured to recall the words of Zanoni in their last meeting. Yes, he felt Nicot’s talk even on art was crime; it debased the imagination itself to mechanism. Could he, who saw nothing in the soul but a combination of matter, prate59 of schools that should excel a Raphael? Yes, art was magic; and as he owned the truth of the aphorism60, he could comprehend that in magic there may be religion, for religion is an essential to art. His old ambition, freeing itself from the frigid61 prudence62 with which Mervale sought to desecrate63 all images less substantial than the golden calf64 of the world, revived, and stirred, and kindled65. The subtle detection of what he conceived to be an error in the school he had hitherto adopted, made more manifest to him by the grinning commentary of Nicot, seemed to open to him a new world of invention. He seized the happy moment,— he placed before him the colours and the canvas. Lost in his conceptions of a fresh ideal, his mind was lifted aloft into the airy realms of beauty; dark thoughts, unhallowed desires, vanished. Zanoni was right: the material world shrunk from his gaze; he viewed Nature as from a mountain-top afar; and as the waves of his unquiet heart became calm and still, again the angel eyes of Viola beamed on them as a holy star.
Locking himself in his chamber66, he refused even the visits of Mervale. Intoxicated68 with the pure air of his fresh existence, he remained for three days, and almost nights, absorbed in his employment; but on the fourth morning came that reaction to which all labour is exposed. He woke listless and fatigued69; and as he cast his eyes on the canvas, the glory seemed to have gone from it. Humiliating recollections of the great masters he aspired70 to rival forced themselves upon him; defects before unseen magnified themselves to deformities in his languid and discontented eyes. He touched and retouched, but his hand failed him; he threw down his instruments in despair; he opened his casement71: the day without was bright and lovely; the street was crowded with that life which is ever so joyous72 and affluent73 in the animated74 population of Naples. He saw the lover, as he passed, conversing75 with his mistress by those mute gestures which have survived all changes of languages, the same now as when the Etruscan painted yon vases in the Museo Borbonico. Light from without beckoned76 his youth to its mirth and its pleasures; and the dull walls within, lately large enough to comprise heaven and earth, seemed now cabined and confined as a felon’s prison. He welcomed the step of Mervale at his threshold, and unbarred the door.
“And is that all you have done?” said Mervale, glancing disdainfully at the canvas. “Is it for this that you have shut yourself out from the sunny days and moonlit nights of Naples?”
“While the fit was on me, I basked77 in a brighter sun, and imbibed78 the voluptuous79 luxury of a softer moon.”
“You own that the fit is over. Well, that is some sign of returning sense. After all, it is better to daub canvas for three days than make a fool of yourself for life. This little siren?”
“Be dumb! I hate to hear you name her.”
Mervale drew his chair nearer to Glyndon’s, thrust his hands deep in his breeches-pockets, stretched his legs, and was about to begin a serious strain of expostulation, when a knock was heard at the door, and Nicot, without waiting for leave, obtruded80 his ugly head.
“Good-day, mon cher confrere. I wished to speak to you. Hein! you have been at work, I see. This is well,— very well! A bold outline,— great freedom in that right hand. But, hold! is the composition good? You have not got the great pyramidal form. Don’t you think, too, that you have lost the advantage of contrast in this figure; since the right leg is put forward, surely the right arm should be put back? Peste! but that little finger is very fine!”
Mervale detested81 Nicot. For all speculators, Utopians, alterers of the world, and wanderers from the high road, were equally hateful to him; but he could have hugged the Frenchman at that moment. He saw in Glyndon’s expressive82 countenance83 all the weariness and disgust he endured. After so wrapped a study, to be prated84 to about pyramidal forms and right arms and right legs, the accidence of the art, the whole conception to be overlooked, and the criticism to end in approval of the little finger!
“Oh,” said Glyndon, peevishly85, throwing the cloth over his design, “enough of my poor performance. What is it you have to say to me?”
