Why can’t one sit still? Here in Sicily it is so pleasant: the sunny Ionian sea, the changing jewel of Calabria, like a fire-opal moved in the light; Italy and the panorama1 of Christmas clouds, night with the dog-star laying a long, luminous2 gleam across the sea, as if baying at us, Orion marching above; how the dog-star Sirius looks at one, looks at one! he is the hound of heaven, green, glamorous3 and fierce!—and then oh regal evening star, hung westward4 flaring5 over the jagged dark precipices6 of tall Sicily: then Etna, that wicked witch, resting her thick white snow under heaven, and slowly, slowly rolling her orange-coloured smoke. They called her the Pillar of Heaven, the Greeks. It seems wrong at first, for she trails up in a long, magical, flexible line from the sea’s edge to her blunt cone7, and does not seem tall. She seems rather low, under heaven. But as one knows her better, oh awe8 and wizardy! Remote under heaven, aloof9, so near, yet never with us. The painters try to paint her, and the photographers to photograph her, in vain. Because why? Because the near ridges10, with their olives and white houses, these are with us. Because the river-bed, and Naxos under the lemon groves11, Greek Naxos deep under dark-leaved, many-fruited lemon groves, Etna’s skirts and skirt-bottoms, these still are our world, our own world. Even the high villages among the oaks, on Etna. But Etna herself, Etna of the snow and secret changing winds, she is beyond a crystal wall. When I look at her, low, white, witch-like under heaven, slowly rolling her orange smoke and giving sometimes a breath of rose-red flame, then I must look away from earth, into the ether, into the low empyrean. And there, in that remote region, Etna is alone. If you would see her, you must slowly take off your eyes from the world and go a naked seer to the strange chamber12 of the empyrean. Pedestal of heaven! The Greeks had a sense of the magic truth of things. Thank goodness one still knows enough about them to find one’s kinship at last. There are so many photographs, there are so infinitely13 many water-colour drawings and oil paintings which purport14 to render Etna. But pedestal of heaven! You must cross the invisible border. Between the foreground, which is our own, and Etna, pivot15 of winds in lower heaven, there is a dividing line. You must change your state of mind. A metempsychosis. It is no use thinking you can see and behold16 Etna and the foreground both at once. Never. One or the other. Foreground and a transcribed17 Etna. Or Etna, pedestal of heaven.
Why, then, must one go? Why not stay? Ah, what a mistress, this Etna! with her strange winds prowling round her like Circe’s panthers, some black, some white. With her strange, remote communications and her terrible dynamic exhalations. She makes men mad. Such terrible vibrations18 of wicked and beautiful electricity she throws about her, like a deadly net! Nay19, sometimes, verily, one can feel a new current of her demon20 magnetism21 seize one’s living tissue and change the peaceful life of one’s active cells. She makes a storm in the living plasm and a new adjustment. And sometimes it is like a madness.
This timeless Grecian Etna, in her lower-heaven loveliness, so lovely, so lovely, what a torturer! Not many men can really stand her, without losing their souls. She is like Circe. Unless a man is very strong, she takes his soul away from him and leaves him not a beast, but an elemental creature, intelligent and soulless. Intelligent, almost inspired, and soulless, like the Etna Sicilians. Intelligent daimons, and humanly, according to us, the most stupid people on earth. Ach, horror! How many men, how many races, has Etna put to flight? It was she who broke the quick of the Greek soul. And after the Greeks, she gave the Romans, the Normans, the Arabs, the Spaniards, the French, the Italians, even the English, she gave them all their inspired hour and broke their souls.
Perhaps it is she one must flee from. At any rate, one must go: and at once. After having come back only at the end of October, already one must dash away. And it is only the third of January. And one cannot afford to move. Yet there you are: at the Etna bidding one goes.
Where does one go? There is Girgenti by the south. There is Tunis at hand. Girgenti, and the sulphur spirit and the Greek guarding temples, to make one madder? Never. Neither Syracuse and the madness of its great quarries23. Tunis? Africa? Not yet, not yet. Not the Arabs, not yet. Naples, Rome, Florence? No good at all. Where then?
Where then? Spain or Sardinia. Spain or Sardinia. Sardinia, which is like nowhere. Sardinia, which has no history, no date, no race, no offering. Let it be Sardinia. They say neither Romans nor Phoenicians, Greeks nor Arabs ever subdued24 Sardinia. It lies outside; outside the circuit of civilisation25. Like the Basque lands. Sure enough, it is Italian now, with its railways and its motor-omnibuses. But there is an uncaptured Sardinia still. It lies within the net of this European civilisation, but it isn’t landed yet. And the net is getting old and tattered26. A good many fish are slipping through the net of the old European civilisation. Like that great whale of Russia. And probably even Sardinia. Sardinia then. Let it be Sardinia.
There is a fortnightly boat sailing from Palermo—next Wednesday, three days ahead. Let us go, then. Away from abhorred27 Etna, and the Ionian sea, and these great stars in the water, and the almond trees in bud, and the orange trees heavy with red fruit, and these maddening, exasperating28, impossible Sicilians, who never knew what truth was and have long lost all notion of what a human being is. A sort of sulphureous demons29. Andiamo!
But let me confess, in parenthesis30, that I am not at all sure whether I don’t really prefer these demons to our sanctified humanity.
