I shall tell you what occurred, and let you judge for yourself.
The Roger Buttons held an enviable position, both social and financial, in ante-bellum Baltimore. They were related to the This Family and the That Family, which, as every Southerner knew, entitled them to membership in that enormous peerage which largely populated the Confederacy. This was their first experience with the charming old custom of having babies — Mr. Button was naturally nervous. He hoped it would be a boy so that he could be sent to Yale College in Connecticut, at which institution Mr. Button himself had been known for four years by the somewhat obvious nickname of “Cuff.”
On the September morning consecrated5 to the enormous event he arose nervously6 at six o’clock dressed himself, adjusted an impeccable stock, and hurried forth7 through the streets of Baltimore to the hospital, to determine whether the darkness of the night had borne in new life upon its bosom8.
When he was approximately a hundred yards from the Maryland Private Hospital for Ladies and Gentlemen he saw Doctor Keene, the family physician, descending10 the front steps, rubbing his hands together with a washing movement — as all doctors are required to do by the unwritten ethics11 of their profession.
Mr. Roger Button, the president of Roger Button & Co., Wholesale12 Hardware, began to run toward Doctor Keene with much less dignity than was expected from a Southern gentleman of that picturesque13 period. “Doctor Keene!” he called. “Oh, Doctor Keene!”
The doctor heard him, faced around, and stood waiting, a curious expression settling on his harsh, medicinal face as Mr. Button drew near.
“What happened?” demanded Mr. Button, as he came up in a gasping14 rush. “What was it? How is she” A boy? Who is it? What —-”
“Talk sense!” said Doctor Keene sharply, He appeared somewhat irritated.
“Is the child born?” begged Mr. Button.
Doctor Keene frowned. “Why, yes, I suppose so — after a fashion.” Again he threw a curious glance at Mr. Button.
“Is my wife all right?”
“Yes.”
“Is it a boy or a girl?”
“Here now!” cried Doctor Keene in a perfect passion of irritation,” I’ll ask you to go and see for yourself. Outrageous15!” He snapped the last word out in almost one syllable16, then he turned away muttering: “Do you imagine a case like this will help my professional reputation? One more would ruin me — ruin anybody.”
“What’s the matter?” demanded Mr. Button appalled17. “Triplets?”
“No, not triplets!” answered the doctor cuttingly. “What’s more, you can go and see for yourself. And get another doctor. I brought you into the world, young man, and I’ve been physician to your family for forty years, but I’m through with you! I don’t want to see you or any of your relatives ever again! Good-bye!”
Then he turned sharply, and without another word climbed into his phaeton, which was waiting at the curbstone, and drove severely18 away.
Mr. Button stood there upon the sidewalk, stupefied and trembling from head to foot. What horrible mishap19 had occurred? He had suddenly lost all desire to go into the Maryland Private Hospital for Ladies and Gentlemen — it was with the greatest difficulty that, a moment later, he forced himself to mount the steps and enter the front door.
A nurse was sitting behind a desk in the opaque21 gloom of the hall. Swallowing his shame, Mr. Button approached her.
“Good-morning,” she remarked, looking up at him pleasantly.
“Good-morning. I— I am Mr. Button.”
At this a look of utter terror spread itself over girl’s face. She rose to her feet and seemed about to fly from the hall, restraining herself only with the most apparent difficulty.
“I want to see my child,” said Mr. Button.
The nurse gave a little scream. “Oh — of course!” she cried hysterically22. “Upstairs. Right upstairs. Go — up!”
She pointed23 the direction, and Mr. Button, bathed in cool perspiration24, turned falteringly25, and began to mount to the second floor. In the upper hall he addressed another nurse who approached him, basin in hand. “I’m Mr. Button,” he managed to articulate. “I want to see my ——”
Clank! The basin clattered27 to the floor and rolled in the direction of the stairs. Clank! Clank! I began a methodical decent as if sharing in the general terror which this gentleman provoked.
“I want to see my child!” Mr. Button almost shrieked28. He was on the verge29 of collapse30.
Clank! The basin reached the first floor. The nurse regained31 control of herself, and threw Mr. Button a look of hearty32 contempt.
“All right, Mr. Button,” she agreed in a hushed voice. “Very well! But if you knew what a state it’s put us all in this morning! It’s perfectly33 outrageous! The hospital will never have a ghost of a reputation after ——”
“Hurry!” he cried hoarsely34. “I can’t stand this!”
“Come this way, then, Mr. Button.”
He dragged himself after her. At the end of a long hall they reached a room from which proceeded a variety of howls — indeed, a room which, in later parlance35, would have been known as the “crying-room.” They entered.
“Well,” gasped36 Mr. Button, “which is mine?”
“There!” said the nurse.
Mr. Button’s eyes followed her pointing finger, and this is what he saw. Wrapped in a voluminous white blanket, and partly crammed37 into one of the cribs, there sat an old man apparently38 about seventy years of age. His sparse39 hair was almost white, and from his chin dripped a long smoke-coloured beard, which waved absurdly back and forth, fanned by the breeze coming in at the window. He looked up at Mr. Button with dim, faded eyes in which lurked40 a puzzled question.
“Am I mad?” thundered Mr. Button, his terror resolving into rage. “Is this some ghastly hospital joke?
“It doesn’t seem like a joke to us,” replied the nurse severely. “And I don’t know whether you’re mad or not — but that is most certainly your child.”
The cool perspiration redoubled on Mr. Button’s forehead. He closed his eyes, and then, opening them, looked again. There was no mistake — he was gazing at a man of threescore and ten — a baby of threescore and ten, a baby whose feet hung over the sides of the crib in which it was reposing41.
