Here, one day of spring, Decius sat over his studies. Long ago he had transferred hither all the books from the great house across the Tiber, and had made his home on the Caelian. As he read or wrote a hard cough frequently interrupted him. During the past half year his health had grown worse, and he talked at times of returning to the Surrentine villa9, if perchance that sweeter air might soothe10 him, but in the present state of things—Totila had just laid siege to Neapolis—the removal did not seem feasible. Moreover, Decius loved Rome, and thought painfully of dying elsewhere than within her walls.
There was a footfall at the door, and Basil entered. He was carelessly clad, walked with head bent11, and had the look of one who spends his life in wearisome idleness. Without speaking, however, he threw himself upon a couch and lay staring with vacant eye at the bronze panels of the vaulted12 ceiling. For some minutes silence continued; then Decius, a roll in his hand, stepped to his kinsman13’s side and indicated with his finger a passage of the manuscript. What Basil read might be rendered thus:
‘I am hateful to myself. For though born to do something worthy15 of a man, I am now not only incapable16 of action, but even of thought.’
‘Who says that?’ he asked, too indolent to glance at the beginning of the roll.
‘A certain Marcus Tullius, in one of his letters,’ replied the other, smiling, and returned to his own couch.
Basil moved uneasily, sighed, and at length spoke17 in a serious tone.
‘I understand you, best Decius. You are right. Many a time I have used to myself almost those very words. When I was young—how old I feel!—I looked forward to a life full of achievements. I felt capable of great things. But in our time, what can we do, we who are born Romans, yet have never learnt to lead an army or to govern a state?’
He let his arm fall despondently18, and sank again into brooding silence.
At root, Basil’s was a healthy and vigorous nature. Sound of body, he needed to put forth19 his physical energies, yet had never found more scope for them than in the exercise of the gymnasium, or the fatigue20 of travel; mentally well-balanced, he would have made an excellent administrator21, such as his line had furnished in profusion22, but that career was no longer open. Of Marcian’s ascetic23 gloom he knew nothing: not all the misery24 he had undergone in these last six months could so warp25 his wholesome26 instincts. Owning himself, in the phrases he had repeated from childhood, a miserable27 sinner, a vile28 clot29 of animated30 dust, at heart he felt himself one with all the beautiful and joyous31 things that the sun illumined. With pleasure and sympathy he looked upon an ancient statue of god or hero; only a sense of duty turned his eyes upon the images of Christian32 art.
And this natural tendency was encouraged by his education, which, like that of all well-born Romans, even in the sixth century after Christ, had savoured much more of paganism than of Christianity. Like his ancestors, before the age of Constantine, he had been taught grammar and rhetoric33; grammar which was supposed to include all sciences, meaning practically a comment on a few classical texts, and rhetoric presumed a preparation for the life of the Forum34, having become an art of declamation35 which had no reference to realities. Attempts had been made—the last, only a few years ago, by Cassiodorus—to establish Christian schools in Rome, but without success, so profoundly were the ancient intellectual habits rooted in this degenerate36 people. The long resistance to the new religion was at an end, but Romans, even while confessing that the gods were demons37, could not cast off their affection for the mythology38 and history of their glorious time. Thus Basil had spent his schooldays mostly in the practice of sophistic argument, and the delivery of harangues39 on traditional subjects. Other youths had shown greater aptitude40 for this kind of eloquence41; he did not often carry off a prize; but among his proud recollections was a success he had achieved in the form of a rebuke42 to an impious voluptuary who set up a statue of Diana in the room which beheld43 his debauches. Here was the nemesis44 of a system of education which had aimed solely45 at the practical, the useful; having always laboured to produce the man perfectly46 equipped for public affairs, and nothing else whatever. Rome found herself tottering47 with senile steps in the same path when the Empire and the ancient world lay in ruins about her. Basil was not studious. Long ago he had forgotten his ‘grammatical’ learning—except, of course, a few important matters known to all educated men, such as the fact that the alphabet was invented by Mercury, who designed the letters from figures made in their flight by the cranes of Strymon. Though so ardent48 a lover, he had composed no lyric49 or elegy50 in Veranilda’s honour; his last poetical51 effort was made in his sixteenth year, when, to his own joy, and to the admiration52 of his friends, he wrote a distich, the verses of which read the same whether you began from the left hand or the right. Nowadays if he ever opened a book it was some historian of antiquity53. Livy, by choice, who reminded him of his country’s greatness, and reawakened in him the desire to live a not inglorious life.