Why does one create such discomfort31 for oneself! To have to get up in the middle of the night—half past one—to go and look at the clock. Of course this fraud of an American watch has stopped, with its impudent32 phosphorescent face. Half past one! Half past one, and a dark January night. Ah, well! Half past one! And an uneasy sleep till at last it is five o’clock. Then light a candle and get up.
The dreary34 black morning, the candle-light, the house looking night-dismal. Ah, well, one does all these things for one’s pleasure. So light the charcoal35 fire and put the kettle on. The queen bee shivering round half dressed, fluttering her unhappy candle.
“It’s fun,” she says, shuddering36.
“Great,” say I, grim as death.
First fill the thermos38 with hot tea. Then fry bacon—good English bacon from Malta, a god-send, indeed—and make bacon sandwiches. Make also sandwiches of scrambled39 eggs. Make also bread and butter. Also a little toast for breakfast—and more tea. But ugh, who wants to eat at this unearthly hour, especially when one is escaping from bewitched Sicily.
Fill the little bag we call the kitchenino. Methylated spirit, a small aluminium40 saucepan, a spirit-lamp, two spoons, two forks, a knife, two aluminium plates, salt, sugar, tea—what else? The thermos flask41, the various sandwiches, four apples, and a little tin of butter. So much for the kitchenino, for myself and the queen bee. Then my knapsack and the q-b’s handbag.
Under the lid of the half-cloudy night sky, far away at the rim37 of the Ionian sea, the first light, like metal fusing. So swallow the cup of tea and the bit of toast. Hastily wash up, so that we can find the house decent when we come back. Shut the door-windows of the upper terrace and go down. Lock the door: the upper half of the house made fast.
The sky and sea are parting like an oyster42 shell, with a low red gape43. Looking across from the veranda44 at it, one shivers. Not that it is cold. The morning is not at all cold. But the ominousness45 of it: that long red slit46 between a dark sky and a dark Ionian sea, terrible old bivalve which has held life between its lips so long. And here, at this house, we are ledged47 so awfully48 above the dawn, naked to it.
Fasten the door-windows of the lower veranda. One won’t fasten at all. The summer heat warped49 it one way, the masses of autumn rain warped it another. Put a chair against it. Lock the last door and hide the key. Sling52 the knapsack on one’s back, take the kitchenino in one’s hand and look round. The dawn-red widening, between the purpling sea and the troubled sky. A light in the capucin convent across there. Cocks crowing and the long, howling, hiccuping53, melancholy54 bray55 of an ass50. “All females are dead, all females—och! och! och!—hoooo! Ahaa!—there’s one left.” So he ends on a moaning grunt56 of consolation57. This is what the Arabs tell us an ass is howling when he brays58.
Very dark under the great carob tree as we go down the steps. Dark still the garden. Scent33 of mimosa, and then of jasmine. The lovely mimosa tree invisible. Dark the stony59 path. The goat whinnies out of her shed. The broken Roman tomb which lolls right over the garden track does not fall on me as I slip under its massive tilt60. Ah, dark garden, dark garden, with your olives and your wine, your medlars and mulberries and many almond trees, your steep terraces ledged high up above the sea, I am leaving you, slinking out. Out between the rosemary hedges, out of the tall gate, on to the cruel steep stony road. So under the dark, big eucalyptus61 trees, over the stream, and up towards the village. There, I have got so far.
It is full dawn—dawn, not morning, the sun will not have risen. The village is nearly all dark in the red light, and asleep still. No one at the fountain by the capucin gate: too dark still. One man leading a horse round the corner of the Palazzo Corvaia. One or two dark men along the Corso. And so over the brow, down the steep cobble-stone street between the houses, and out to the naked hill front. This is the dawn-coast of Sicily. Nay, the dawn-coast of Europe. Steep, like a vast cliff, dawn-forward. A red dawn, with mingled62 curdling63 dark clouds, and some gold. It must be seven o’clock. The station down below, by the sea. And noise of a train. Yes, a train. And we still high on the steep track, winding64 downwards65. But it is the train from Messina to Catania, half an hour before ours, which is from Catania to Messina.
So jolt66, and drop, and jolt down the old road that winds on the cliff face. Etna across there is smothered67 quite low, quite low in a dense68 puther of ink-black clouds. Playing some devilry in private, no doubt. The dawn is angry red, and yellow above, the sea takes strange colors. I hate the station, pigmy, drawn69 out there beside the sea. On this steep face, especially in the windless nooks, the almond blossom is already out. In little puffs70 and specks71 and stars, it looks very like bits of snow scattered72 by winter. Bits of snow, bits of blossom, fourth day of the year 1921. Only blossom. And Etna indescribably cloaked and secretive in her dense black clouds. She has wrapped them quite round her, quite low round her skirts.
At last we are down. We pass the pits where men are burning lime—red-hot, round pits—and are out on the high-way. Nothing can be more depressing than an Italian high-road. From Syracuse to Airolo it is the same: horrible, dreary, slummy high-roads the moment you approach a village or any human habitation. Here there is an acrid74 smell of lemon juice. There is a factory for making citrate. The houses flush on the road, under the great lime-stone face of the hill, open their slummy doors, and throw out dirty water and coffee dregs. We walk over the dirty water and coffee dregs. Mules76 rattle77 past with carts. Other people are going to the station. We pass the Dazio and are there.