The old man looked placidly43 from one to the other for a moment, and then suddenly spoke44 in a cracked and ancient voice. “Are you my father?” he demanded.
Mr. Button and the nurse started violently.
“Because if you are,” went on the old man querulously, “I wish you’d get me out of this place — or, at least, get them to put a comfortable rocker in here,”
“Where in God’s name did you come from? Who are you?” burst out Mr. Button frantically46.
“I can’t tell you exactly who I am,” replied the querulous whine47, “because I’ve only been born a few hours — but my last name is certainly Button.”
“You lie! You’re an impostor!”
The old man turned wearily to the nurse. “Nice way to welcome a new-born child,” he complained in a weak voice. “Tell him he’s wrong, why don’t you?”
“You’re wrong. Mr. Button,” said the nurse severely. “This is your child, and you’ll have to make the best of it. We’re going to ask you to take him home with you as soon as possible-some time to-day.”
“Home?” repeated Mr. Button incredulously.
“Yes, we can’t have him here. We really can’t, you know?”
“I’m right glad of it,” whined48 the old man. “This is a fine place to keep a youngster of quiet tastes. With all this yelling and howling, I haven’t been able to get a wink49 of sleep. I asked for something to eat”— here his voice rose to a shrill50 note of protest —“and they brought me a bottle of milk!”
Mr. Button, sank down upon a chair near his son and concealed52 his face in his hands. “My heavens!” he murmured, in an ecstasy53 of horror. “What will people say? What must I do?”
“You’ll have to take him home,” insisted the nurse —“immediately!”
A grotesque54 picture formed itself with dreadful clarity before the eyes of the tortured man — a picture of himself walking through the crowded streets of the city with this appalling55 apparition56 stalking by his side.
“I can’t. I can’t,” he moaned.
People would stop to speak to him, and what was he going to say? He would have to introduce this — this septuagenarian: “This is my son, born early this morning.” And then the old man would gather his blanket around him and they would plod57 on, past the bustling58 stores, the slave market — for a dark instant Mr. Button wished passionately59 that his son was black — past the luxurious61 houses of the residential62 district, past the home for the aged26. . . .
“Come! Pull yourself together,” commanded the nurse.
“See here,” the old man announced suddenly, “if you think I’m going to walk home in this blanket, you’re entirely63 mistaken.”
“Babies always have blankets.”
With a malicious64 crackle the old man held up a small white swaddling garment. “Look!” he quavered. “This is what they had ready for me.”
“Babies always wear those,” said the nurse primly65.
“Well,” said the old man, “this baby’s not going to wear anything in about two minutes. This blanket itches66. They might at least have given me a sheet.”
“Keep it on! Keep it on!” said Mr. Button hurriedly. He turned to the nurse. “What’ll I do?”
“Go down town and buy your son some clothes.”
Mr. Button’s son’s voice followed him down into the: hall: “And a cane67, father. I want to have a cane.”
Mr. Button banged the outer door savagely68. . . .
2
“Good-morning,” Mr. Button said nervously, to the clerk in the Chesapeake Dry Goods Company. “I want to buy some clothes for my child.”
“How old is your child, sir?”
“About six hours,” answered Mr. Button, without due consideration.
“Babies’ supply department in the rear.”
“Why, I don’t think — I’m not sure that’s what I want. It’s — he’s an unusually large-size child. Exceptionally — ah large.”
“They have the largest child’s sizes.”
“Where is the boys’ department?” inquired Mr. Button, shifting his ground desperately69. He felt that the clerk must surely scent70 his shameful71 secret.
“Right here.”
“Well ——” He hesitated. The notion of dressing72 his son in men’s clothes was repugnant to him. If, say, he could only find a very large boy’s suit, he might cut off that long and awful beard, dye the white hair brown, and thus manage to conceal51 the worst, and to retain something of his own self-respect — not to mention his position in Baltimore society.
But a frantic45 inspection73 of the boys’ department revealed no suits to fit the new-born Button. He blamed the store, of course —-in such cases it is the thing to blame the store.
“How old did you say that boy of yours was?” demanded the clerk curiously74.
“He’s — sixteen.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought you said six hours. You’ll find the youths’ department in the next aisle75.”
Mr. Button turned miserably76 away. Then he stopped, brightened, and pointed his finger toward a dressed dummy77 in the window display. “There!” he exclaimed. “I’ll take that suit, out there on the dummy.”
The clerk stared. “Why,” he protested, “that’s not a child’s suit. At least it is, but it’s for fancy dress. You could wear it yourself!”
“Wrap it up,” insisted his customer nervously. “That’s what I want.”
The astonished clerk obeyed.
Back at the hospital Mr. Button entered the nursery and almost threw the package at his son. “Here’s your clothes,” he snapped out.
The old man untied78 the package and viewed the contents with a quizzical eye.
“They look sort of funny to me,” he complained, “I don’t want to be made a monkey of —”
“You’ve made a monkey of me!” retorted Mr. Button fiercely. “Never you mind how funny you look. Put them on — or I’ll — or I’ll spank79 you.” He swallowed uneasily at the penultimate word, feeling nevertheless that it was the proper thing to say.
“All right, father”— this with a grotesque simulation of filial respect —“you’ve lived longer; you know best. Just as you say.”
As before, the sound of the word “father” caused Mr. Button to start violently.
“And hurry.”
“I’m hurrying, father.”
When his son was dressed Mr. Button regarded him with depression. The costume consisted of dotted socks, pink pants, and a belted blouse with a wide white collar. Over the latter waved the long whitish beard, drooping80 almost to the waist. The effect was not good.
“Wait!”