“In the first place,” said Nicot, huddling86 himself together upon a stool,—“in the first place, this Signor Zanoni,— this second Cagliostro,— who disputes my doctrines! (no doubt a spy of the man Capet) I am not vindictive87; as Helvetius says, ‘our errors arise from our passions.’ I keep mine in order; but it is virtuous88 to hate in the cause of mankind; I would I had the denouncing and the judging of Signor Zanoni at Paris.” And Nicot’s small eyes shot fire, and he gnashed his teeth.
“Have you any new cause to hate him?”
“Yes,” said Nicot, fiercely. “Yes, I hear he is courting the girl I mean to marry.”
“You! Whom do you speak of?”
“The celebrated89 Pisani! She is divinely handsome. She would make my fortune in a republic. And a republic we shall have before the year is out.”
Mervale rubbed his hands, and chuckled90. Glyndon coloured with rage and shame.
“Do you know the Signora Pisani? Have you ever spoken to her?”
“Not yet. But when I make up my mind to anything, it is soon done. I am about to return to Paris. They write me word that a handsome wife advances the career of a patriot91. The age of prejudice is over. The sublimer virtues begin to be understood. I shall take back the handsomest wife in Europe.”
“Be quiet! What are you about?” said Mervale, seizing Glyndon as he saw him advance towards the Frenchman, his eyes sparkling, and his hands clenched92.
“Sir!” said Glyndon, between his teeth, “you know not of whom you thus speak. Do you affect to suppose that Viola Pisani would accept YOU?”
“Not if she could get a better offer,” said Mervale, looking up to the ceiling.
“A better offer? You don’t understand me,” said Nicot. “I, Jean Nicot, propose to marry the girl; marry her! Others may make her more liberal offers, but no one, I apprehend93, would make one so honourable94. I alone have pity on her friendless situation. Besides, according to the dawning state of things, one will always, in France, be able to get rid of a wife whenever one wishes. We shall have new laws of divorce. Do you imagine that an Italian girl — and in no country in the world are maidens95, it seems, more chaste96 (though wives may console themselves with virtues more philosophical)— would refuse the hand of an artist for the settlements of a prince? No; I think better of the Pisani than you do. I shall hasten to introduce myself to her.”
“I wish you all success, Monsieur Nicot,” said Mervale, rising, and shaking him heartily97 by the hand.
Glyndon cast at them both a disdainful glance.
“Perhaps, Monsieur Nicot,” said he, at length, constraining98 his lips into a bitter smile,—“perhaps you may have rivals.”
“So much the better,” replied Monsieur Nicot, carelessly, kicking his heels together, and appearing absorbed in admiration99 at the size of his large feet.
“I myself admire Viola Pisani.”
“Every painter must!”
“I may offer her marriage as well as yourself.”
“That would be folly101 in you, though wisdom in me. You would not know how to draw profit from the speculation102! Cher confrere, you have prejudices.”
“You do not dare to say you would make profit from your own wife?”
“The virtuous Cato lent his wife to a friend. I love virtue36, and I cannot do better than imitate Cato. But to be serious,— I do not fear you as a rival. You are good-looking, and I am ugly. But you are irresolute103, and I decisive. While you are uttering fine phrases, I shall say, simply, ‘I have a bon etat. Will you marry me?’ So do your worst, cher confrere. Au revoir, behind the scenes!”
So saying, Nicot rose, stretched his long arms and short legs, yawned till he showed all his ragged105 teeth from ear to ear, pressed down his cap on his shaggy head with an air of defiance106, and casting over his left shoulder a glance of triumph and malice107 at the indignant Glyndon, sauntered out of the room.
Mervale burst into a violent fit of laughter. “See how your Viola is estimated by your friend. A fine victory, to carry her off from the ugliest dog between Lapland and the Calmucks.”
Glyndon was yet too indignant to answer, when a new visitor arrived. It was Zanoni himself. Mervale, on whom the appearance and aspect of this personage imposed a kind of reluctant deference108, which he was unwilling109 to acknowledge, and still more to betray, nodded to Glyndon, and saying, simply, “More when I see you again,” left the painter and his unexpected visitor.