Humanity is, externally, too much alike. Internally there are insuperable differences. So one sits and thinks, watching the people on the station: like a line of caricatures between oneself and the naked sea and the uneasy, clouding dawn.
You would look in vain this morning for the swarthy feline78 southerner of romance. It might, as far as features are concerned, be an early morning crowd waiting for the train on a north London suburb station. As far as features go. For some are fair and some colorless and none racially typical. The only one that is absolutely like a race caricature is a tall stout80 elderly fellow with spectacles and a short nose and a bristling81 moustache, and he is the German of the comic papers of twenty years ago. But he is pure Sicilian.
They are mostly young fellows going up the line to Messina to their job: not artizans, lower middle class. And externally, so like any other clerks and shop-men, only rather more shabby, much less socially self-conscious. They are lively, they throw their arms round one another’s necks, they all but kiss. One poor chap has had earache83, so a black kerchief is tied round his face, and his black hat is perched above, and a comic sight he looks. No one seems to think so, however. Yet they view my arrival with a knapsack on my back with cold disapprobation, as unseemly as if I had arrived riding on a pig. I ought to be in a carriage, and the knapsack ought to be a new suit-case. I know it, but am inflexible84.
That is how they are. Each one thinks he is as handsome as Adonis, and as “fetching” as Don Juan. Extraordinary! At the same time, all flesh is grass, and if a few trouser-buttons are missing or if a black hat perches85 above a thick black face-muffle and a long excruciated face, it is all in the course of nature. They seize the black-edged one by the arm, and in profound commiseration86: “Do you suffer? Are you suffering?” they ask.
And that also is how they are. So terribly physically87 all over one another. They pour themselves one over the other like so much melted butter over parsnips. They catch each other under the chin, with a tender caress88 of the hand, and they smile with sunny melting tenderness into each other’s face. Never in the world have I seen such melting gay tenderness as between casual Sicilians on railway platforms, whether they be young lean-cheeked Sicilians or huge stout Sicilians.
There must be something curious about the proximity89 of a volcano. Naples and Catania alike, the men are hugely fat, with great macaroni paunches, they are expansive and in a perfect drip of casual affection and love. But the Sicilians are even more wildly exuberant90 and fat and all over one another than the Neapolitans. They never leave off being amorously91 friendly with almost everybody, emitting a relentless92 physical familiarity that is quite bewildering to one not brought up near a volcano.
This is more true of the middle classes than of the lower. The working men are perforce thinner and less exuberant. But they hang together in clusters, and can never be physically near enough.
It is only thirty miles to Messina, but the train takes two hours. It winds and hurries and stops beside the lavender grey morning sea. A flock of goats trail over the beach near the lapping wave’s edge, dismally93. Great wide deserts of stony river-beds run down to the sea, and men on asses51 are picking their way across, and women are kneeling by the small stream-channel washing clothes. The lemons hang pale and innumerable in the thick lemon groves. Lemon trees, like Italians, seem to be happiest when they are touching94 one another all round. Solid forests of not very tall lemon trees lie between the steep mountains and the sea, on the strip of plain. Women, vague in the orchard95 under-shadow, are picking the lemons, lurking96 as if in the undersea. There are heaps of pale yellow lemons under the trees. They look like pale, primrose-smouldering fires. Curious how like fires the heaps of lemons look, under the shadow of foliage97, seeming to give off a pallid98 burning amid the suave99, naked, greenish trunks. When there comes a cluster of orange trees, the oranges are red like coals among the darker leaves. But lemons, lemons, innumerable, speckled like innumerable tiny stars in the green firmament100 of leaves. So many lemons! Think of all the lemonade crystals they will be reduced to! Think of America drinking them up next summer.
I always wonder why such vast wide river-beds of pale boulders101 come out of the heart of the high-rearing, dramatic stone mountains, a few miles to the sea. A few miles only: and never more than a few threading water-trickles in river-beds wide enough for the Rhine. But that is how it is. The landscape is ancient, and classic—romantic, as if it had known far-off days and fiercer rivers and more verdure. Steep, craggy, wild, the land goes up to its points and precipices, a tangle102 of heights. But all jammed on top of one another. And in old landscapes, as in old people, the flesh wears away, and the bones become prominent. Rock sticks up fantastically. The jungle of peaks in this old Sicily.
The sky is all grey. The Straits are grey. Reggio, just across the water, is white looking, under the great dark toe of Calabria, the toe of Italy. On Aspromonte there is grey cloud. It is going to rain. After such marvelous ringing blue days, it is going to rain. What luck!
Aspromonte! Garibaldi! I could always cover my face when I see it, Aspromonte. I wish Garibaldi had been prouder. Why did he go off so humbly103, with his bag of seed-corn and a flea104 in his ear, when His Majesty105 King Victor Emmanuel arrived with his little short legs on the scene. Poor Garibaldi! He wanted to be a hero and a dictator of free Sicily. Well, one can’t be a dictator and humble106 at the same time. One must be a hero, which he was, and proud, which he wasn’t. Besides people don’t nowadays choose proud heroes for governors. Anything but. They prefer constitutional monarchs107, who are paid servants and who know it. That is democracy. Democracy admires its own servants and nothing else. And you couldn’t make a real servant even of Garibaldi. Only of His Majesty King Victor Emmanuel. So Italy chose Victor Emmanuel, and Garibaldi went off with a corn bag and a whack108 on the behind like a humble ass.