Of his latter boyhood part had been spent at Ravenna, where his father Probus, a friend as well as kinsman of the wise minister Cassiodorus, now and then made a long sojourn54; and he had thus become accustomed to the society of the more cultivated Goths, especially of those who were the intimates of the learned Queen Amalasuntha. Here, too, he learned a certain liberality in religious matters; for it was Cassiodorus who, in one of the rescripts given from the Gothic court, wrote those memorable56 words: ‘Religious faith we have no power to impose, seeing that no man can be made to believe against his will.’ Upon the murder of Amalasuntha, when the base Theodahad ruled alone, and ruin lay before the Gothic monarchy57, Probus, despairing of Italy, following the example of numerous Roman nobles, migrated to Byzantium. His wife being dead, and his daughter having entered a convent, he was accompanied only by Basil, then eighteen years of age. A new world thus opened before Basil’s mind; its brilliancy at first dazzled and delighted him, but very soon he perceived the difference between a noble’s life at Rome or Ravenna under the mild rule of the Goths, and that led by so-called Romans in the fear of Justinian and of Theodora. His father, disappointed in hopes of preferment which had been held out to him, gladly accepted a mission which would take him back to Italy: he was one of the envoys58 sent to Belisarius during the siege of Ravenna, to urge the conclusion of the Gothic war and command the return of the Patricius as soon as might be for service against the Persians; and with him came Basil. On the journey Probus fell ill; he was able to cross the Adriatic, but no sooner touched Italian Soil than he breathed his last.
Then it was that Basil, representing his father in the Imperial mission, came face to face with Belisarius, and conceived a boundless59 enthusiasm for the great commander, whose personal qualities—the large courtesy, the ready kindliness60, the frequent laugh—made intimate appeal to one of his disposition61. He stayed in the camp before Ravenna until the city surrendered, and no one listened with more ardent approval to the suggestion which began as a whisper between Italians and Goths that Belisarius should accept the purple of the Western Empire. This, to be sure, would have been treachery, but treachery against Justinian seemed a small thing to Basil, and a thing of no moment at all when one thought of Rome as once more an Imperial city, and Italy with such a ruler as the laurelled Patricius. Treachery the general did commit, but not against Byzantium. Having made pretence62 of accepting the crown which the Goths offered him, he entered into Ravenna, took possession in Justinian’s name, and presently sailed for the East, carrying with him the King Vitiges and his wife Matasuntha, grand-daughter of Theodoric. It was a bitter disappointment to Basil, who had imagined for himself a brilliant career under the auspices63 of the new Roman Emperor, and who now saw himself merely a conquered Italian, set under the authority of Byzantine governors. He had no temptation to remain in the North, for Cassiodorus was no longer here, having withdrawn65 a twelvemonth ago to his own country by the Ionian Sea, and there entered the monastery66 founded by himself; at Ravenna ruled the logothete Alexandros, soon to win a surname from his cleverness in coin-clipping. So Basil journeyed to Rome, where his kinsfolk met him with news of deaths and miseries67. The city was but raising her head after the long agony of the Gothic siege. He entered his silent home on the Caelian, and began a life of dispirited idleness.
