Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where,
Supporting and supported, polish’d friends
And dear relations mingle1 into bliss2.*
* Thomson
On the pleasant banks of the Garonne, in the province of Gascony, stood, in the year 1584, the chateau3 of Monsieur St. Aubert. From its windows were seen the pastoral landscapes of Guienne and Gascony stretching along the river, gay with luxuriant woods and vine, and plantations5 of olives. To the south, the view was bounded by the majestic6 Pyrenees, whose summits, veiled in clouds, or exhibiting awful forms, seen, and lost again, as the partial vapours rolled along, were sometimes barren, and gleamed through the blue tinge7 of air, and sometimes frowned with forests of gloomy pine, that swept downward to their base. These tremendous precipices8 were contrasted by the soft green of the pastures and woods that hung upon their skirts; among whose flocks, and herds9, and simple cottages, the eye, after having scaled the cliffs above, delighted to repose10. To the north, and to the east, the plains of Guienne and Languedoc were lost in the mist of distance; on the west, Gascony was bounded by the waters of Biscay.
M. St. Aubert loved to wander, with his wife and daughter, on the margin11 of the Garonne, and to listen to the music that floated on its waves. He had known life in other forms than those of pastoral simplicity12, having mingled13 in the gay and in the busy scenes of the world; but the flattering portrait of mankind, which his heart had delineated in early youth, his experience had too sorrowfully corrected. Yet, amidst the changing visions of life, his principles remained unshaken, his benevolence14 unchilled; and he retired15 from the multitude ‘more in PITY than in anger,’ to scenes of simple nature, to the pure delights of literature, and to the exercise of domestic virtues17.
He was a descendant from the younger branch of an illustrious family, and it was designed, that the deficiency of his patrimonial18 wealth should be supplied either by a splendid alliance in marriage, or by success in the intrigues19 of public affairs. But St. Aubert had too nice a sense of honour to fulfil the latter hope, and too small a portion of ambition to sacrifice what he called happiness, to the attainment20 of wealth. After the death of his father he married a very amiable22 woman, his equal in birth, and not his superior in fortune. The late Monsieur St. Aubert’s liberality, or extravagance, had so much involved his affairs, that his son found it necessary to dispose of a part of the family domain23, and, some years after his marriage, he sold it to Monsieur Quesnel, the brother of his wife, and retired to a small estate in Gascony, where conjugal24 felicity, and parental25 duties, divided his attention with the treasures of knowledge and the illuminations of genius.
To this spot he had been attached from his infancy26. He had often made excursions to it when a boy, and the impressions of delight given to his mind by the homely27 kindness of the grey-headed peasant, to whom it was intrusted, and whose fruit and cream never failed, had not been obliterated28 by succeeding circumstances. The green pastures along which he had so often bounded in the exultation29 of health, and youthful freedom — the woods, under whose refreshing30 shade he had first indulged that pensive31 melancholy32, which afterwards made a strong feature of his character — the wild walks of the mountains, the river, on whose waves he had floated, and the distant plains, which seemed boundless33 as his early hopes — were never after remembered by St. Aubert but with enthusiasm and regret. At length he disengaged himself from the world, and retired hither, to realize the wishes of many years.
The building, as it then stood, was merely a summer cottage, rendered interesting to a stranger by its neat simplicity, or the beauty of the surrounding scene; and considerable additions were necessary to make it a comfortable family residence. St. Aubert felt a kind of affection for every part of the fabric35, which he remembered in his youth, and would not suffer a stone of it to be removed, so that the new building, adapted to the style of the old one, formed with it only a simple and elegant residence. The taste of Madame St. Aubert was conspicuous36 in its internal finishing, where the same chaste37 simplicity was observable in the furniture, and in the few ornaments38 of the apartments, that characterized the manners of its inhabitants.
The library occupied the west side of the chateau, and was enriched by a collection of the best books in the ancient and modern languages. This room opened upon a grove39, which stood on the brow of a gentle declivity40, that fell towards the river, and the tall trees gave it a melancholy and pleasing shade; while from the windows the eye caught, beneath the spreading branches, the gay and luxuriant landscape stretching to the west, and overlooked on the left by the bold precipices of the Pyrenees. Adjoining the library was a green- house, stored with scarce and beautiful plants; for one of the amusements of St. Aubert was the study of botany, and among the neighbouring mountains, which afforded a luxurious41 feast to the mind of the naturalist42, he often passed the day in the pursuit of his favourite science. He was sometimes accompanied in these little excursions by Madame St. Aubert, and frequently by his daughter; when, with a small osier basket to receive plants, and another filled with cold refreshments43, such as the cabin of the shepherd did not afford, they wandered away among the most romantic and magnificent scenes, nor suffered the charms of Nature’s lowly children to abstract them from the observance of her stupendous works. When weary of sauntering among cliffs that seemed scarcely accessible but to the steps of the enthusiast44, and where no track appeared on the vegetation, but what the foot of the izard had left; they would seek one of those green recesses45, which so beautifully adorn46 the bosom47 of these mountains, where, under the shade of the lofty larch48, or cedar49, they enjoyed their simple repast, made sweeter by the waters of the cool stream, that crept along the turf, and by the breath of wild flowers and aromatic50 plants, that fringed the rocks, and inlaid the grass.