It is raining—dismally, dismally raining. And this is Messina coming. Oh horrible Messina, earthquake-shattered and renewing your youth like a vast mining settlement, with rows and streets and miles of concrete shanties109, squalor and a big street with shops and gaps and broken houses still, just back of the tram-lines, and a dreary squalid earthquake-hopeless port in a lovely harbor. People don’t forget and don’t recover. The people of Messina seem to be today what they were nearly twenty years ago, after the earthquake: people who have had a terrible shock, and for whom all life’s institutions are really nothing, neither civilization nor purpose. The meaning of everything all came down with a smash in that shuddering earthquake, and nothing remains110 but money and the throes of some sort of sensation. Messina between the volcanoes, Etna and Stromboli, having known the death-agony’s terror. I always dread111 coming near the awful place, yet I have found the people kind, almost feverishly112 so, as if they knew the awful need for kindness.
Raining, raining hard. Clambering down on to the wet platform and walking across the wet lines to the cover. Many human beings scurrying113 across the wet lines, among the wet trains, to get out into the ghastly town beyond. Thank heaven one need not go out into the town. Two convicts chained together among the crowd—and two soldiers. The prisoners wear fawny homespun clothes, of cloth such as the peasants weave, with irregularly occurring brown stripes. Rather nice handmade rough stuff. But linked together, dear God! And those horrid114 caps on their hairless foreheads. No hair. Probably they are going to a convict station on the Lipari islands. The people take no notice.
No, but convicts are horrible creatures: at least, the old one is, with his long, nasty face: his long, clean-shaven, horrible face, without emotions, or with emotions one cannot follow. Something cold, sightless. A sightless, ugly look. I should loathe115 to have to touch him. Of the other I am not so sure. He is younger, and with dark eyebrows116. But a roundish, softish face, with a sort of leer. No, evil is horrible. I used to think there was no absolute evil. Now I know there is a great deal. So much that it threatens life altogether. That ghastly abstractness of criminals. They don’t know any more what other people feel. Yet some horrible force drives them.
It is a great mistake to abolish the death penalty. If I were dictator, I should order the old one to be hung at once. I should have judges with sensitive, living hearts: not abstract intellects. And because the instinctive117 heart recognised a man as evil, I would have that man destroyed. Quickly. Because good warm life is now in danger.
Standing118 on Messina station—dreary, dreary hole—and watching the winter rain and seeing the pair of convicts, I must remember again Oscar Wilde on Reading platform, a convict. What a terrible mistake, to let oneself be martyred by a lot of canaille. A man must say his say. But noli me tangere.
Curious these people are. Up and down, up and down go a pair of officials. The young one in a black gold-laced cap talks to the elder in a scarlet119 gold-laced cap. And he walks, the young one, with a mad little hop82, and his fingers fly as if he wanted to scatter73 them to the four winds of heaven, and his words go off like fireworks, with more than Sicilian speed. On and on, up and down, and his eye is dark and excited and unseeing, like the eye of a fleeing rabbit. Strange and beside itself is humanity.
What a lot of officials! You know them by their caps. Elegant tubby little officials in kid-and-patent boots and gold-laced caps, tall long-nosed ones in more gold-laced caps, like angels in and out of the gates of heaven they thread in and out of the various doors. As far as I can see, there are three scarlet station-masters, five black-and-gold substation-masters, and a countless120 number of principalities and powers in more or less broken boots and official caps. They are like bees round a hive, humming in an important conversazione, and occasionally looking at some paper or other, and extracting a little official honey. But the conversazione is the affair of affairs. To an Italian official, life seems to be one long and animated121 conversation—the Italian word is better—interrupted by casual trains and telephones. And besides the angels of heaven’s gates, there are the mere122 ministers, porters, lamp-cleaners, etc. These stand in groups and talk socialism. A lamp-man slashes123 along, swinging a couple of lamps. Bashes one against a barrow. Smash goes the glass. Looks down as if to say, What do you mean by it? Glances over his shoulder to see if any member of the higher hierarchies125 is looking. Seven members of higher hierarchies are assiduously not looking. On goes the minister with the lamp, blithely126. Another pane127 or two gone. Vogue128 la galère.
Passengers have gathered again, some in hoods129, some in nothing. Youths in thin, paltry130 clothes stand out in the pouring rain as if they did not know it was raining. One sees their coat-shoulders soaked. And yet they do not trouble to keep under shelter. Two large station dogs run about and trot131 through the standing trains, just like officials. They climb up the footboard, hop into a train and hop out casually132 when they feel like it. Two or three port-porters, in canvas hats as big as umbrellas, literally133, spreading like huge fins134 over their shoulders, are looking into more empty trains. More and more people appear. More and more official caps stand about. It rains and rains. The train for Palermo and the train for Syracuse are both an hour late already, coming from the port. Flea-bite. Though these are the great connections from Rome.
Loose locomotives trundle back and forth135, vaguely136, like black dogs running and turning back. The port is only four minutes’ walk. If it were not raining so hard, we would go down, walk along the lines and get into the waiting train down there. Anybody may please himself. There is the funnel137 of the great unwieldy ferry-object—she is just edging in. That means the connection from the mainland at last. But it is cold, standing here. We eat a bit of bread and butter from the kitchenino in resignation. After all, what is an hour and a half? It might just as easily be five hours, as it was the last time we came down from Rome. And the wagon-lit, booked to Syracuse, calmly left stranded138 in the station of Messina, to go no further. All get out and find yourselves rooms for the night in vile139 Messina. Syracuse or no Syracuse, Malta boat or no Malta boat. We are the Ferrovia dello Stato.