Vast was the change produced in the Roman’s daily existence by the destruction of the aqueducts. The Thermae being henceforth unsupplied with water, those magnificent resorts of every class of citizen lost their attraction, and soon ceased to be frequented; for all the Roman’s exercises and amusements were associated with the practice of luxurious68 bathing, and without that refreshment69 the gymnasium, the tennis-court, the lounge, no longer charmed as before. Rome became dependent upon wells and the Tiber, wretched resource compared with the never-failing and abundant streams which once poured through every region of the city and threw up fountains in all but every street. Belisarius, as soon as the Goths retreated, ordered the repairing of an aqueduct, that which served the transtiberine district, and was indispensable to the working of the Janiculan mills, where corn was ground; but, after his departure, there was neither enough energy nor sufficient sense of security in Rome for the restoration of even one of the greater conduits. Nobles and populace alike lived without the bath, grew accustomed to more or less uncleanliness, and in a certain quarter suffered worse than inconvenience from the lack of good water.
Formerly70 a young Roman of Basil’s rank, occupied or not by any serious pursuit, would have spent several hours of the day at one or other of the Thermae still in use; if inclined to display, he would have gone thither71 with a train of domestic attendants, and probably of parasites72; were the season hot, here he found coolness; were it cold, here he warmed himself. Society never failed; opportunity for clandestine73 meetings could always be found; all the business and the pleasure of a day were regulated with reference to this immemorial habit. Now, to enter the Thermae was to hear one’s footsteps resound74 in a marble wilderness75; to have statues for companions and a sense of ruin for one’s solace76. Basil, who thought more than the average Roman about these changes, and who could not often amuse himself with such spectacles as the theatres or the circus offered, grew something of a solitary77 in his habits, and was supposed by those who did not know him intimately, to pass most of his time in religious meditation78, the preface, perhaps, to retirement79 from the world. Indolence bringing its wonted temptations, he fell into acquaintance with Heliodora, a Neapolitan Greek of uncertain origin, whose husband that year held the office of City Prefect. Acquaintance with Heliodora was, in his case, sure to be a dangerous thing, and might well prove fatal, for many and fierce were the jealousies80 excited by that brilliant lady, whose husband alone regarded with equanimity81 her amorous82 adventures. Happily, Basil did not take the matter very much to heart; he scarce pretended to himself that he cared whether Heliodora was his for a day only or for a month; and he had already turned his thoughts to the sweetness of Aemiliana, that young sister of Gordian, whom, if he chose, he might make his wife.
Now again had sluggishness83 taken possession of him, and with it came those promptings of the flesh which, but a few months ago, he easily subdued84, but which the lapse85 of time had once more made perilous86. To any who should have ventured to taunt87 him with forgetfulness of Veranilda, he would have fiercely given the lie; and with reason, for Veranilda’s image was as vivid to him as on the day when he lost her, and she alone of women had the power to excite his deepest and tenderest emotions. Nevertheless, he had more than once of late visited Heliodora, and though these visits were in appearance only such as he might have paid to any lady of his acquaintance, Basil knew very well whither they tended. As yet Heliodora affected88 a total forgetfulness of the past; she talked of Veranilda, and confessed that her efforts to make any discovery regarding the captive were still fruitless, though she by no means gave up hope; therewithal, she treated Basil only half seriously, with good-naturedly mocking smiles, as a mere64 boy, a disdain89 to her mature womanhood. Of this was he thinking as he tossed on the couch in the library; he had thought of it too much since leaving Heliodora yesterday afternoon. It began to nettle90 him that his grief should be for her merely an amusement. Never having seen the Gothic maiden91, whose beauty outshone hers as sunrise outdoes the lighting92 of a candle, this wanton Greek was capable of despising him in good earnest, and Basil had never been of those who sit easy under scorn. He felt something chafe93 and grow hot within him, and recalled the days when he, and not Heliodora, had indulged contempt—to his mind a much more natural posture94 of affairs, The animal that is in every man had begun to stir; it urged him to master and crush and tame this woman, whom, indeed, he held rather in hate than in any semblance95 of love. Her beauty, her sensuality, had power over him still; he resented such danger of subjection, and encouraged himself in a barbarism of mood, which permitted him to think that even in yielding he might find the way of his revenge.