Adjoining the eastern side of the green-house, looking towards the plains of Languedoc, was a room, which Emily called hers, and which contained her books, her drawings, her musical instruments, with some favourite birds and plants. Here she usually exercised herself in elegant arts, cultivated only because they were congenial to her taste, and in which native genius, assisted by the instructions of Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert, made her an early proficient51. The windows of this room were particularly pleasant; they descended52 to the floor, and, opening upon the little lawn that surrounded the house, the eye was led between groves53 of almond, palm-trees, flowering-ash, and myrtle, to the distant landscape, where the Garonne wandered.
The peasants of this gay climate were often seen on an evening, when the day’s labour was done, dancing in groups on the margin of the river. Their sprightly54 melodies, debonnaire steps, the fanciful figure of their dances, with the tasteful and capricious manner in which the girls adjusted their simple dress, gave a character to the scene entirely55 French.
The front of the chateau, which, having a southern aspect, opened upon the grandeur56 of the mountains, was occupied on the ground floor by a rustic57 hall, and two excellent sitting rooms. The first floor, for the cottage had no second story, was laid out in bed-chambers, except one apartment that opened to a balcony, and which was generally used for a breakfast-room.
In the surrounding ground, St. Aubert had made very tasteful improvements; yet, such was his attachment59 to objects he had remembered from his boyish days, that he had in some instances sacrificed taste to sentiment. There were two old larches60 that shaded the building, and interrupted the prospect61; St. Aubert had sometimes declared that he believed he should have been weak enough to have wept at their fall. In addition to these larches he planted a little grove of beech62, pine, and mountain-ash. On a lofty terrace, formed by the swelling63 bank of the river, rose a plantation4 of orange, lemon, and palm-trees, whose fruit, in the coolness of evening, breathed delicious fragrance65. With these were mingled a few trees of other species. Here, under the ample shade of a plane-tree, that spread its majestic canopy66 towards the river, St. Aubert loved to sit in the fine evenings of summer, with his wife and children, watching, beneath its foliage67, the setting sun, the mild splendour of its light fading from the distant landscape, till the shadows of twilight68 melted its various features into one tint69 of sober grey. Here, too, he loved to read, and to converse70 with Madame St. Aubert; or to play with his children, resigning himself to the influence of those sweet affections, which are ever attendant on simplicity and nature. He has often said, while tears of pleasure trembled in his eyes, that these were moments infinitely71 more delightful72 than any passed amid the brilliant and tumultuous scenes that are courted by the world. His heart was occupied; it had, what can be so rarely said, no wish for a happiness beyond what it experienced. The consciousness of acting73 right diffused74 a serenity75 over his manners, which nothing else could impart to a man of moral perceptions like his, and which refined his sense of every surrounding blessing76.
The deepest shade of twilight did not send him from his favourite plane-tree. He loved the soothing77 hour, when the last tints78 of light die away; when the stars, one by one, tremble through aether, and are reflected on the dark mirror of the waters; that hour, which, of all others, inspires the mind with pensive tenderness, and often elevates it to sublime79 contemplation. When the moon shed her soft rays among the foliage, he still lingered, and his pastoral supper of cream and fruits was often spread beneath it. Then, on the stillness of night, came the song of the nightingale, breathing sweetness, and awakening80 melancholy.
The first interruptions to the happiness he had known since his retirement81, were occasioned by the death of his two sons. He lost them at that age when infantine simplicity is so fascinating; and though, in consideration of Madame St. Aubert’s distress82, he restrained the expression of his own, and endeavoured to bear it, as he meant, with philosophy, he had, in truth, no philosophy that could render him calm to such losses. One daughter was now his only surviving child; and, while he watched the unfolding of her infant character, with anxious fondness, he endeavoured, with unremitting effort, to counteract83 those traits in her disposition84, which might hereafter lead her from happiness. She had discovered in her early years uncommon85 delicacy86 of mind, warm affections, and ready benevolence; but with these was observable a degree of susceptibility too exquisite87 to admit of lasting88 peace. As she advanced in youth, this sensibility gave a pensive tone to her spirits, and a softness to her manner, which added grace to beauty, and rendered her a very interesting object to persons of a congenial disposition. But St. Aubert had too much good sense to prefer a charm to a virtue16; and had penetration89 enough to see, that this charm was too dangerous to its possessor to be allowed the character of a blessing. He endeavoured, therefore, to strengthen her mind; to enure her to habits of self- command; to teach her to reject the first impulse of her feelings, and to look, with cool examination, upon the disappointments he sometimes threw in her way. While he instructed her to resist first impressions, and to acquire that steady dignity of mind, that can alone counterbalance the passions, and bear us, as far as is compatible with our nature, above the reach of circumstances, he taught himself a lesson of fortitude90; for he was often obliged to witness, with seeming indifference91, the tears and struggles which his caution occasioned her.
In person, Emily resembled her mother; having the same elegant symmetry of form, the same delicacy of features, and the same blue eyes, full of tender sweetness. But, lovely as was her person, it was the varied92 expression of her countenance93, as conversation awakened94 the nicer emotions of her mind, that threw such a captivating grace around her:
Those tend’rer tints, that shun95 the careless eye,
And, in the world’s contagious96 circle, die.