But there, why grumble140. Noi Italiani siamo così buoni. Take it from their own mouth.
Ecco! Finalmente! The crowd is quite joyful141 as the two express trains surge proudly in, after their half-a-mile creep. Plenty of room, for once. Though the carriage floor is a puddle142, and the roof leaks. This is second class.
Slowly, with two engines, we grunt and chuff and twist to get over the break-neck heights that shut Messina in from the north coast. The windows are opaque143 with steam and drops of rain. No matter—tea from the thermos flask, to the great interest of the other two passengers who had nervously144 contemplated145 the unknown object.
“Ha!” says he with joy, seeing the hot tea come out. “It has the appearance of a bomb.”
“Beautiful hot!” says she, with real admiration146. All apprehension147 at once dissipated, peace reigns148 in the wet, mist-hidden compartment149. We run through miles and miles of tunnel. The Italians have made wonderful roads and railways.
If one rubs the window and looks out, lemon groves with many wet-white lemons, earthquake-broken houses, new shanties, a grey weary sea on the right hand, and on the left the dim, grey complication of steep heights from which issue stone river-beds of inordinate150 width, and sometimes a road, a man on a mule75. Sometimes near at hand, long-haired, melancholy goats leaning sideways like tilted151 ships under the eaves of some scabby house. They call the house-eaves the dogs’ umbrellas. In town you see the dogs trotting152 close under the wall out of the wet. Here the goats lean like rock, listing inwards to the plaster wall. Why look out?
Sicilian railways are all single line. Hence, the coincidenza. A coincidenza is where two trains meet in a loop. You sit in a world of rain and waiting until some silly engine with four trucks puffs alongside. Ecco la coincidenza! Then after a brief conversazione between the two trains, diretto and merce, express and goods, the tin horn sounds and away we go, happily, towards the next coincidence. Clerks away ahead joyfully153 chalk up our hours of lateness on the announcement slate154. All adds to the adventurous155 flavour of the journey, dear heart. We come to a station where we find the other diretto, the express from the other direction, awaiting our coincidential arrival. The two trains run alongside one another, like two dogs meeting in the street and snuffing one another. Every official rushes to greet every other official, as if they were all David and Jonathan meeting after a crisis. They rush into each other’s arms and exchange cigarettes. And the trains can’t bear to part. And the station can’t bear to part with us. The officials tease themselves and us with the word pronto, meaning ready! Pronto! And again Pronto! And shrill156 whistles. Anywhere else a train would go off its tormented157 head. But no! Here only that angel’s trump158 of an official little horn will do the business. And get them to blow that horn if you can. They can’t bear to part.
Rain, continual rain, a level grey wet sky, a level grey wet sea, a wet and misty159 train winding round and round the little bays, diving through tunnels. Ghosts of the unpleasant-looking Lipari islands standing a little way out to sea, heaps of shadow deposited like rubbish heaps in the universal greyness.
Enter more passengers. An enormously large woman with an extraordinarily160 handsome face: an extraordinarily large man, quite young: and a diminutive161 servant, a little girl-child of about thirteen, with a beautiful face.—But the Juno—it is she who takes my breath away. She is quite young, in her thirties still. She has that queenly stupid beauty of a classic Hera: a pure brow with level dark brows, large, dark, bridling162 eyes, a straight nose, a chiselled163 mouth, an air of remote self-consciousness. She sends one’s heart straight back to pagan days. And—and—she is simply enormous, like a house. She wears a black toque with sticking-up wings, and a black rabbit fur spread on her shoulders. She edges her way in carefully: and once seated, is terrified to rise to her feet. She sits with that motionlessness of her type, closed lips, face muted and expressionless. And she expects me to admire her: I can see that. She expects me to pay homage164 to her beauty: just to that: not homage to herself, but to her as a bel pezzo. She casts little aloof glances at me under her eyelids165.
It is evident she is a country beauty become a bourgeoise. She speaks unwillingly167 to the other squint-eyed passenger, a young woman who also wears a black-rabbit fur, but without pretensions168.
The husband of Juno is a fresh-faced bourgeois166 young fellow, and he also is simply huge. His waistcoat would almost make the overcoat of the fourth passenger, the unshaven companion of the squinting169 young woman. The young Jupiter wears kid gloves: a significant fact here. He, too, has pretensions. But he is quite affable with the unshaven one, and speaks Italian unaffectedly. Whereas Juno speaks the dialect with affectation.
No one takes any notice of the little maid. She has a gentle, virgin170 moon-face, and those lovely grey Sicilian eyes that are translucent171, and into which the light sinks and becomes black sometimes, sometimes dark blue. She carries the bag and the extra coat of the huge Juno, and sits on the edge of the seat between me and the unshaven, Juno having motioned her there with a regal inclination172 of the head.
The little maid is rather frightened. Perhaps she is an orphan173 child—probably. Her nut-brown hair is smoothly174 parted and done in two pigtails. She wears no hat, as is proper for her class. On her shoulders one of those little knitted grey shoulder-capes that one associates with orphanages175. Her stuff dress is dark grey, her boots are strong.