Mr. Button seized a hospital shears81 and with three quick snaps amputated a large section of the beard. But even with this improvement the ensemble82 fell far short of perfection. The remaining brush of scraggly hair, the watery83 eyes, the ancient teeth, seemed oddly out of tone with the gaiety of the costume. Mr. Button, however, was obdurate84 — he held out his hand. “Come along!” he said sternly.
His son took the hand trustingly. “What are you going to call me, dad?” he quavered as they walked from the nursery —“just ‘baby’ for a while? till you think of a better name?”
Mr. Button grunted85. “I don’t know,” he answered harshly. “I think we’ll call you Methuselah.”
3
Even after the new addition to the Button family had had his hair cut short and then dyed to a sparse unnatural86 black, had had his face shaved so dose that it glistened87, and had been attired88 in small-boy clothes made to order by a flabbergasted tailor, it was impossible for Button to ignore the fact that his son was a excuse for a first family baby. Despite his aged stoop, Benjamin Button — for it was by this name they called him instead of by the appropriate but invidious Methuselah — was five feet eight inches tall. His clothes did not conceal this, nor did the clipping and dyeing of his eyebrows89 disguise the fact that the eyes under — were faded and watery and tired. In fact, the baby-nurse who had been engaged in advance left the house after one look, in a state of considerable indignation.
But Mr. Button persisted in his unwavering purpose. Benjamin was a baby, and a baby he should remain. At first he declared that if Benjamin didn’t like warm milk he could go without food altogether, but he was finally prevailed upon to allow his son bread and butter, and even oatmeal by way of a compromise. One day he brought home a rattle90 and, giving it to Benjamin, insisted in no uncertain terms that he should “play with it,” whereupon the old man took it with — a weary expression and could be heard jingling91 it obediently at intervals93 throughout the day.
There can be no doubt, though, that the rattle bored him, and that he found other and more soothing94 amusements when he was left alone. For instance, Mr. Button discovered one day that during the preceding week be had smoked more cigars than ever before — a phenomenon, which was explained a few days later when, entering the nursery unexpectedly, he found the room full of faint blue haze95 and Benjamin, with a guilty expression on his face, trying to conceal the butt2 of a dark Havana. This, of course, called for a severe spanking96, but Mr. Button found that he could not bring himself to administer it. He merely warned his son that he would “stunt his growth.”
Nevertheless he persisted in his attitude. He brought home lead soldiers, he brought toy trains, he brought large pleasant animals made of cotton, and, to perfect the illusion which he was creating — for himself at least — he passionately demanded of the clerk in the toy-store whether “the paint would come oft the pink duck if the baby put it in his mouth.” But, despite all his father’s efforts, Benjamin refused to be interested. He would steal down the back stairs and return to the nursery with a volume of the Encyclopedia97 Britannica, over which he would pore through an afternoon, while his cotton cows and his Noah’s ark were left neglected on the floor. Against such a stubbornness Mr. Button’s efforts were of little avail.
The sensation created in Baltimore was, at first, prodigious98. What the mishap would have cost the Buttons and their kinsfolk socially cannot be determined99, for the outbreak of the Civil War drew the city’s attention to other things. A few people who were unfailingly polite racked their brains for compliments to give to the parents — and finally hit upon the ingenious device of declaring that the baby resembled his grandfather, a fact which, due to the standard state of decay common to all men of seventy, could not be denied. Mr. and Mrs. Roger Button were not pleased, and Benjamin’s grandfather was furiously insulted.
Benjamin, once he left the hospital, took life as he found it. Several small boys were brought to see him, and he spent a stiff-jointed afternoon trying to work up an interest in tops and marbles — he even managed, quite accidentally, to break a kitchen window with a stone from a sling100 shot, a feat101 which secretly delighted his father.
Thereafter Benjamin contrived102 to break something every day, but he did these things only because they were expected of him, and because he was by nature obliging.
When his grandfather’s initial antagonism103 wore off, Benjamin and that gentleman took enormous pleasure in one another’s company. They would sit for hours, these two, so far apart in age and experience, and, like old cronies, discuss with tireless monotony the slow events of the day. Benjamin felt more at ease in his grandfather’s presence than in his parents’— they seemed always somewhat in awe104 of him and, despite the dictatorial105 authority they exercised over him, frequently addressed him as “Mr.”
He was as puzzled as any one else at the apparently advanced age of his mind and body at birth. He read up on it in the medical journal, but found that no such case had been previously106 recorded. At his father’s urging he made an honest attempt to play with other boys, and frequently he joined in the milder games — football shook him up too much, and he feared that in case of a fracture his ancient bones would refuse to knit.
When he was five he was sent to kindergarten, where he initiated107 into the art of pasting green paper on orange paper, of weaving coloured maps and manufacturing eternal cardboard necklaces. He was inclined to drowse off to sleep in the middle of these tasks, a habit which both irritated and frightened his young teacher. To his relief she complained to his parents, and he was removed from the school. The Roger Buttons told their friends that they felt he was too young.
By the time he was twelve years old his parents had grown used to him. Indeed, so strong is the force of custom that they no longer felt that he was different from any other child — except when some curious anomaly reminded them of the fact. But one day a few weeks after his twelfth birthday, while looking in the mirror, Benjamin made, or thought he made, an astonishing discovery. Did his eyes deceive him, or had his hair turned in the dozen years of his life from white to iron-gray under its concealing108 dye? Was the network of wrinkles on his face becoming less pronounced? Was his skin healthier and firmer, with even a touch of ruddy winter colour? He could not tell. He knew that he no longer stooped, and that his physical condition had improved since the early days of his life.
“Can it be ——?” he thought to himself, or, rather, scarcely dared to think.
He went to his father. “I am grown,” he announced determinedly109. “I want to put on long trousers.”
His father hesitated. “Well,” he said finally, “I don’t know. Fourteen is the age for putting on long trousers — and you are only twelve.”