St. Aubert cultivated her understanding with the most scrupulous97 care. He gave her a general view of the sciences, and an exact acquaintance with every part of elegant literature. He taught her Latin and English, chiefly that she might understand the sublimity98 of their best poets. She discovered in her early years a taste for works of genius; and it was St. Aubert’s principle, as well as his inclination99, to promote every innocent means of happiness. ‘A well- informed mind,’ he would say, ‘is the best security against the contagion100 of folly101 and of vice102. The vacant mind is ever on the watch for relief, and ready to plunge103 into error, to escape from the languor104 of idleness. Store it with ideas, teach it the pleasure of thinking; and the temptations of the world without, will be counteracted105 by the gratifications derived106 from the world within. Thought, and cultivation107, are necessary equally to the happiness of a country and a city life; in the first they prevent the uneasy sensations of indolence, and afford a sublime pleasure in the taste they create for the beautiful, and the grand; in the latter, they make dissipation less an object of necessity, and consequently of interest.’
It was one of Emily’s earliest pleasures to ramble108 among the scenes of nature; nor was it in the soft and glowing landscape that she most delighted; she loved more the wild wood-walks, that skirted the mountain; and still more the mountain’s stupendous recesses, where the silence and grandeur of solitude109 impressed a sacred awe110 upon her heart, and lifted her thoughts to the GOD OF HEAVEN AND EARTH. In scenes like these she would often linger along, wrapt in a melancholy charm, till the last gleam of day faded from the west; till the lonely sound of a sheep-bell, or the distant bark of a watch-dog, were all that broke on the stillness of the evening. Then, the gloom of the woods; the trembling of their leaves, at intervals111, in the breeze; the bat, flitting on the twilight; the cottage-lights, now seen, and now lost — were circumstances that awakened her mind into effort, and led to enthusiasm and poetry.
Her favourite walk was to a little fishing-house, belonging to St. Aubert, in a woody glen, on the margin of a rivulet112 that descended from the Pyrenees, and, after foaming113 among their rocks, wound its silent way beneath the shades it reflected. Above the woods, that screened this glen, rose the lofty summits of the Pyrenees, which often burst boldly on the eye through the glades115 below. Sometimes the shattered face of a rock only was seen, crowned with wild shrubs116; or a shepherd’s cabin seated on a cliff, overshadowed by dark cypress117, or waving ash. Emerging from the deep recesses of the woods, the glade114 opened to the distant landscape, where the rich pastures and vine-covered slopes of Gascony gradually declined to the plains; and there, on the winding118 shores of the Garonne, groves, and hamlets, and villas120 — their outlines softened121 by distance, melted from the eye into one rich harmonious122 tint.
This, too, was the favourite retreat of St. Aubert, to which he frequently withdrew from the fervour of noon, with his wife, his daughter, and his books; or came at the sweet evening hour to welcome the silent dusk, or to listen for the music of the nightingale. Sometimes, too, he brought music of his own, and awakened every fairy echo with the tender accents of his oboe; and often have the tones of Emily’s voice drawn123 sweetness from the waves, over which they trembled.
It was in one of these excursions to this spot, that she observed the following lines written with a pencil on a part of the wainscot:
SONNET124
Go, pencil! faithful to thy master’s sighs!
Go — tell the Goddess of the fairy scene,
When next her light steps wind these wood-walks green,
Whence all his tears, his tender sorrows, rise;
Ah! paint her form, her soul-illumin’d eyes,
The sweet expression of her pensive face,
The light’ning smile, the animated125 grace —
The portrait well the lover’s voice supplies;
Speaks all his heart must feel, his tongue would say:
Yet ah! not all his heart must sadly feel!
How oft the flow’ret’s silken leaves conceal126
The drug that steals the vital spark away!
And who that gazes on that angel-smile,
Would fear its charm, or think it could beguile127!
These lines were not inscribed128 to any person; Emily therefore could not apply them to herself, though she was undoubtedly129 the nymph of these shades. Having glanced round the little circle of her acquaintance without being detained by a suspicion as to whom they could be addressed, she was compelled to rest in uncertainty130; an uncertainty which would have been more painful to an idle mind than it was to hers. She had no leisure to suffer this circumstance, trifling131 at first, to swell64 into importance by frequent remembrance. The little vanity it had excited (for the incertitude132 which forbade her to presume upon having inspired the sonnet, forbade her also to disbelieve it) passed away, and the incident was dismissed from her thoughts amid her books, her studies, and the exercise of social charities.
Soon after this period, her anxiety was awakened by the indisposition of her father, who was attacked with a fever; which, though not thought to be of a dangerous kind, gave a severe shock to his constitution. Madame St. Aubert and Emily attended him with unremitting care; but his recovery was very slow, and, as he advanced towards health, Madame seemed to decline.
The first scene he visited, after he was well enough to take the air, was his favourite fishing-house. A basket of provisions was sent thither133, with books, and Emily’s lute134; for fishing-tackle he had no use, for he never could find amusement in torturing or destroying.
After employing himself, for about an hour, in botanizing, dinner was served. It was a repast, to which gratitude135, for being again permitted to visit this spot, gave sweetness; and family happiness once more smiled beneath these shades. Monsieur St. Aubert conversed136 with unusual cheerfulness; every object delighted his senses. The refreshing pleasure from the first view of nature, after the pain of illness, and the confinement137 of a sick-chamber58, is above the conceptions, as well as the descriptions, of those in health. The green woods and pastures; the flowery turf; the blue concave of the heavens; the balmy air; the murmur138 of the limpid139 stream; and even the hum of every little insect of the shade, seem to revivify the soul, and make mere34 existence bliss.