“I see,” said Zanoni, lifting the cloth from the canvas, “that you have not slighted the advice I gave you. Courage, young artist; this is an escape from the schools: this is full of the bold self-confidence of real genius. You had no Nicot — no Mervale — at your elbow when this image of true beauty was conceived!”
Charmed back to his art by this unlooked-for praise, Glyndon replied modestly, “I thought well of my design till this morning; and then I was disenchanted of my happy persuasion110.”
“Say, rather, that, unaccustomed to continuous labour, you were fatigued with your employment.”
“That is true. Shall I confess it? I began to miss the world without. It seemed to me as if, while I lavished111 my heart and my youth upon visions of beauty, I was losing the beautiful realities of actual life. And I envied the merry fisherman, singing as he passed below my casement, and the lover conversing with his mistress.”
“And,” said Zanoni, with an encouraging smile, “do you blame yourself for the natural and necessary return to earth, in which even the most habitual112 visitor of the Heavens of Invention seeks his relaxation113 and repose? Man’s genius is a bird that cannot be always on the wing; when the craving114 for the actual world is felt, it is a hunger that must be appeased115. They who command best the ideal, enjoy ever most the real. See the true artist, when abroad in men’s thoroughfares, ever observant, ever diving into the heart, ever alive to the least as to the greatest of the complicated truths of existence; descending116 to what pedants117 would call the trivial and the frivolous118. From every mesh119 in the social web, he can disentangle a grace. And for him each airy gossamer120 floats in the gold of the sunlight. Know you not that around the animalcule that sports in the water there shines a halo, as around the star (The monas mica121, found in the purest pools, is encompassed122 with a halo. And this is frequent amongst many other species of animalcule.) that revolves123 in bright pastime through the space? True art finds beauty everywhere. In the street, in the market-place, in the hovel, it gathers food for the hive of its thoughts. In the mire100 of politics, Dante and Milton selected pearls for the wreath of song.
“Who ever told you that Raphael did not enjoy the life without, carrying everywhere with him the one inward idea of beauty which attracted and imbedded in its own amber67 every straw that the feet of the dull man trampled124 into mud? As some lord of the forest wanders abroad for its prey125, and scents126 and follows it over plain and hill, through brake and jungle, but, seizing it at last, bears the quarry127 to its unwitnessed cave,— so Genius searches through wood and waste, untiringly and eagerly, every sense awake, every nerve strained to speed and strength, for the scattered128 and flying images of matter, that it seizes at last with its mighty129 talons130, and bears away with it into solitudes131 no footstep can invade. Go, seek the world without; it is for art the inexhaustible pasture-ground and harvest to the world within!”
“You comfort me,” said Glyndon, brightening. “I had imagined my weariness a proof of my deficiency! But not now would I speak to you of these labours. Pardon me, if I pass from the toil132 to the reward. You have uttered dim prophecies of my future, if I wed17 one who, in the judgment133 of the sober world, would only darken its prospects134 and obstruct135 its ambition. Do you speak from the wisdom which is experience, or that which aspires136 to prediction?”
“Are they not allied137? Is it not he best accustomed to calculation who can solve at a glance any new problem in the arithmetic of chances?”
“No; but I will adapt my answer the better to your comprehension, for it is upon this very point that I have sought you. Listen to me!” Zanoni fixed139 his eyes earnestly on his listener, and continued: “For the accomplishment140 of whatever is great and lofty, the clear perception of truths is the first requisite,— truths adapted to the object desired. The warrior141 thus reduces the chances of battle to combinations almost of mathematics. He can predict a result, if he can but depend upon the materials he is forced to employ. At such a loss he can cross that bridge; in such a time he can reduce that fort. Still more accurately142, for he depends less on material causes than ideas at his command, can the commander of the purer science or diviner art, if he once perceive the truths that are in him and around, foretell143 what he can achieve, and in what he is condemned144 to fail. But this perception of truths is disturbed by many causes,— vanity, passion, fear, indolence in himself, ignorance of the fitting means without to accomplish what he designs. He may miscalculate his own forces; he may have no chart of the country he would invade. It is only in a peculiar146 state of the mind that it is capable of perceiving truth; and that state is profound serenity147. Your mind is fevered by a desire for truth: you would compel it to your embraces; you would ask me to impart to you, without ordeal148 or preparation, the grandest secrets that exist in Nature. But truth can no more be seen by the mind unprepared for it, than the sun can dawn upon the midst of night. Such a mind receives truth only to pollute it: to use the simile149 of one who has wandered near to the secret of the sublime12 Goetia (or the magic that lies within Nature, as electricity within the cloud), ‘He who pours water into the muddy well, does but disturb the mud.’” (“Iamb. de Vit. Pythag.”)