“But you’ll have to admit,” protested Benjamin, “that I’m big for my age.”
His father looked at him with illusory speculation110. “Oh, I’m not so sure of that,” he said. “I was as big as you when I was twelve.”
This was not true-it was all part of Roger Button’s silent agreement with himself to believe in his son’s normality.
Finally a compromise was reached. Benjamin was to continue to dye his hair. He was to make a better attempt to play with boys of his own age. He was not to wear his spectacles or carry a cane in the street. In return for these concessions111 he was allowed his first suit of long trousers. . . .
4
Of the life of Benjamin Button between his twelfth and twenty-first year I intend to say little. Suffice to record that they were years of normal ungrowth. When Benjamin was eighteen he was erect112 as a man of fifty; he had more hair and it was of a dark gray; his step was firm, his voice had lost its cracked quaver and descended113 to a healthy baritone. So his father sent him up to Connecticut to take examinations for entrance to Yale College. Benjamin passed his examination and became a member of the freshman114 class.
On the third day following his matriculation he received a notification from Mr. Hart, the college registrar115, to call at his office and arrange his schedule. Benjamin, glancing in the mirror, decided that his hair needed a new application of its brown dye, but an anxious inspection of his bureau drawer disclosed that the dye bottle was not there. Then he remembered — he had emptied it the day before and thrown it away.
He was in a dilemma116. He was due at the registrar’s in five minutes. There seemed to be no help for it — he must go as he was. He did.
“Good-morning,” said the registrar politely. “You’ve come to inquire about your son.”
“Why, as a matter of fact, my name’s Button ——” began Benjamin, but Mr. Hart cut him off.
“I’m very glad to meet you, Mr. Button. I’m expecting your son here any minute.”
“That’s me!” burst out Benjamin. “I’m a freshman.”
“What!”
“I’m a freshman.”
“Surely you’re joking.”
“Not at all.”
The registrar frowned and glanced at a card before him. “Why, I have Mr. Benjamin Button’s age down here as eighteen.”
“That’s my age,” asserted Benjamin, flushing slightly.
The registrar eyed him wearily. “Now surely, Mr. Button, you don’t expect me to believe that.”
Benjamin smiled wearily. “I am eighteen,” he repeated.
The registrar pointed sternly to the door. “Get out,” he said. “Get out of college and get out of town. You are a dangerous lunatic.”
“I am eighteen.”
Mr. Hart opened the door. “The idea!” he shouted. “A man of your age trying to enter here as a freshman. Eighteen years old, are you? Well, I’ll give you eighteen minutes to get out of town.”
Benjamin Button walked with dignity from the room, and half a dozen undergraduates, who were waiting in the hall, followed him curiously with their eyes. When he had gone a little way he turned around, faced the infuriated registrar, who was still standing117 in the door-way, and repeated in a firm voice: “I am eighteen years old.”
To a chorus of titters which went up from the group of undergraduates, Benjamin walked away.
But he was not fated to escape so easily. On his melancholy118 walk to the railroad station he found that he was being followed by a group, then by a swarm119, and finally by a dense120 mass of undergraduates. The word had gone around that a lunatic had passed the entrance examinations for Yale and attempted to palm himself off as a youth of eighteen. A fever of excitement permeated121 the college. Men ran hatless out of classes, the football team abandoned its practice and joined the mob, professors’ wives with bonnets122 awry123 and bustles124 out of position, ran shouting after the procession, from which proceeded a continual succession of remarks aimed at the tender sensibilities of Benjamin Button.
“He must be the wandering Jew!”
“He ought to go to prep school at his age!”
“Look at the infant prodigy125!” “He thought this was the old men’s home.”
“Go up to Harvard!”
Benjamin increased his gait, and soon he was running. He would show them! He would go to Harvard, and then they would regret these ill-considered taunts126!
Safely on board the train for Baltimore, he put his head from the window. “You’ll regret this!” he shouted.
“Ha-ha!” the undergraduates laughed. “Ha-ha-ha!” It was the biggest mistake that Yale College had ever made. . . .
5
In 1880 Benjamin Button was twenty years old, and he signalised his birthday by going to work for his father in Roger Button & Co., Wholesale Hardware. It was in that same year that he began “going out socially”— that is, his father insisted on taking him to several fashionable dances. Roger Button was now fifty, and he and his son were more and more companionable — in fact, since Benjamin had ceased to dye his hair (which was still grayish) they appeared about the same age, and could have passed for brothers.
One night in August they got into the phaeton attired in their full-dress suits and drove out to a dance at the Shevlins’ country house, situated127 just outside of Baltimore. It was a gorgeous evening. A full moon drenched128 the road to the lustreless129 colour of platinum130, and late-blooming harvest flowers breathed into the motionless air aromas132 that were like low, half-heard laughter. The open country, carpeted for rods around with bright wheat, was translucent133 as in the day. It was almost impossible not to be affected134 by the sheer beauty of the sky — almost.
“There’s a great future in the dry-goods business,” Roger Button was saying. He was not a spiritual man — his aesthetic1 sense was rudimentary.
“Old fellows like me can’t learn new tricks,” he observed profoundly. “It’s you youngsters with energy and vitality135 that have the great future before you.”
Far up the road the lights of the Shevlins’ country house drifted into view, and presently there was a sighing sound that crept persistently136 toward them — it might have been the fine plaint of violins or the rustle137 of the silver wheat under the moon.
They pulled up behind a handsome brougham whose passengers were disembarking at the door. A lady got out, then an elderly gentleman, then another young lady, beautiful as sin. Benjamin started; an almost chemical change seemed to dissolve and recompose the very elements of his body. A rigour passed over him, blood rose into his cheeks, his forehead, and there was a steady thumping138 in his ears. It was first love.