Madame St. Aubert, reanimated by the cheerfulness and recovery of her husband, was no longer sensible of the indisposition which had lately oppressed her; and, as she sauntered along the wood-walks of this romantic glen, and conversed with him, and with her daughter, she often looked at them alternately with a degree of tenderness, that filled her eyes with tears. St. Aubert observed this more than once, and gently reproved her for the emotion; but she could only smile, clasp his hand, and that of Emily, and weep the more. He felt the tender enthusiasm stealing upon himself in a degree that became almost painful; his features assumed a serious air, and he could not forbear secretly sighing —‘Perhaps I shall some time look back to these moments, as to the summit of my happiness, with hopeless regret. But let me not misuse140 them by useless anticipation141; let me hope I shall not live to mourn the loss of those who are dearer to me than life.’
To relieve, or perhaps to indulge, the pensive temper of his mind, he bade Emily fetch the lute she knew how to touch with such sweet pathos142. As she drew near the fishing-house, she was surprised to hear the tones of the instrument, which were awakened by the hand of taste, and uttered a plaintive143 air, whose exquisite melody engaged all her attention. She listened in profound silence, afraid to move from the spot, lest the sound of her steps should occasion her to lose a note of the music, or should disturb the musician. Every thing without the building was still, and no person appeared. She continued to listen, till timidity succeeded to surprise and delight; a timidity, increased by a remembrance of the pencilled lines she had formerly144 seen, and she hesitated whether to proceed, or to return.
While she paused, the music ceased; and, after a momentary145 hesitation146, she re-collected courage to advance to the fishing-house, which she entered with faltering147 steps, and found unoccupied! Her lute lay on the table; every thing seemed undisturbed, and she began to believe it was another instrument she had heard, till she remembered, that, when she followed M. and Madame St. Aubert from this spot, her lute was left on a window seat. She felt alarmed, yet knew not wherefore; the melancholy gloom of evening, and the profound stillness of the place, interrupted only by the light trembling of leaves, heightened her fanciful apprehensions148, and she was desirous of quitting the building, but perceived herself grow faint, and sat down. As she tried to recover herself, the pencilled lines on the wainscot met her eye; she started, as if she had seen a stranger; but, endeavouring to conquer the tremor149 of her spirits, rose, and went to the window. To the lines before noticed she now perceived that others were added, in which her name appeared.
Though no longer suffered to doubt that they were addressed to herself, she was as ignorant, as before, by whom they could be written. While she mused150, she thought she heard the sound of a step without the building, and again alarmed, she caught up her lute, and hurried away. Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert she found in a little path that wound along the sides of the glen.
Having reached a green summit, shadowed by palm-trees, and overlooking the vallies and plains of Gascony, they seated themselves on the turf; and while their eyes wandered over the glorious scene, and they inhaled151 the sweet breath of flowers and herbs that enriched the grass, Emily played and sung several of their favourite airs, with the delicacy of expression in which she so much excelled.
Music and conversation detained them in this enchanting152 spot, till the sun’s last light slept upon the plains; till the white sails that glided154 beneath the mountains, where the Garonne wandered, became dim, and the gloom of evening stole over the landscape. It was a melancholy but not unpleasing gloom. St. Aubert and his family rose, and left the place with regret; alas155! Madame St. Aubert knew not that she left it for ever.
When they reached the fishing-house she missed her bracelet156, and recollected157 that she had taken it from her arm after dinner, and had left it on the table when she went to walk. After a long search, in which Emily was very active, she was compelled to resign herself to the loss of it. What made this bracelet valuable to her was a miniature of her daughter to which it was attached, esteemed158 a striking resemblance, and which had been painted only a few months before. When Emily was convinced that the bracelet was really gone, she blushed, and became thoughtful. That some stranger had been in the fishing-house, during her absence, her lute, and the additional lines of a pencil, had already informed her: from the purport159 of these lines it was not unreasonable160 to believe, that the poet, the musician, and the thief were the same person. But though the music she had heard, the written lines she had seen, and the disappearance161 of the picture, formed a combination of circumstances very remarkable162, she was irresistibly163 restrained from mentioning them; secretly determining, however, never again to visit the fishing-house without Monsieur or Madame St. Aubert.
They returned pensively164 to the chateau, Emily musing165 on the incident which had just occurred; St. Aubert reflecting, with placid166 gratitude, on the blessings167 he possessed168; and Madame St. Aubert somewhat disturbed, and perplexed169, by the loss of her daughter’s picture. As they drew near the house, they observed an unusual bustle170 about it; the sound of voices was distinctly heard, servants and horses were seen passing between the trees, and, at length, the wheels of a carriage rolled along. Having come within view of the front of the chateau, a landau, with smoking horses, appeared on the little lawn before it. St. Aubert perceived the liveries of his brother-in-law, and in the parlour he found Monsieur and Madame Quesnel already entered. They had left Paris some days before, and were on the way to their estate, only ten leagues distant from La Vallee, and which Monsieur Quesnel had purchased several years before of St. Aubert. This gentleman was the only brother of Madame St. Aubert; but the ties of relationship having never been strengthened by congeniality of character, the intercourse171 between them had not been frequent. M. Quesnel had lived altogether in the world; his aim had been consequence; splendour was the object of his taste; and his address and knowledge of character had carried him forward to the attainment of almost all that he had courted. By a man of such a disposition, it is not surprising that the virtues of St. Aubert should be overlooked; or that his pure taste, simplicity, and moderated wishes, were considered as marks of a weak intellect, and of confined views. The marriage of his sister with St. Aubert had been mortifying172 to his ambition, for he had designed that the matrimonial connection she formed should assist him to attain21 the consequence which he so much desired; and some offers were made her by persons whose rank and fortune flattered his warmest hope. But his sister, who was then addressed also by St. Aubert, perceived, or thought she perceived, that happiness and splendour were not the same, and she did not hesitate to forego the last for the attainment of the former. Whether Monsieur Quesnel thought them the same, or not, he would readily have sacrificed his sister’s peace to the gratification of his own ambition; and, on her marriage with St. Aubert, expressed in private his contempt of her spiritless conduct, and of the connection which it permitted. Madame St. Aubert, though she concealed173 this insult from her husband, felt, perhaps, for the first time, resentment174 lighted in her heart; and, though a regard for her own dignity, united with considerations of prudence175, restrained her expression of this resentment, there was ever after a mild reserve in her manner towards M. Quesnel, which he both understood and felt.