There had been a long silence since his reply to the hint offered by Decius. The student spoke again.
‘Basil, leave Rome.’
‘It is forbidden,’ answered the other dully, his face averted96.
‘Many things are forbidden which none the less are done. Did you learn that Veranilda awaited you at Asculum, how long would it be before you set forth?’
‘Not one hour, good Decius.’
‘Even so. You would pass the gates disguised as a peasant or as a woman—no matter how. Will you do less to save all that makes life dear to an honourable97 man? Be gone, be gone, I entreat98 you.’
‘Whither?’
‘To Picenum, which is not yet subject to the Goths. There gather your capable men and arm them, and send to the King Totila, offering to serve him where he will, and how he will. You know,’ pursued Decius earnestly, ‘that I speak this something against my conscience, but, alas55! we can only choose between evils, and I think Totila is less of a tyrant99 than Justinian. You will not go to Constantinople, nor would I bid you, for there, assuredly, is nothing to be done worthy of a man; but you must act, or you perish. For me, a weakling and a dreamer, there is solace in the vita umbratilis; to you, it is naught100. Arise, then, O Basil, ere it be too late.’
The listener rose from his recumbent attitude; he was stirred by this unwonted vigour101 in Decius, but not yet did resolve appear on his countenance102.
‘Did I but know,’ he murmured, ‘that Veranilda is not in Rome!’
Innumerable times had he said it; the thought alone held him inert103. Impossible to discover, spite of all his efforts, whether Veranilda had been delivered to the Greeks, or still lay captive in some place known to the deacon Leander. From the behaviour of Bessas nothing could be certainly deduced: it was now a long time since he had sent for Basil, and Marcian, though believing that the commander’s search was still futile104, had no more certainty than his friend. Soon after Petronilla’s death, the Anician mansion105 had been thoroughly106 pillaged107 and everything of value removed to the Palatine. Bessas condescended108 to justify109 this proceeding110: having learnt, he said, that the question of Aurelia’s orthodoxy lay in doubt, some declaring that she was a heretic, some that she had returned to orthodoxy before her father’s death, he took charge of the property which might be hers until she appeared to claim it, when, having the testament111 of Maximus in his hand, he would see that justice was done. With Leander, Basil had succeeded in obtaining an interview, which was altogether fruitless. The deacon would answer no question, and contented112 himself with warning his visitor of the dangers incurred113 by one who openly sought to defeat the will of the Emperor.
‘Is it farewell?’ asked Decius, stepping towards his kinsman, who seemed about to leave the room.
‘I will think.’
‘Go speak with Gordian. He says that he can obtain you permission to leave the city.’
‘I doubt it,’ replied Basil. ‘But I will see him—ere long.’
Decius went forth for his morning’s exercise, which sometimes took the form of a gentle game of ball, but was generally a ramble114 on foot and unaccompanied, for he never felt at ease when an attendant followed him. His habits were solitary; ever absorbed in thought, or lost in dreams, he avoided the ways where he would be likely to encounter an acquaintance, and strayed among ruins in deserted115 gardens, such as were easily found in the remoter parts of the Caelian. To-day, tempted116 on by the delicious air, and the bright but not ardent sunshine, he wandered by such unfrequented paths till a sound of voices broke upon his meditation, and he found himself in view of the Lateran. Numbers of poor people were streaming away from the open space by the Pope’s palace, loud in angry talk, its purpose intelligible117 enough to any one who caught a few words. Decius heard maledictions upon the Holy Father, mingled118 with curses no less hearty119 upon the Greeks who held Rome.
‘It was not thus,’ cried an old man, ‘in the time of King Theodoric, heretic though he might be. We had our bread and our hog’s flesh, prime quality both, and plenty for all.’