The girl was slender and frail139, with hair that was ashen140 under the moon and honey-coloured under the sputtering141 gas-lamps of the porch. Over her shoulders was thrown a Spanish mantilla of softest yellow, butterflied in black; her feet were glittering buttons at the hem4 of her bustled142 dress.
Roger Button leaned over to his son. “That,” he said, “is young Hildegarde Moncrief, the daughter of General Moncrief.”
Benjamin nodded coldly. “Pretty little thing,” he said indifferently. But when the negro boy had led the buggy away, he added: “Dad, you might introduce me to her.”
They approached a group, of which Miss Moncrief was the centre. Reared in the old tradition, she curtsied low before Benjamin. Yes, he might have a dance. He thanked her and walked away — staggered away.
The interval92 until the time for his turn should arrive dragged itself out interminably. He stood close to the wall, silent, inscrutable, watching with murderous eyes the young bloods of Baltimore as they eddied143 around Hildegarde Moncrief, passionate60 admiration144 in their faces. How obnoxious145 they seemed to Benjamin; how intolerably rosy146! Their curling brown whiskers aroused in him a feeling equivalent to indigestion.
But when his own time came, and he drifted with her out upon the changing floor to the music of the latest waltz from Paris, his jealousies147 and anxieties melted from him like a mantle148 of snow. Blind with enchantment149, he felt that life was just beginning.
“You and your brother got here just as we did, didn’t you?” asked Hildegarde, looking up at him with eyes that were like bright blue enamel150.
Benjamin hesitated. If she took him for his father’s brother, would it be best to enlighten her? He remembered his experience at Yale, so he decided against it. It would be rude to contradict a lady; it would be criminal to mar9 this exquisite151 occasion with the grotesque story of his origin. Later, perhaps. So he nodded, smiled, listened, was happy.
“I like men of your age,” Hildegarde told him. “Young boys are so idiotic152. They tell me how much champagne153 they drink at college, and how much money they lose playing cards. Men of your age know how to appreciate women.”
Benjamin felt himself on the verge of a proposal — with an effort he choked back the impulse. “You’re just the romantic age,” she continued —“fifty. Twenty-five is too wordly-wise; thirty is apt to be pale from overwork; forty is the age of long stories that take a whole cigar to tell; sixty is — oh, sixty is too near seventy; but fifty is the mellow154 age. I love fifty.”
Fifty seemed to Benjamin a glorious age. He longed passionately to be fifty.
“I’ve always said,” went on Hildegarde, “that I’d rather marry a man of fifty and be taken care of than many a man of thirty and take care of him.”
For Benjamin the rest of the evening was bathed in a honey-coloured mist. Hildegarde gave him two more dances, and they discovered that they were marvellously in accord on all the questions of the day. She was to go driving with him on the following Sunday, and then they would discuss all these questions further.
Going home in the phaeton just before the crack of dawn, when the first bees were humming and the fading moon glimmered155 in the cool dew, Benjamin knew vaguely156 that his father was discussing wholesale hardware.
“. . . . And what do you think should merit our biggest attention after hammers and nails?” the elder Button was saying.
“Love,” replied Benjamin absent-mindedly.
“Lugs157?” exclaimed Roger Button, “Why, I’ve just covered the question of lugs.”
Benjamin regarded him with dazed eyes just as the eastern sky was suddenly cracked with light, and an oriole yawned piercingly in the quickening trees . . .
6
When, six months later, the engagement of Miss Hildegarde Moncrief to Mr. Benjamin Button was made known (I say “made known,” for General Moncrief declared he would rather fall upon his sword than announce it), the excitement in Baltimore society reached a feverish158 pitch. The almost forgotten story of Benjamin’s birth was remembered and sent out upon the winds of scandal in picaresque and incredible forms. It was said that Benjamin was really the father of Roger Button, that he was his brother who had been in prison for forty years, that he was John Wilkes Booth in disguise — and, finally, that he had two small conical horns sprouting159 from his head.
The Sunday supplements of the New York papers played up the case with fascinating sketches160 which showed the head of Benjamin Button attached to a fish, to a snake, and, finally, to a body of solid brass161. He became known, journalistically, as the Mystery Man of Maryland. But the true story, as is usually the case, had a very small circulation.
However, every one agreed with General Moncrief that it was “criminal” for a lovely girl who could have married any beau in Baltimore to throw herself into the arms of a man who was assuredly fifty. In vain Mr. Roger Button published Us son’s birth certificate in large type in the Baltimore Blaze. No one believed it. You had only to look at Benjamin and see.
On the part of the two people most concerned there was no wavering. So many of the stories about her fiancé were false that Hildegarde refused stubbornly to believe even the true one. In vain General Moncrief pointed out to her the high mortality among men of fifty — or, at least, among men who looked fifty; in vain he told her of the instability of the wholesale hardware business. Hildegarde had chosen to marry for mellowness162, and marry she did. . . .
7
In one particular, at least, the friends of Hildegarde Moncrief were mistaken. The wholesale hardware business prospered163 amazingly. In the fifteen years between Benjamin Button’s marriage in 1880 and his father’s retirement164 in 1895, the family fortune was doubled — and this was due largely to the younger member of the firm.
Needless to say, Baltimore eventually received the couple to its bosom. Even old General Moncrief became reconciled to his son-in-law when Benjamin gave him the money to bring out his History of the Civil War in twenty volumes, which had been refused by nine prominent publishers.