The smooth, moon-like, expressionless virgin face, rather pale and touching, rather frightened, of the girl-child. A perfect face from a mediaeval picture. It moves one strangely. Why? It is so unconscious, as we are conscious. Like a little muted animal it sits there, in distress176. She is going to be sick. She goes into the corridor and is sick—very sick, leaning her head like a sick dog on the window-ledge. Jupiter towers above her—not unkind, and apparently177 feeling no repugnance178. The physical convulsion of the girl does not affect him as it affects us. He looks on unmoved, merely venturing to remark that she had eaten too much before coming on to the train. An obviously true remark. After which he comes and talks a few common-places to me. By and by the girl-child creeps in again and sits on the edge of the seat facing Juno. But no, says Juno, if she is sick she will be sick over me. So Jupiter accommodatingly changes places with the girl-child, who is thus next to me. She sits on the edge of the seat with folded little red hands, her face pale and expressionless. Beautiful the thin line of her nut-brown eyebrows, the dark lashes124 of the silent, pellucid179 dark eyes. Silent, motionless, like a sick animal.
But Juno tells her to wipe her splashed boots. The child gropes for a piece of paper. Juno tells her to take her pocket handkerchief. Feebly the sick girl-child wipes her boots, then leans back. But no good. She has to go in the corridor and be sick again.
After a while they all get out. Queer to see people so natural. Neither Juno nor Jupiter is in the least unkind. He even seems kind. But they are just not upset. Not half as upset as we are—the q-b wanting to administer tea, and so on. We should have to hold the child’s head. They just quite naturally leave it alone to its convulsions, and are neither distressed180 nor repelled181. It just is so.
Their naturalness seems unnatural182 to us. Yet I am sure it is best. Sympathy would only complicate183 matters, and spoil that strange, remote virginal quality. The q-b says it is largely stupidity.
Nobody washes out the corner of the corridor, though we stop at stations long enough, and there are two more hours journey. Train officials go by and stare, passengers step over and stare, new-comers stare and step over. Somebody asks who? Nobody thinks of just throwing a pail of water. Why should they? It is all in the course of nature.—One begins to be a bit chary184 of this same “nature”, in the south.
Enter two fresh passengers: a black-eyed, round-faced, bright-sharp man in corduroys and with a gun, and a long-faced, fresh-colored man with thick snowy hair, and a new hat and a long black overcoat of smooth black cloth, lined with rather ancient, once expensive fur. He is extremely proud of this long black coat and ancient fur lining185. Childishly proud he wraps it again over his knee, and gloats. The beady black-eyes of the hunter look round with pleased alertness. He sits facing the one in the overcoat, who looks like the last sprout186 of some Norman blood. The hunter in corduroys beams abroad, with beady black eyes in a round red face, curious. And the other tucks his fur-lined long coat between his legs and gloats to himself: all to himself gloating, and looking as if he were deaf. But no, he’s not. He wears muddy high-low boots.
At Termini it is already lamp-light. Business men crowd in. We get five business men: all stout, respected Palermitans. The one opposite me has whiskers, and a many-colored, patched traveling rug over his fat knees. Queer how they bring that feeling of physical intimacy187 with them. You are never surprised if they begin to take off their boots, or their collar-and-tie. The whole world is a sort of bedroom to them. One shrinks, but in vain.
There is some conversation between the black-eyed, beady hunter and the business men. Also the young white-haired one, the aristocrat188, tries to stammer189 out, at great length, a few words. As far as I can gather the young one is mad—or deranged—and the other, the hunter, is his keeper. They are traveling over Europe together. There is some talk of “the Count”. And the hunter says the unfortunate “has had an accident.” But that is a southern gentleness presumably, a form of speech. Anyhow it is queer: and the hunter in his corduroys, with his round, ruddy face and strange black-bright eyes and thin black hair is a puzzle to me, even more than the albino, long-coated, long-faced, fresh-complexioned, queer last remnant of a baron190 as he is. They are both muddy from the land, and pleased in a little mad way of their own.
But it is half-past six. We are at Palermo, capital of Sicily. The hunter slings191 his gun over his shoulder, I my knapsack, and in the throng192 we all disappear, into the Via Maqueda.
Palermo has two great streets, the Via Maqueda, and the Corso, which cross each other at right-angles. The Via Maqueda is narrow, with narrow little pavements, and is always choked with carriages and foot-passengers.
It had ceased raining. But the narrow road was paved with large, convex slabs193 of hard stone, inexpressibly greasy194. To cross the Via Maqueda therefore was a feat79. However, once accomplished195, it was done. The near end of the street was rather dark, and had mostly vegetable shops. Abundance of vegetables—piles of white-and-green fennel, like celery, and great sheaves of young, purplish, sea-dust-colored artichokes, nodding their buds, piles of big radishes, scarlet and bluey purple, carrots, long strings196 of dried figs197, mountains of big oranges, scarlet large peppers, a last slice of pumpkin198, a great mass of colors and vegetable freshnesses. A mountain of black-purple cauliflowers, like niggers’ heads, and a mountain of snow-white ones next to them. How the dark, greasy, night-stricken street seems to beam with these vegetables, all this fresh delicate flesh of luminous vegetables piled there in the air, and in the recesses199 of the windowless little caverns200 of the shops, and gleaming forth on the dark air, under the lamps. The q-b at once wants to buy vegetables. “Look! Look at the snow-white broccoli201. Look at the huge finocchi. Why don’t we get them? I must have some. Look at those great clusters of dates—ten francs a kilo, and we pay sixteen. It’s monstrous202. Our place is simply monstrous.”