‘Ay,’ cried a woman, ‘and our oil too. Since these Greek dogs came, not a drop of oil has there been in my cruse. Heretics, forsooth! What better is the Holy Father who lets Christians120 die of hunger while he eats and drinks his fill?’
‘Evil go with thee, O Vigilius! The pest seize thee, O Vigilius! May’st thou perish eternally, O Vigilius!’ shrilled121 and shouted all manner of voices, while fists were shaken towards the pontifical122 abode123.
Decius hastened away. The sight of suffering was painful to him, and the cries of the vulgar offended his ear; he felt indignant that these people should not be fed, as Rome for so many ages had fed her multitude, but above all, he dreaded124 uproar125, confusion, violence. His hurried pace did not relax until he was lost again amid a wilderness of ruins, where browsing126 goats and darting127 lizards128 were the only life.
Later in the day, when he sat alone in the peristyle, a visitor was introduced, whom he rose to welcome cordially and respectfully. This was a man of some threescore years, vigorous in frame, with dry, wrinkled visage and a thin, grey beard that fell to his girdle. As he approached, Decius saw that he was bleeding from a wound on the head and that his cloak was torn.
‘What means this, dear master?’ he exclaimed. ‘What has befallen you?’
‘Nothing worth your notice, gentle Decius,’ the philosopher replied, calmly and gravely. ‘Let us rather examine this rare treatise129 of Plotinus, which by good fortune I yesterday discovered among rubbish thrown aside.’
‘Nay,’ insisted Decius, ‘but your wound must be washed and dressed; it may else prove dangerous. I fear this was no accident?’
‘If you must know,’ answered the other with good-natured peevishness130, ‘I am accused of magic. The honest folk who are my neighbours, prompted, I think it likely, by a certain senator who takes it ill that his son is my disciple131, have shown me of late more attention than I care for, and today as I came forth, they pursued me with cries of “Sorcerer!” and the like, whereupon followed sticks and stones, and other such popular arguments. It is no matter. Plotinus begins—’
Simplicius was one of the last philosophers who taught in Athens, one of the seven who were driven forth when Justinian, in his zeal132 for Christianity, closed the schools. Guided by a rumour133 that supreme134 wisdom was to be found in Persia, the sages135 journeyed to that kingdom, where disappointment awaited them. After long wanderings and many hardships, Simplicius came to Rome, and now had sojourned here for a year or two, teaching such few as in these days gave any thought to philosophy. Poor, and perhaps unduly136 proud, he preferred his own very humble137 lodging138 to the hospitality which more than one friend had offered him; and his open disregard for religious practices, together with singularities of life and demeanour, sufficiently139 explained the trouble that had come upon him. Charges of sorcery were not uncommon140 in Rome at this time. Some few years ago a commission of senators had sat in judgment141 upon two nobles accused of magic, a leading article of proof against one of them being that he had a horse which, when stroked, gave off sparks of fire. On this account Decius was much troubled by the philosopher’s story. When the wound had been attended to, he besought142 Simplicius not to go forth again today, and with some difficulty prevailed.
‘Why should it perturb143 you, O most excellent Decius,’ said the sage14, ‘that a lover of wisdom is an offence to the untaught and the foolish? Was it not ever thus? If philosophy may no longer find peace at Athens, is it likely that she will be suffered to dwell at ease in Rome?’
‘Alas, no!’ admitted Decius. ‘But why, dear master, should you invite the attacks of the ignorant?’
‘I do no such thing. I live and act as seems good to me, that is all. Should no one have the courage to do that, what hope would there be, O Decius, for that most glorious liberty, the liberty of the mind?’