In Benjamin himself fifteen years had wrought166 many changes. It seemed to him that the blood flowed with new vigour167 through his veins168. It began to be a pleasure to rise in the morning, to walk with an active step along the busy, sunny street, to work untiringly with his shipments of hammers and his cargoes169 of nails. It was in 1890 that he executed his famous business coup165: he brought up the suggestion that all nails used in nailing up the boxes in which nails are shipped are the property of the shippee, a proposal which became a statute170, was approved by Chief Justice Fossile, and saved Roger Button and Company, Wholesale Hardware, more than six hundred nails every year.
In addition, Benjamin discovered that he was becoming more and more attracted by the gay side of life. It was typical of his growing enthusiasm for pleasure that he was the first man in the city of Baltimore to own and run an automobile171. Meeting him on the street, his contemporaries would stare enviously172 at the picture he made of health and vitality.
“He seems to grow younger every year,” they would remark. And if old Roger Button, now sixty-five years old, had failed at first to give a proper welcome to his son he atoned173 at last by bestowing174 on him what amounted to adulation.
And here we come to an unpleasant subject which it will be well to pass over as quickly as possible. There was only one thing that worried Benjamin Button; his wife had ceased to attract him.
At that time Hildegarde was a woman of thirty-five, with a son, Roscoe, fourteen years old. In the early days of their marriage Benjamin had worshipped her. But, as the years passed, her honey-coloured hair became an unexciting brown, the blue enamel of her eyes assumed the aspect of cheap crockery — moreover, and, most of all, she had become too settled in her ways, too placid42, too content, too anaemic in her excitements, and too sober in her taste. As a bride it been she who had “dragged” Benjamin to dances and dinners — now conditions were reversed. She went out socially with him, but without enthusiasm, devoured175 already by that eternal inertia176 which comes to live with each of us one day and stays with us to the end.
Benjamin’s discontent waxed stronger. At the outbreak of the Spanish-American War in 1898 his home had for him so little charm that he decided to join the army. With his business influence he obtained a commission as captain, and proved so adaptable177 to the work that he was made a major, and finally a lieutenant-colonel just in time to participate in the celebrated178 charge up San Juan Hill. He was slightly wounded, and received a medal.
Benjamin had become so attached to the activity and excitement of array life that he regretted to give it up, but his business required attention, so he resigned his commission and came home. He was met at the station by a brass band and escorted to his house.
8
Hildegarde, waving a large silk flag, greeted him on the porch, and even as he kissed her he felt with a sinking of the heart that these three years had taken their toll179. She was a woman of forty now, with a faint skirmish line of gray hairs in her head. The sight depressed180 him.
Up in his room he saw his reflection in the familiar mirror — he went closer and examined his own face with anxiety, comparing it after a moment with a photograph of himself in uniform taken just before the war.
“Good Lord!” he said aloud. The process was continuing. There was no doubt of it — he looked now like a man of thirty. Instead of being delighted, he was uneasy — he was growing younger. He had hitherto hoped that once he reached a bodily age equivalent to his age in years, the grotesque phenomenon which had marked his birth would cease to function. He shuddered181. His destiny seemed to him awful, incredible.
When he came downstairs Hildegarde was waiting for him. She appeared annoyed, and he wondered if she had at last discovered that there was something amiss. It was with an effort to relieve the tension between them that he broached182 the matter at dinner in what he considered a delicate way.
“Well,” he remarked lightly, “everybody says I look younger than ever.”
Hildegarde regarded him with scorn. She sniffed183. “Do you think it’s anything to boast about?”
“I’m not boasting,” he asserted uncomfortably. She sniffed again. “The idea,” she said, and after a moment: “I should think you’d have enough pride to stop it.”
“How can I?” he demanded.
“I’m not going to argue with you,” she retorted. “But there’s a right way of doing things and a wrong way. If you’ve made up your mind to be different from everybody else, I don’t suppose I can stop you, but I really don’t think it’s very considerate.”
“But, Hildegarde, I can’t help it.”
“You can too. You’re simply stubborn. You think you don’t want to be like any one else. You always have been that way, and you always will be. But just think how it would be if every one else looked at things as you do — what would the world be like?”
As this was an inane184 and unanswerable argument Benjamin made no reply, and from that time on a chasm185 began to widen between them. He wondered what possible fascination186 she had ever exercised over him.
To add to the breach187, he found, as the new century gathered headway, that his thirst for gaiety grew stronger. Never a party of any kind in the city of Baltimore but he was there, dancing with the prettiest of the young married women, chatting with the most popular of the debutantes188, and finding their company charming, while his wife, a dowager of evil omen20, sat among the chaperons, now in haughty189 disapproval190, and now following him with solemn, puzzled, and reproachful eyes.
“Look!” people would remark. “What a pity! A young fellow that age tied to a woman of forty-five. He must be twenty years younger than his wife.” They had forgotten — as people inevitably191 forget — that back in 1880 their mammas and papas had also remarked about this same ill-matched pair.
Benjamin’s growing unhappiness at home was compensated192 for by his many new interests. He took up golf and made a great success of it. He went in for dancing: in 1906 he was an expert at “The Boston,” and in 1908 he was considered proficient193 at the “Maxixe,” while in 1909 his “Castle Walk” was the envy of every young man in town.
His social activities, of course, interfered194 to some extent with his business, but then he had worked hard at wholesale hardware for twenty-five years and felt that he could soon hand it on to his son, Roscoe, who had recently graduated from Harvard.
He and his son were, in fact, often mistaken for each other. This pleased Benjamin — he soon forgot the insidious195 fear which had come over him on his return from the Spanish-American War, and grew to take a na?ve pleasure in his appearance. There was only one fly in the delicious ointment196 — he hated to appear in public with his wife. Hildegarde was almost fifty, and the sight of her made him feel absurd. . . .