In his own marriage he did not follow his sister’s example. His lady was an Italian, and an heiress by birth; and, by nature and education, was a vain and frivolous176 woman.
They now determined177 to pass the night with St. Aubert; and as the chateau was not large enough to accommodate their servants, the latter were dismissed to the neighbouring village. When the first compliments were over, and the arrangements for the night made M. Quesnel began the display of his intelligence and his connections; while St. Aubert, who had been long enough in retirement to find these topics recommended by their novelty, listened, with a degree of patience and attention, which his guest mistook for the humility178 of wonder. The latter, indeed, described the few festivities which the turbulence179 of that period permitted to the court of Henry the Third, with a minuteness, that somewhat recompensed for his ostentation180; but, when he came to speak of the character of the Duke de Joyeuse, of a secret treaty, which he knew to be negotiating with the Porte, and of the light in which Henry of Navarre was received, M. St. Aubert recollected enough of his former experience to be assured, that his guest could be only of an inferior class of politicians; and that, from the importance of the subjects upon which he committed himself, he could not be of the rank to which he pretended to belong. The opinions delivered by M. Quesnel, were such as St. Aubert forebore to reply to, for he knew that his guest had neither humanity to feel, nor discernment to perceive, what is just.
Madame Quesnel, meanwhile, was expressing to Madame St. Aubert her astonishment181, that she could bear to pass her life in this remote corner of the world, as she called it, and describing, from a wish, probably, of exciting envy, the splendour of the balls, banquets, and processions which had just been given by the court, in honour of the nuptials182 of the Duke de Joyeuse with Margaretta of Lorrain, the sister of the Queen. She described with equal minuteness the magnificence she had seen, and that from which she had been excluded; while Emily’s vivid fancy, as she listened with the ardent183 curiosity of youth, heightened the scenes she heard of; and Madame St. Aubert, looking on her family, felt, as a tear stole to her eye, that though splendour may grace happiness, virtue only can bestow184 it.
‘It is now twelve years, St. Aubert,’ said M. Quesnel, ‘since I purchased your family estate.’—‘Somewhere thereabout,’ replied St. Aubert, suppressing a sigh. ‘It is near five years since I have been there,’ resumed Quesnel; ‘for Paris and its neighbourhood is the only place in the world to live in, and I am so immersed in politics, and have so many affairs of moment on my hands, that I find it difficult to steal away even for a month or two.’ St. Aubert remaining silent, M. Quesnel proceeded: ‘I have sometimes wondered how you, who have lived in the capital, and have been accustomed to company, can exist elsewhere;— especially in so remote a country as this, where you can neither hear nor see any thing, and can in short be scarcely conscious of life.’
‘I live for my family and myself,’ said St. Aubert; ‘I am now contented185 to know only happiness;— formerly I knew life.’
‘I mean to expend186 thirty or forty thousand livres on improvements,’ said M. Quesnel, without seeming to notice the words of St. Aubert; ‘for I design, next summer, to bring here my friends, the Duke de Durefort and the Marquis Ramont, to pass a month or two with me.’ To St. Aubert’s enquiry, as to these intended improvements, he replied, that he should take down the whole east wing of the chateau, and raise upon the site a set of stables. ‘Then I shall build,’ said he, ‘a SALLE A MANGER, a SALON187, a SALLE AU COMMUNE, and a number of rooms for servants; for at present there is not accommodation for a third part of my own people.’
‘It accommodated our father’s household,’ said St. Aubert, grieved that the old mansion188 was to be thus improved, ‘and that was not a small one.’
‘Our notions are somewhat enlarged since those days,’ said M. Quesnel;—‘what was then thought a decent style of living would not now be endured.’ Even the calm St. Aubert blushed at these words, but his anger soon yielded to contempt. ‘The ground about the chateau is encumbered189 with trees; I mean to cut some of them down.’
‘Cut down the trees too!’ said St. Aubert.
‘Certainly. Why should I not? they interrupt my prospects190. There is a chesnut which spreads its branches before the whole south side of the chateau, and which is so ancient that they tell me the hollow of its trunk will hold a dozen men. Your enthusiasm will scarcely contend that there can be either use, or beauty, in such a sapless old tree as this.’
‘Good God!’ exclaimed St. Aubert, ‘you surely will not destroy that noble chesnut, which has flourished for centuries, the glory of the estate! It was in its maturity191 when the present mansion was built. How often, in my youth, have I climbed among its broad branches, and sat embowered amidst a world of leaves, while the heavy shower has pattered above, and not a rain drop reached me! How often I have sat with a book in my hand, sometimes reading, and sometimes looking out between the branches upon the wide landscape, and the setting sun, till twilight came, and brought the birds home to their little nests among the leaves! How often — but pardon me,’ added St. Aubert, recollecting192 that he was speaking to a man who could neither comprehend, nor allow his feelings, ‘I am talking of times and feelings as old-fashioned as the taste that would spare that venerable tree.’