“What do you tend to?”
“This: that you have faculties150 that may attain151 to surpassing power, that may rank you among those enchanters who, greater than the magian, leave behind them an enduring influence, worshipped wherever beauty is comprehended, wherever the soul is sensible of a higher world than that in which matter struggles for crude and incomplete existence.
“But to make available those faculties, need I be a prophet to tell you that you must learn to concentre upon great objects all your desires? The heart must rest, that the mind may be active. At present you wander from aim to aim. As the ballast to the ship, so to the spirit are faith and love. With your whole heart, affections, humanity, centred in one object, your mind and aspirations152 will become equally steadfast153 and in earnest. Viola is a child as yet; you do not perceive the high nature the trials of life will develop. Pardon me, if I say that her soul, purer and loftier than your own, will bear it upward, as a secret hymn154 carries aloft the spirits of the world. Your nature wants the harmony, the music which, as the Pythagoreans wisely taught, at once elevates and soothes155. I offer you that music in her love.”
“But am I sure that she does love me?”
“Artist, no; she loves you not at present; her affections are full of another. But if I could transfer to you, as the loadstone transfers its attraction to the magnet, the love that she has now for me,— if I could cause her to see in you the ideal of her dreams —”
“Is such a gift in the power of man?”
“I offer it to you, if your love be lawful156, if your faith in virtue and yourself be deep and loyal; if not, think you that I would disenchant her with truth to make her adore a falsehood?”
“But if,” persisted Glyndon,—“if she be all that you tell me, and if she love you, how can you rob yourself of so priceless a treasure?”
“Oh, shallow and mean heart of man!” exclaimed Zanoni, with unaccustomed passion and vehemence157, “dost thou conceive so little of love as not to know that it sacrifices all — love itself — for the happiness of the thing it loves? Hear me!” And Zanoni’s face grew pale. “Hear me! I press this upon you, because I love her, and because I fear that with me her fate will be less fair than with yourself. Why,— ask not, for I will not tell you. Enough! Time presses now for your answer; it cannot long be delayed. Before the night of the third day from this, all choice will be forbid you!”
“But,” said Glyndon, still doubting and suspicious,—“but why this haste?”
“Man, you are not worthy158 of her when you ask me. All I can tell you here, you should have known yourself. This ravisher, this man of will, this son of the old Visconti, unlike you,— steadfast, resolute104, earnest even in his crimes,— never relinquishes159 an object. But one passion controls his lust,— it is his avarice160. The day after his attempt on Viola, his uncle, the Cardinal161 —, from whom he has large expectations of land and gold, sent for him, and forbade him, on pain of forfeiting162 all the possessions which his schemes already had parcelled out, to pursue with dishonourable designs one whom the Cardinal had heeded163 and loved from childhood. This is the cause of his present pause from his pursuit. While we speak, the cause expires. Before the hand of the clock reaches the hour of noon, the Cardinal — will be no more. At this very moment thy friend, Jean Nicot, is with the Prince di —.”
“He! wherefore?”
“To ask what dower shall go with Viola Pisani, the morning that she leaves the palace of the prince.”
“And how do you know all this?”
“Fool! I tell thee again, because a lover is a watcher by night and day; because love never sleeps when danger menaces the beloved one!”
“And you it was that informed the Cardinal —?”
“Yes; and what has been my task might as easily have been thine. Speak,— thine answer!”
“You shall have it on the third day from this.”
“Be it so. Put off, poor waverer, thy happiness to the last hour. On the third day from this, I will ask thee thy resolve.”