9
One September day in 1910 — a few years after Roger Button & Co., Wholesale Hardware, had been handed over to young Roscoe Button — a man, apparently about twenty years old, entered himself as a freshman at Harvard University in Cambridge. He did not make the mistake of announcing that he would never see fifty again, nor did he mention the fact that his son had been graduated from the same institution ten years before.
He was admitted, and almost immediately attained197 a prominent position in the class, partly because he seemed a little older than the other freshmen198, whose average age was about eighteen.
But his success was largely due to the fact that in the football game with Yale he played so brilliantly, with so much dash and with such a cold, remorseless anger that he scored seven touchdowns and fourteen field goals for Harvard, and caused one entire eleven of Yale men to be carried singly from the field, unconscious. He was the most celebrated man in college.
Strange to say, in his third or junior year he was scarcely able to “make” the team. The coaches said that he had lost weight, and it seemed to the more observant among them that he was not quite as tall as before. He made no touchdowns — indeed, he was retained on the team chiefly in hope that his enormous reputation would bring terror and disorganisation to the Yale team.
In his senior year he did not make the team at all. He had grown so slight and frail that one day he was taken by some sophomores199 for a freshman, an incident which humiliated200 him terribly. He became known as something of a prodigy — a senior who was surely no more than sixteen — and he was often shocked at the worldliness of some of his classmates. His studies seemed harder to him — he felt that they were too advanced. He had heard his classmates speak of St. Midas’s, the famous preparatory school, at which so many of them had prepared for college, and he determined after his graduation to enter himself at St. Midas’s, where the sheltered life among boys his own size would be more congenial to him.
Upon his graduation in 1914 he went home to Baltimore with his Harvard diploma in his pocket. Hildegarde was now residing in Italy, so Benjamin went to live with his son, Roscoe. But though he was welcomed in a general way there was obviously no heartiness201 in Roscoe’s feeling toward him — there was even perceptible a tendency on his son’s part to think that Benjamin, as he moped about the house in adolescent mooniness, was somewhat in the way. Roscoe was married now and prominent in Baltimore life, and he wanted no scandal to creep out in connection with his family.
Benjamin, no longer persona grata with the débutantes and younger college set, found himself left much done, except for the companionship of three or four fifteen-year-old boys in the neighbourhood. His idea of going to St. Midas’s school recurred202 to him.
“Say,” he said to Roscoe one day, “I’ve told you over and over that I want to go to prep, school.”
“Well, go, then,” replied Roscoe shortly. The matter was distasteful to him, and he wished to avoid a discussion.
“I can’t go alone,” said Benjamin helplessly. “You’ll have to enter me and take me up there.”
“I haven’t got time,” declared Roscoe abruptly203. His eyes narrowed and he looked uneasily at his father. “As a matter of fact,” he added, “you’d better not go on with this business much longer. You better pull up short. You better — you better”— he paused and his face crimsoned204 as he sought for words —“you better turn right around and start back the other way. This has gone too far to be a joke. It isn’t funny any longer. You — you behave yourself!”
Benjamin looked at him, on the verge of tears.
“And another thing,” continued Roscoe, “when visitors are in the house I want you to call me ‘Uncle’— not ‘Roscoe,’ but ‘Uncle,’ do you understand? It looks absurd for a boy of fifteen to call me by my first name. Perhaps you’d better call me ‘Uncle’ all the time, so you’ll get used to it.”
With a harsh look at his father, Roscoe turned away. . . .
10
At the termination of this interview, Benjamin wandered dismally205 upstairs and stared at himself in the mirror. He had not shaved for three months, but he could find nothing on his face but a faint white down with which it seemed unnecessary to meddle206. When he had first come home from Harvard, Roscoe had approached him with the proposition that he should wear eye-glasses and imitation whiskers glued to his cheeks, and it had seemed for a moment that the farce207 of his early years was to be repeated. But whiskers had itched208 and made him ashamed. He wept and Roscoe had reluctantly relented.
Benjamin opened a book of boys’ stories, The Boy Scouts209 in Bimini Bay, and began to read. But he found himself thinking persistently about the war. America had joined the Allied210 cause during the preceding month, and Benjamin wanted to enlist211, but, alas212, sixteen was the minimum age, and he did not look that old. His true age, which was fifty-seven, would have disqualified him, anyway.
There was a knock at his door, and the butler appeared with a letter bearing a large official legend in the corner and addressed to Mr. Benjamin Button. Benjamin tore it open eagerly, and read the enclosure with delight. It informed him that many reserve officers who had served in the Spanish-American War were being called back into service with a higher rank, and it enclosed his commission as brigadier-general in the United States army with orders to report immediately.
Benjamin jumped to his feet fairly quivering with enthusiasm. This was what he had wanted. He seized his cap, and ten minutes later he had entered a large tailoring establishment on Charles Street, and asked in his uncertain treble to be measured for a uniform.
“Want to play soldier, sonny?” demanded a clerk casually213.
Benjamin flushed. “Say! Never mind what I want!” he retorted angrily. “My name’s Button and I live on Mt. Vernon Place, so you know I’m good for it.”
“Well,” admitted the clerk hesitantly, “if you’re not, I guess your daddy is, all right.”
Benjamin was measured, and a week later his uniform was completed. He had difficulty in obtaining the proper general’s insignia because the dealer214 kept insisting to Benjamin that a nice V.W.C.A. badge would look just as well and be much more fun to play with.
Saying nothing to Roscoe, he left the house one night and proceeded by train to Camp Mosby, in South Carolina, where he was to command an infantry215 brigade. On a sultry April day he approached the entrance to the camp, paid off the taxicab which had brought him from the station, and turned to the sentry216 on guard.
“Get some one to handle my luggage!” he said briskly.