‘It will certainly come down,’ said M. Quesnel; ‘I believe I shall plant some Lombardy poplars among the clumps193 of chesnut, that I shall leave of the avenue; Madame Quesnel is partial to the poplar, and tells me how much it adorns194 a villa119 of her uncle, not far from Venice.’
‘On the banks of the Brenta, indeed,’ continued St. Aubert, ‘where its spiry195 form is intermingled with the pine, and the cypress, and where it plays over light and elegant porticos and colonnades196, it, unquestionably, adorns the scene; but among the giants of the forest, and near a heavy gothic mansion —’
‘Well, my good sir,’ said M. Quesnel, ‘I will not dispute with you. You must return to Paris before our ideas can at all agree. But A- PROPOS of Venice, I have some thoughts of going thither, next summer; events may call me to take possession of that same villa, too, which they tell me is the most charming that can be imagined. In that case I shall leave the improvements I mention to another year, and I may, perhaps, be tempted197 to stay some time in Italy.’
Emily was somewhat surprised to hear him talk of being tempted to remain abroad, after he had mentioned his presence to be so necessary at Paris, that it was with difficulty he could steal away for a month or two; but St. Aubert understood the self-importance of the man too well to wonder at this trait; and the possibility, that these projected improvements might be deferred198, gave him a hope, that they might never take place.
Before they separated for the night, M. Quesnel desired to speak with St. Aubert alone, and they retired to another room, where they remained a considerable time. The subject of this conversation was not known; but, whatever it might be, St. Aubert, when he returned to the supper-room, seemed much disturbed, and a shade of sorrow sometimes fell upon his features that alarmed Madame St. Aubert. When they were alone she was tempted to enquire199 the occasion of it, but the delicacy of mind, which had ever appeared in his conduct, restrained her: she considered that, if St. Aubert wished her to be acquainted with the subject of his concern, he would not wait on her enquiries.
On the following day, before M. Quesnel departed, he had a second conference with St. Aubert.
The guests, after dining at the chateau, set out in the cool of the day for Epourville, whither they gave him and Madame St. Aubert a pressing invitation, prompted rather by the vanity of displaying their splendour, than by a wish to make their friends happy.
Emily returned, with delight, to the liberty which their presence had restrained, to her books, her walks, and the rational conversation of M. and Madame St. Aubert, who seemed to rejoice, no less, that they were delivered from the shackles200, which arrogance201 and frivolity202 had imposed.
Madame St. Aubert excused herself from sharing their usual evening walk, complaining that she was not quite well, and St. Aubert and Emily went out together.
They chose a walk towards the mountains, intending to visit some old pensioners203 of St. Aubert, which, from his very moderate income, he contrived204 to support, though it is probable M. Quesnel, with his very large one, could not have afforded this.
After distributing to his pensioners their weekly stipends205, listening patiently to the complaints of some, redressing206 the grievances207 of others, and softening208 the discontents of all, by the look of sympathy, and the smile of benevolence, St. Aubert returned home through the woods,
where
At fall of eve the fairy-people throng209,
In various games and revelry to pass
The summer night, as village stories tell.*
* Thomson
‘The evening gloom of woods was always delightful to me,’ said St. Aubert, whose mind now experienced the sweet calm, which results from the consciousness of having done a beneficent action, and which disposes it to receive pleasure from every surrounding object. ‘I remember that in my youth this gloom used to call forth210 to my fancy a thousand fairy visions, and romantic images; and, I own, I am not yet wholly insensible of that high enthusiasm, which wakes the poet’s dream: I can linger, with solemn steps, under the deep shades, send forward a transforming eye into the distant obscurity, and listen with thrilling delight to the mystic murmuring of the woods.’
‘O my dear father,’ said Emily, while a sudden tear started to her eye, ‘how exactly you describe what I have felt so often, and which I thought nobody had ever felt but myself! But hark! here comes the sweeping211 sound over the wood-tops;— now it dies away;— how solemn the stillness that succeeds! Now the breeze swells212 again. It is like the voice of some supernatural being — the voice of the spirit of the woods, that watches over them by night. Ah! what light is yonder? But it is gone. And now it gleams again, near the root of that large chestnut213: look, sir!’
‘Are you such an admirer of nature,’ said St. Aubert, ‘and so little acquainted with her appearances as not to know that for the glow- worm? But come,’ added he gaily215, ‘step a little further, and we shall see fairies, perhaps; they are often companions. The glow-worm lends his light, and they in return charm him with music, and the dance. Do you see nothing tripping yonder?’
Emily laughed. ‘Well, my dear sir,’ said she, ‘since you allow of this alliance, I may venture to own I have anticipated you; and almost dare venture to repeat some verses I made one evening in these very woods.’
‘Nay,’ replied St. Aubert, ‘dismiss the ALMOST, and venture quite; let us hear what vagaries216 fancy has been playing in your mind. If she has given you one of her spells, you need not envy those of the fairies.’
‘If it is strong enough to enchant153 your judgment217, sir,’ said Emily, ‘while I disclose her images, I need NOT envy them. The lines go in a sort of tripping measure, which I thought might suit the subject well enough, but I fear they are too irregular.’