“And where shall we meet?”
“Before midnight, where you may least expect me. You cannot shun164 me, though you may seek to do so!”
“Stay one moment! You condemn145 me as doubtful, irresolute, suspicious. Have I no cause? Can I yield without a struggle to the strange fascination165 you exert upon my mind? What interest can you have in me, a stranger, that you should thus dictate166 to me the gravest action in the life of man? Do you suppose that any one in his senses would not pause, and deliberate, and ask himself, ‘Why should this stranger care thus for me?’”
“And yet,” said Zanoni, “if I told thee that I could initiate167 thee into the secrets of that magic which the philosophy of the whole existing world treats as a chimera168, or imposture169; if I promised to show thee how to command the beings of air and ocean, how to accumulate wealth more easily than a child can gather pebbles170 on the shore, to place in thy hands the essence of the herbs which prolong life from age to age, the mystery of that attraction by which to awe all danger and disarm171 all violence and subdue172 man as the serpent charms the bird,— if I told thee that all these it was mine to possess and to communicate, thou wouldst listen to me then, and obey me without a doubt!”
“It is true; and I can account for this only by the imperfect associations of my childhood,— by traditions in our house of —”
“Your forefather173, who, in the revival174 of science, sought the secrets of Apollonius and Paracelsus.”
“What!” said Glyndon, amazed, “are you so well acquainted with the annals of an obscure lineage?”
“To the man who aspires to know, no man who has been the meanest student of knowledge should be unknown. You ask me why I have shown this interest in your fate? There is one reason which I have not yet told you. There is a fraternity as to whose laws and whose mysteries the most inquisitive175 schoolmen are in the dark. By those laws all are pledged to warn, to aid, and to guide even the remotest descendants of men who have toiled176, though vainly, like your ancestor, in the mysteries of the Order. We are bound to advise them to their welfare; nay177, more,— if they command us to it, we must accept them as our pupils. I am a survivor178 of that most ancient and immemorial union. This it was that bound me to thee at the first; this, perhaps, attracted thyself unconsciously, Son of our Brotherhood179, to me.”
“If this be so, I command thee, in the name of the laws thou obeyest, to receive me as thy pupil!”
“What do you ask?” said Zanoni, passionately180. “Learn, first, the conditions. No neophyte181 must have, at his initiation182, one affection or desire that chains him to the world. He must be pure from the love of woman, free from avarice and ambition, free from the dreams even of art, or the hope of earthly fame. The first sacrifice thou must make is — Viola herself. And for what? For an ordeal that the most daring courage only can encounter, the most ethereal natures alone survive! Thou art unfit for the science that has made me and others what we are or have been; for thy whole nature is one fear!”
“Fear!” cried Glyndon, colouring with resentment183, and rising to the full height of his stature184.
“Fear! and the worst fear,— fear of the world’s opinion; fear of the Nicots and the Mervales; fear of thine own impulses when most generous; fear of thine own powers when thy genius is most bold; fear that virtue is not eternal; fear that God does not live in heaven to keep watch on earth; fear, the fear of little men; and that fear is never known to the great.”
With these words Zanoni abruptly left the artist, humbled185, bewildered, and not convinced. He remained alone with his thoughts till he was aroused by the striking of the clock; he then suddenly remembered Zanoni’s prediction of the Cardinal’s death; and, seized with an intense desire to learn its truth, he hurried into the streets,— he gained the Cardinal’s palace. Five minutes before noon his Eminence186 had expired, after an illness of less than an hour. Zanoni’s visit had occupied more time than the illness of the Cardinal. Awed and perplexed187, he turned from the palace, and as he walked through the Chiaja, he saw Jean Nicot emerge from the portals of the Prince di —.