The listener bent his head abashed144. Then Simplicius began to read from the manuscript, and Decius, who knew Greek fairly well—he had lately completed certain translations from Plato, left unfinished by Boethius—gave reverent145 attention. At a certain point the philosopher paused to comment, for the subject was difficult—nothing less than the nature of God. In God, according to the system here expounded146, there are three principles or hypostases, united but unequal—the One, the Intelligence, the Soul; which correspond, respectively, to the God of Plato, the God of Aristotle, the God of Zeno. Usually curt147 and rather dry in his utterances148, Simplicius rose to a fervid149 eloquence as he expounded this mysticism of Alexandria. Not that he accepted it as the final truth, it was merely a step, though an important one, towards that entire and absolute knowledge of which he believed that a glimpse had been vouchsafed150 to him, even to him, in his more sublime151 hours. As for Decius, the utmost effort never enabled him to attain152 familiarity with these profound speculations153: he was soon lost, and found his brain whirling with words that had little or no significance. At home in literature, in philosophy he did but strive and falter154 and lose himself. When at length there came a silence, he sighed deeply, his hand propping155 his forehead.
‘Master, how few men can ever know God!’
‘Few, few,’ admitted the philosopher, his gaze upwards156.
‘I think I should be content,’ said Decius, ‘to love and praise Him. Yet that meseems is no less hard.’
‘No less,’ was the reply. ‘For, without knowledge, love and praise are vain.’
But Decius’ thought had another meaning.
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1
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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4
busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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6
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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7
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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despondently
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| adv.沮丧地，意志消沉地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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administrator
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| n.经营管理者，行政官员 | |
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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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clot
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| n.凝块；v.使凝成块 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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declamation
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| n. 雄辩，高调 | |
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degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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mythology
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| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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harangues
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| n.高谈阔论的长篇演讲( harangue的名词复数 )v.高谈阔论( harangue的第三人称单数 ) | |
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40
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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41
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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42
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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43
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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44
nemesis
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| n.给以报应者，复仇者，难以对付的敌手 | |
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45
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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46
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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47
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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48
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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49
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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50
elegy
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| n.哀歌，挽歌 | |
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51
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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52
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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53
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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54
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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55
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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56
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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57
monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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58
envoys
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| 使节( envoy的名词复数 )； 公使； 谈判代表； 使节身份 | |
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59
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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60
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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61
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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62
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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63
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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64
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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65
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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66
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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67
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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68
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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69
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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70
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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71
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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72
parasites
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| 寄生物( parasite的名词复数 )； 靠他人为生的人； 诸虫 | |
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73
clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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74
resound
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| v.回响 | |
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75
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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76
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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77
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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78
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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79
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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80
jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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81
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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82
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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83
sluggishness
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| 不振，萧条，呆滞；惰性；滞性；惯性 | |
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84
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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85
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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86
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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87
taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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88
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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89
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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90
nettle
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| n.荨麻；v.烦忧，激恼 | |
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91
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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92
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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93
chafe
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| v.擦伤；冲洗；惹怒 | |
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94
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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95
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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96
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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97
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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98
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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99
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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100
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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101
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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102
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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103
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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104
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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105
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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106
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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107
pillaged
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| v.抢劫，掠夺( pillage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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109
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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110
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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111
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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112
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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113
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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114
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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115
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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116
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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117
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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118
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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119
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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120
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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121
shrilled
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| （声音）尖锐的，刺耳的，高频率的( shrill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
pontifical
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| adj.自以为是的，武断的 | |
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123
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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124
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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125
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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126
browsing
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| v.吃草( browse的现在分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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127
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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128
lizards
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| n.蜥蜴( lizard的名词复数 ) | |
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129
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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130
peevishness
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| 脾气不好；爱发牢骚 | |
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131
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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132
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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133
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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134
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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135
sages
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| n.圣人( sage的名词复数 )；智者；哲人；鼠尾草（可用作调料） | |
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136
unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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137
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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138
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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139
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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140
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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141
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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142
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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143
perturb
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| v.使不安，烦扰，扰乱，使紊乱 | |
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144
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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145
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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146
expounded
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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147
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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148
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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149
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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150
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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151
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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152
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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153
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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154
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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155
propping
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| 支撑 | |
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156
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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