THE GLOW-WORM
How pleasant is the green-wood’s deep-matted shade
On a mid-summer’s eve, when the fresh rain is o’er;
When the yellow beams slope, and sparkle thro’ the glade,
And swiftly in the thin air the light swallows soar!
But sweeter, sweeter still, when the sun sinks to rest,
And twilight comes on, with the fairies so gay
Tripping through the forest-walk, where flow’rs, unprest,
Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play.
To music’s softest sounds they dance away the hour,
Till moon-light steals down among the trembling leaves,
And checquers all the ground, and guides them to the bow’r,
The long haunted bow’r, where the nightingale grieves.
Then no more they dance, till her sad song is done,
But, silent as the night, to her mourning attend;
And often as her dying notes their pity have won,
They vow218 all her sacred haunts from mortals to defend.
When, down among the mountains, sinks the ev’ning star,
And the changing moon forsakes219 this shadowy sphere,
How cheerless would they be, tho’ they fairies are,
If I, with my pale light, came not near!
Yet cheerless tho’ they’d be, they’re ungrateful to my love!
For, often when the traveller’s benighted220 on his way,
And I glimmer221 in his path, and would guide him thro’ the grove,
They bind222 me in their magic spells to lead him far astray;
And in the mire214 to leave him, till the stars are all burnt out,
While, in strange-looking shapes, they frisk about the ground,
And, afar in the woods, they raise a dismal223 shout,
Till I shrink into my cell again for terror of the sound!
But, see where all the tiny elves come dancing in a ring,
With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the horn,
And the timbrel so clear, and the lute with dulcet224 string;
Then round about the oak they go till peeping of the morn.
Down yonder glade two lovers steal, to shun the fairy-queen,
Who frowns upon their plighted225 vows226, and jealous is of me,
That yester-eve I lighted them, along the dewy green,
To seek the purple flow’r, whose juice from all her spells can
free.
And now, to punish me, she keeps afar her jocund227 band,
With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the lute;
If I creep near yonder oak she will wave her fairy wand,
And to me the dance will cease, and the music all be mute.
O! had I but that purple flow’r whose leaves her charms can foil,
And knew like fays to draw the juice, and throw it on the wind,
I’d be her slave no longer, nor the traveller beguile,
And help all faithful lovers, nor fear the fairy kind!
But soon the VAPOUR OF THE WOODS will wander afar,
And the fickle228 moon will fade, and the stars disappear,
Then, cheerless will they be, tho’ they fairies are,
If I, with my pale light, come not near!
Whatever St. Aubert might think of the stanzas229, he would not deny his daughter the pleasure of believing that he approved them; and, having given his commendation, he sunk into a reverie, and they walked on in silence.
A faint erroneous ray
Glanc’d from th’ imperfect surfaces of things,
Flung half an image on the straining eye;
While waving woods, and villages, and streams,
And rocks, and mountain-tops, that long retain
The ascending230 gleam, are all one swimming scene,
Uncertain if beheld231.*
* Thomson.
St. Aubert continued silent till he reached the chateau, where his wife had retired to her chamber. The languor and dejection, that had lately oppressed her, and which the exertion232 called forth by the arrival of her guests had suspended, now returned with increased effect. On the following day, symptoms of fever appeared, and St. Aubert, having sent for medical advice, learned, that her disorder233 was a fever of the same nature as that, from which he had lately recovered. She had, indeed, taken the infection, during her attendance upon him, and, her constitution being too weak to throw out the disease immediately, it had lurked234 in her veins235, and occasioned the heavy languor of which she had complained. St. Aubert, whose anxiety for his wife overcame every other consideration, detained the physician in his house. He remembered the feelings and the reflections that had called a momentary gloom upon his mind, on the day when he had last visited the fishing-house, in company with Madame St. Aubert, and he now admitted a presentiment236, that this illness would be a fatal one. But he effectually concealed this from her, and from his daughter, whom he endeavoured to re-animate with hopes that her constant assiduities would not be unavailing. The physician, when asked by St. Aubert for his opinion of the disorder, replied, that the event of it depended upon circumstances which he could not ascertain237. Madame St. Aubert seemed to have formed a more decided238 one; but her eyes only gave hints of this. She frequently fixed239 them upon her anxious friends with an expression of pity, and of tenderness, as if she anticipated the sorrow that awaited them, and that seemed to say, it was for their sakes only, for their sufferings, that she regretted life. On the seventh day, the disorder was at its crisis. The physician assumed a graver manner, which she observed, and took occasion, when her family had once quitted the chamber, to tell him, that she perceived her death was approaching. ‘Do not attempt to deceive me,’ said she, ‘I feel that I cannot long survive. I am prepared for the event, I have long, I hope, been preparing for it. Since I have not long to live, do not suffer a mistaken compassion240 to induce you to flatter my family with false hopes. If you do, their affliction will only be the heavier when it arrives: I will endeavour to teach them resignation by my example.’
The physician was affected241; he promised to obey her, and told St. Aubert, somewhat abruptly242, that there was nothing to expect. The latter was not philosopher enough to restrain his feelings when he received this information; but a consideration of the increased affliction which the observance of his grief would occasion his wife, enabled him, after some time, to command himself in her presence. Emily was at first overwhelmed with the intelligence; then, deluded243 by the strength of her wishes, a hope sprung up in her mind that her mother would yet recover, and to this she pertinaciously244 adhered almost to the last hour.