For all that, one doesn’t buy vegetables to take to Sardinia.
Cross the Corso at that decorated maelstrom203 and death-trap of the Quattro Canti. I, of course, am nearly knocked down and killed. Somebody is nearly knocked down and killed every two minutes. But there—the carriages are light, and the horses curiously204 aware creatures. They would never tread on one.
The second part of the Via Maqueda is the swell205 part: silks and plumes206, and an infinite number of shirts and ties and cuff-links and mufflers and men’s fancies. One realises here that man-drapery and man-underwear is quite as important as woman’s, if not more.
I, of course, in a rage. The q-b stares at every rag and stitch, and crosses and re-crosses this infernal dark stream of a Via Maqueda, which, as I have said, is choked solid with strollers and carriages. Be it remembered that I have on my back the brown knapsack, and the q-b carries the kitchenino. This is enough to make a travelling menagerie of us. If I had my shirt sticking out behind, and if the q-b had happened merely to catch up the table-cloth and wrap it round her as she came out, all well and good. But a big brown knapsack! And a basket with thermos flask, etc! No, one could not expect such things to pass in a southern capital.
But I am case-hardened. And I am sick of shops. True, we have not been in a town for three months. But can I care for the innumerable fantasias in the drapery line? Every wretched bit of would-be-extra chic207 is called a fantasia. The word goes lugubriously208 to my bowels209.
Suddenly I am aware of the q-b darting210 past me like a storm. Suddenly I see her pouncing211 on three giggling212 young hussies just in front—the inevitable213 black velveteen tam, the inevitable white curly muffler, the inevitable lower-class flappers. “Did you want something? Have you something to say? Is there something that amuses you? Oh-h! You must laugh, must you? Oh—laugh! Oh-h! Why? Why? You ask why? Haven’t I heard you! Oh—you spik Ingleesh! You spik Ingleesh! Yes—why! That’s why! Yes, that’s why.”
The three giggling young hussies shrink together as if they would all hide behind one another, after a vain uprearing and a demand why? Madam tells them why. So they uncomfortably squeeze together under the unexpected strokes of the q-b’s sledge-hammer Italian and more than sledge-hammer retaliation214, there full in the Via Maqueda. They edge round one another, each attempting to get back of the other, away from the looming215 q-b. I perceive that this rotary216 motion is equivalent to a standstill, so feel called upon to say something in the manly22 line.
“Beastly Palermo bad-manners,” I say, and throw a nonchalant “Ignoranti” at the end, in a tone of dismissal.
Which does it. Off they go down-stream, still huddling217 and shrinking like boats that are taking sails in, and peeping to see if we are coming. Yes, my dears, we are coming.
“Why do you bother?” say I to the q-b, who is towering with rage.
“They’ve followed us the whole length of the street—with their sacco militario and their parlano inglese and their you spik Ingleesh, and their jeering218 insolence219. But the English are fools. They always put up with this Italian impudence220.”
Which is perhaps true.—But this knapsack! It might be full of bronze-roaring geese, it would not attract more attention!
However, and however, it is seven o’clock, and the shops are beginning to shut. No more shop-gazing. Only one lovely place: raw ham, boiled ham, chickens in aspic, chicken vol-au-vents, sweet curds221, curd-cheese, rustic222 cheese-cake, smoked sausages, beautiful fresh mortadella, huge Mediterranean223 red lobsters224, and those lobsters without claws. “So good! So good!” We stand and cry it aloud.
But this shop too is shutting. I ask a man for the Hotel Pantechnico. And treating me in that gentle, strangely tender southern manner, he takes me and shows me. He makes me feel such a poor, frail225, helpless leaf. A foreigner, you know. A bit of an imbecile, poor dear. Hold his hand and show him the way.
To sit in the room of this young American woman, with its blue hangings, and talk and drink tea till midnght! Ah these na?ve Americans—they are a good deal older and shrewder than we, once it nears the point. And they all seem to feel as if the world were coming to an end. And they are so truly generous of their hospitality, in this cold world.