收听单词发音 |
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hovers
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| 鸟( hover的第三人称单数 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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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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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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hews
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| v.（用斧、刀等）砍、劈( hew的第三人称单数 )；砍成；劈出；开辟 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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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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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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13
sublimer
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| 使高尚者，纯化器 | |
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14
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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15
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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17
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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18
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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19
sibylline
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| adj.预言的；神巫的 | |
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20
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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21
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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22
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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23
dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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24
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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25
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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26
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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27
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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28
dwindles
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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29
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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30
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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31
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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32
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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33
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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34
pander
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| v.迎合；n.拉皮条者，勾引者；帮人做坏事的人 | |
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35
virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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36
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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37
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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38
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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39
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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40
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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41
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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42
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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43
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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44
deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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45
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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46
modifications
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| n.缓和( modification的名词复数 )；限制；更改；改变 | |
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47
modification
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| n.修改，改进，缓和，减轻 | |
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48
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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49
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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50
doctrines
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|
| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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51
delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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52
retaliate
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| v.报复，反击 | |
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53
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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54
doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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55
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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56
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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57
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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58
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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59
prate
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| v.瞎扯，胡说 | |
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60
aphorism
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| n.格言，警语 | |
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61
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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62
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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63
desecrate
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| v.供俗用，亵渎，污辱 | |
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64
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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65
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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66
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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67
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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68
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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69
fatigued
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|
| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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70
aspired
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|
| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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72
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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73
affluent
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|
| adj.富裕的，富有的，丰富的，富饶的 | |
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74
animated
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|
| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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75
conversing
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|
| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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76
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
basked
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|
| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的过去式和过去分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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78
imbibed
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|
| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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79
voluptuous
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|
| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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80
obtruded
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|
| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
detested
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|
| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
expressive
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|
| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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83
countenance
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|
| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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84
prated
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| v.（古时用语）唠叨，啰唆( prate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
peevishly
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|
| adv．暴躁地 | |
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86
huddling
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|
| n. 杂乱一团, 混乱, 拥挤 v. 推挤, 乱堆, 草率了事 | |
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87
vindictive
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|
| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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88
virtuous
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|
| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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89
celebrated
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|
| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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90
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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92
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
apprehend
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|
| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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94
honourable
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|
| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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95
maidens
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|
| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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96
chaste
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|
| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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97
heartily
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|
| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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98
constraining
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| 强迫( constrain的现在分词 )； 强使； 限制； 约束 | |
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99
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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100
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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101
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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102
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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103
irresolute
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|
| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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104
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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105
ragged
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|
| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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106
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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107
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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108
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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109
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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110
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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111
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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113
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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114
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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115
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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116
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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117
pedants
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| n.卖弄学问的人，学究，书呆子( pedant的名词复数 ) | |
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118
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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119
mesh
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| n.网孔，网丝，陷阱；vt.以网捕捉，啮合，匹配；vi.适合； [计算机]网络 | |
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120
gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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121
mica
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| n.云母 | |
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122
encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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123
revolves
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的第三人称单数 )；细想 | |
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124
trampled
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|
| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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125
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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126
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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127
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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128
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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129
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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130
talons
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| n.（尤指猛禽的）爪( talon的名词复数 )；（如爪般的）手指；爪状物；锁簧尖状突出部 | |
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131
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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132
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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133
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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134
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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135
obstruct
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| v.阻隔，阻塞(道路、通道等)；n.阻碍物，障碍物 | |
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136
aspires
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的第三人称单数 ) | |
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137
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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138
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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139
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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140
accomplishment
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|
| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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141
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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142
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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143
foretell
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| v.预言，预告，预示 | |
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144
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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145
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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147
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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148
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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150
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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151
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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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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steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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soothes
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| v.安慰( soothe的第三人称单数 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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157
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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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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relinquishes
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的第三人称单数 )； 放弃 | |
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avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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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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forfeiting
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的现在分词 ) | |
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heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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initiate
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| vt.开始，创始，发动；启蒙，使入门；引入 | |
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chimera
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| n.神话怪物；梦幻 | |
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imposture
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| n.冒名顶替，欺骗 | |
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170
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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disarm
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| v.解除武装，回复平常的编制，缓和 | |
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172
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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173
forefather
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| n.祖先；前辈 | |
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174
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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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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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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179
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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180
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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181
neophyte
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| n.新信徒；开始者 | |
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182
initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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183
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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184
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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185
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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186
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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187
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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