The progress of this disorder was marked, on the side of Madame St. Aubert, by patient suffering, and subjected wishes. The composure, with which she awaited her death, could be derived only from the retrospect245 of a life governed, as far as human frailty246 permits, by a consciousness of being always in the presence of the Deity247, and by the hope of a higher world. But her piety248 could not entirely subdue249 the grief of parting from those whom she so dearly loved. During these her last hours, she conversed much with St. Aubert and Emily, on the prospect of futurity, and on other religious topics. The resignation she expressed, with the firm hope of meeting in a future world the friends she left in this, and the effort which sometimes appeared to conceal her sorrow at this temporary separation, frequently affected St. Aubert so much as to oblige him to leave the room. Having indulged his tears awhile, he would dry them and return to the chamber with a countenance composed by an endeavour which did but increase his grief.
Never had Emily felt the importance of the lessons, which had taught her to restrain her sensibility, so much as in these moments, and never had she practised them with a triumph so complete. But when the last was over, she sunk at once under the pressure of her sorrow, and then perceived that it was hope, as well as fortitude, which had hitherto supported her. St. Aubert was for a time too devoid250 of comfort himself to bestow any on his daughter.
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1
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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3
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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6
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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7
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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8
precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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10
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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13
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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14
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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15
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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16
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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17
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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18
patrimonial
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| adj.祖传的 | |
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19
intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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20
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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21
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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22
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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23
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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24
conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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25
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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26
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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27
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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28
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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29
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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30
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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31
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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32
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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33
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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34
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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35
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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36
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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37
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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38
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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39
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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40
declivity
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| n.下坡，倾斜面 | |
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41
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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42
naturalist
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| n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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43
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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44
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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45
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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46
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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47
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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48
larch
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| n.落叶松 | |
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49
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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50
aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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51
proficient
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| adj.熟练的，精通的；n.能手，专家 | |
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52
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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53
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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54
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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55
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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56
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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57
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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58
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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59
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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60
larches
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| n.落叶松（木材）( larch的名词复数 ) | |
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61
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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62
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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63
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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64
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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65
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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66
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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67
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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68
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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69
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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70
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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71
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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72
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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73
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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74
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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75
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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76
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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77
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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78
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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79
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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80
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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81
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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82
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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83
counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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84
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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85
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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86
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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87
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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88
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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89
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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90
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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91
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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92
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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93
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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94
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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95
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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96
contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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97
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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98
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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99
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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100
contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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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
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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103
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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104
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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105
counteracted
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| 对抗，抵消( counteract的过去式 ) | |
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106
derived
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|
| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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107
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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108
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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109
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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110
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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111
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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112
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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113
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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114
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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115
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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116
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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117
cypress
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| n.柏树 | |
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118
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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119
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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120
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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121
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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122
harmonious
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|
| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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123
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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124
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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125
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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126
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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127
beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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128
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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129
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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130
uncertainty
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|
| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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131
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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132
incertitude
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| n.疑惑，不确定 | |
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133
thither
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|
| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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134
lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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135
gratitude
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|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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136
conversed
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|
| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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137
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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138
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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139
limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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140
misuse
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|
| n.误用，滥用；vt.误用，滥用 | |
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141
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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142
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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143
plaintive
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|
| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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144
formerly
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|
| adv.从前，以前 | |
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145
momentary
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|
| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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146
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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147
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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148
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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149
tremor
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|
| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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150
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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151
inhaled
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|
| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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153
enchant
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| vt.使陶醉，使入迷；使着魔，用妖术迷惑 | |
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154
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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155
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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156
bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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157
recollected
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|
| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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158
esteemed
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|
| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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159
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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160
unreasonable
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|
| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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161
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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162
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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163
irresistibly
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|
| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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164
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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165
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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166
placid
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|
| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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167
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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168
possessed
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|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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169
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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170
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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171
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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172
mortifying
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|
| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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173
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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174
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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175
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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176
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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177
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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178
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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179
turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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180
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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181
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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182
nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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183
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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184
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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185
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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186
expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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187
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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188
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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189
encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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190
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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191
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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192
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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193
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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194
adorns
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| 装饰，佩带( adorn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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195
spiry
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| adj.尖端的，尖塔状的，螺旋状的 | |
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196
colonnades
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| n.石柱廊( colonnade的名词复数 ) | |
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197
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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198
deferred
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|
| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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199
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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200
shackles
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| 手铐( shackle的名词复数 )； 脚镣； 束缚； 羁绊 | |
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201
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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202
frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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203
pensioners
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| n.领取退休、养老金或抚恤金的人( pensioner的名词复数 ) | |
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204
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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205
stipends
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| n.（尤指牧师的）薪俸( stipend的名词复数 ) | |
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206
redressing
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| v.改正( redress的现在分词 )；重加权衡；恢复平衡 | |
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207
grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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208
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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209
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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210
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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211
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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212
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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213
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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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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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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forsakes
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| 放弃( forsake的第三人称单数 )； 弃绝； 抛弃； 摒弃 | |
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benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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dulcet
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| adj.悦耳的 | |
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plighted
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| vt.保证，约定（plight的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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jocund
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| adj.快乐的，高兴的 | |
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fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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229
stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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232
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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233
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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234
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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235
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pertinaciously
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| adv.坚持地；固执地；坚决地；执拗地 | |
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retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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247
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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249
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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