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1
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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2
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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3
glamorous
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| adj.富有魅力的；美丽动人的；令人向往的 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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cone
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| n.圆锥体，圆锥形东西，球果 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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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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15
pivot
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| v.在枢轴上转动；装枢轴，枢轴；adj.枢轴的 | |
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16
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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transcribed
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| （用不同的录音手段）转录( transcribe的过去式和过去分词 )； 改编（乐曲）（以适应他种乐器或声部）； 抄写； 用音标标出（声音） | |
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18
vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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19
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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21
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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22
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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23
quarries
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| n.（采）石场( quarry的名词复数 )；猎物（指鸟，兽等）；方形石；（格窗等的）方形玻璃v.从采石场采得( quarry的第三人称单数 )；从（书本等中）努力发掘（资料等）；在采石场采石 | |
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24
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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25
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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27
abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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28
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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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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30
parenthesis
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲，间歇，停歇 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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32
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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33
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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34
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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35
charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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36
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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37
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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38
thermos
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| n.保湿瓶，热水瓶 | |
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39
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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40
aluminium
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| n.铝 (=aluminum) | |
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41
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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42
oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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43
gape
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| v.张口，打呵欠，目瞪口呆地凝视 | |
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44
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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45
ominousness
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| 预兆的 | |
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46
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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47
ledged
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| 有壁架的，有突出物的，有暗礁的 | |
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48
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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49
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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50
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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51
asses
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| n. 驴，愚蠢的人，臀部 adv. (常用作后置)用于贬损或骂人 | |
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52
sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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53
hiccuping
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| v.嗝( hiccup的现在分词 )；连续地打嗝；暂时性的小问题；短暂的停顿 | |
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54
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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55
bray
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| n.驴叫声, 喇叭声；v.驴叫 | |
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56
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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58
brays
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| n.驴叫声，似驴叫的声音( bray的名词复数 )；（喇叭的）嘟嘟声v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的第三人称单数 )；发嘟嘟声；粗声粗气地讲话（或大笑）；猛击 | |
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59
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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60
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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eucalyptus
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| n.桉树，桉属植物 | |
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62
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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63
curdling
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| n.凝化v.（使）凝结( curdle的现在分词 ) | |
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64
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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65
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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66
jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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67
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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68
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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70
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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71
specks
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| n.眼镜；斑点，微粒，污点( speck的名词复数 ) | |
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72
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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73
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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74
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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75
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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76
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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77
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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78
feline
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| adj.猫科的 | |
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79
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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81
bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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82
hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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83
earache
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| n.耳朵痛 | |
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84
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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85
perches
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| 栖息处( perch的名词复数 )； 栖枝； 高处； 鲈鱼 | |
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86
commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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87
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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88
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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89
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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90
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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91
amorously
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| adv.好色地，妖艳地；脉；脉脉；眽眽 | |
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92
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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93
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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94
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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95
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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96
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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97
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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98
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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99
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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100
firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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101
boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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102
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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103
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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104
flea
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| n.跳蚤 | |
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105
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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106
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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107
monarchs
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| 君主，帝王( monarch的名词复数 ) | |
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108
whack
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| v.敲击，重打，瓜分；n.重击，重打，尝试，一份 | |
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109
shanties
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| n.简陋的小木屋( shanty的名词复数 )；铁皮棚屋；船工号子；船歌 | |
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110
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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111
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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112
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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113
scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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114
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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115
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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116
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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117
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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118
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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119
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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120
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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121
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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122
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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123
slashes
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| n.（用刀等）砍( slash的名词复数 )；（长而窄的）伤口；斜杠；撒尿v.挥砍( slash的第三人称单数 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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124
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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125
hierarchies
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| 等级制度( hierarchy的名词复数 )； 统治集团； 领导层； 层次体系 | |
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126
blithely
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| adv.欢乐地，快活地，无挂虑地 | |
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127
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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128
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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129
hoods
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| n.兜帽( hood的名词复数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩v.兜帽( hood的第三人称单数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩 | |
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130
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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131
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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132
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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133
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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134
fins
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| [医]散热片；鱼鳍；飞边；鸭掌 | |
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135
forth
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|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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136
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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137
funnel
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| n.漏斗；烟囱；v.汇集 | |
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138
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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139
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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140
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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141
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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142
puddle
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| n.(雨)水坑，泥潭 | |
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143
opaque
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|
| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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144
nervously
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|
| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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145
contemplated
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|
| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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146
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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147
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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148
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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149
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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150
inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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151
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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152
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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153
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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154
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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155
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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156
shrill
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|
| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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157
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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158
trump
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| n.王牌，法宝；v.打出王牌，吹喇叭 | |
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159
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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160
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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161
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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162
bridling
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的现在分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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163
chiselled
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| adj.凿过的，凿光的； （文章等）精心雕琢的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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164
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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165
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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166
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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167
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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168
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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169
squinting
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| 斜视( squint的现在分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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170
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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171
translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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172
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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173
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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174
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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175
orphanages
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| 孤儿院( orphanage的名词复数 ) | |
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176
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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177
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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178
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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179
pellucid
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| adj.透明的，简单的 | |
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180
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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181
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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182
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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183
complicate
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| vt.使复杂化，使混乱，使难懂 | |
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184
chary
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| adj.谨慎的，细心的 | |
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185
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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186
sprout
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| n.芽，萌芽；vt.使发芽，摘去芽；vi.长芽，抽条 | |
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187
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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188
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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189
stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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190
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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191
slings
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| 抛( sling的第三人称单数 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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192
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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193
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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194
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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195
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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196
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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197
figs
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| figures 数字，图形，外形 | |
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198
pumpkin
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| n.南瓜 | |
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199
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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200
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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201
broccoli
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| n.绿菜花，花椰菜 | |
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202
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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203
maelstrom
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| n.大乱动；大漩涡 | |
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204
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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205
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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206
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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207
chic
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| n./adj.别致(的)，时髦(的)，讲究的 | |
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208
lugubriously
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209
bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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210
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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211
pouncing
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的现在分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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212
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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213
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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214
retaliation
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| n.报复，反击 | |
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215
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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216
rotary
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| adj.(运动等)旋转的；轮转的；转动的 | |
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217
huddling
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| n. 杂乱一团, 混乱, 拥挤 v. 推挤, 乱堆, 草率了事 | |
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218
jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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219
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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220
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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221
curds
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| n.凝乳( curd的名词复数 ) | |
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222
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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223
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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224
lobsters
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| 龙虾( lobster的名词复数 )； 龙虾肉 | |
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225
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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