The sentry eyed him reproachfully. “Say,” he remarked, “where you goin’ with the general’s duds, sonny?”
Benjamin, veteran of the Spanish-American War, whirled upon him with fire in his eye, but with, alas, a changing treble voice.
“Come to attention!” he tried to thunder; he paused for breath — then suddenly he saw the sentry snap his heels together and bring his rifle to the present. Benjamin concealed a smile of gratification, but when he glanced around his smile faded. It was not he who had inspired obedience217, but an imposing218 artillery219 colonel who was approaching on horseback.
“Colonel!” called Benjamin shrilly220.
The colonel came up, drew rein221, and looked coolly down at him with a twinkle in his eyes. “Whose little boy are you?” he demanded kindly222.
“I’ll soon darn well show you whose little boy I am!” retorted Benjamin in a ferocious223 voice. “Get down off that horse!”
The colonel roared with laughter.
“You want him, eh, general?”
“Here!” cried Benjamin desperately. “Read this.” And he thrust his commission toward the colonel. The colonel read it, his eyes popping from their sockets224. “Where’d you get this?” he demanded, slipping the document into his own pocket. “I got it from the Government, as you’ll soon find out!” “You come along with me,” said the colonel with a peculiar225 look. “We’ll go up to headquarters and talk this over. Come along.” The colonel turned and began walking his horse in the direction of headquarters. There was nothing for Benjamin to do but follow with as much dignity as possible — meanwhile promising226 himself a stern revenge. But this revenge did not materialise. Two days later, however, his son Roscoe materialised from Baltimore, hot and cross from a hasty trip, and escorted the weeping general, sans uniform, back to his home.
II
In 1920 Roscoe Button’s first child was born. During the attendant festivities, however, no one thought it “the thing” to mention, that the little grubby boy, apparently about ten years of age who played around the house with lead soldiers and a miniature circus, was the new baby’s own grandfather.
No one disliked the little boy whose fresh, cheerful face was crossed with just a hint of sadness, but to Roscoe Button his presence was a source of torment227. In the idiom of his generation Roscoe did not consider the matter “efficient.” It seemed to him that his father, in refusing to look sixty, had not behaved like a “red-blooded he-man”— this was Roscoe’s favourite expression — but in a curious and perverse228 manner. Indeed, to think about the matter for as much as a half an hour drove him to the edge of insanity229. Roscoe believed that “live wires” should keep young, but carrying it out on such a scale was — was — was inefficient230. And there Roscoe rested.
Five years later Roscoe’s little boy had grown old enough to play childish games with little Benjamin under the supervision231 of the same nurse. Roscoe took them both to kindergarten on the same day, and Benjamin found that playing with little strips of coloured paper, making mats and chains and curious and beautiful designs, was the most fascinating game in the world. Once he was bad and had to stand in the corner — then he cried — but for the most part there were gay hours in the cheerful room, with the sunlight coming in the windows and Miss Bailey’s kind hand resting for a moment now and then in his tousled hair.
Roscoe’s son moved up into the first grade after a year, but Benjamin stayed on in the kindergarten. He was very happy. Sometimes when other tots talked about what they would do when they grew up a shadow would cross his little face as if in a dim, childish way he realised that those were things in which he was never to share.
The days flowed on in monotonous232 content. He went back a third year to the kindergarten, but he was too little now to understand what the bright shining strips of paper were for. He cried because the other boys were bigger than he, and he was afraid of them. The teacher talked to him, but though he tried to understand he could not understand at all.
He was taken from the kindergarten. His nurse, Nana, in her starched233 gingham dress, became the centre of his tiny world. On bright days they walked in the park; Nana would point at a great gray monster and say “elephant,” and Benjamin would say it after her, and when he was being undressed for bed that night he would say it over and over aloud to her: “Elyphant, elyphant, elyphant.” Sometimes Nana let him jump on the bed, which was fun, because if you sat down exactly right it would bounce you up on your feet again, and if you said “Ah” for a long time while you jumped you got a very pleasing broken vocal234 effect.
He loved to take a big cane from the hat-rack and go around hitting chairs and tables with it and saying: “Fight, fight, fight.” When there were people there the old ladies would cluck at him, which interested him, and the young ladies would try to kiss him, which he submitted to with mild boredom235. And when the long day was done at five o’clock he would go upstairs with Nana and be fed on oatmeal and nice soft mushy foods with a spoon.
There were no troublesome memories in his childish sleep; no token came to him of his brave days at college, of the glittering years when he flustered236 the hearts of many girls. There were only the white, safe walls of his crib and Nana and a man who came to see him sometimes, and a great big orange ball that Nana pointed at just before his twilight237 bed hour and called “sun.” When the sun went his eyes were sleepy — there were no dreams, no dreams to haunt him.
The past — the wild charge at the head of his men up San Juan Hill; the first years of his marriage when he worked late into the summer dusk down in the busy city for young Hildegarde whom he loved; the days before that when he sat smoking far into the night in the gloomy old Button house on Monroe Street with his grandfather-all these had faded like unsubstantial dreams from his mind as though they had never been. He did not remember.
He did not remember clearly whether the milk was warm or cool at his last feeding or how the days passed — there was only his crib and Nana’s familiar presence. And then he remembered nothing. When he was hungry he cried — that was all. Through the noons and nights he breathed and over him there were soft mumblings and murmurings that he scarcely heard, and faintly differentiated238 smells, and light and darkness.
Then it was all dark, and his white crib and the dim faces that moved above him, and the warm sweet aroma131 of the milk, faded out altogether from his mind.
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aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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outrageous
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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mishap
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omen
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opaque
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hysterically
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pointed
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perspiration
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falteringly
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aged
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clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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regained
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hearty
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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hoarsely
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parlance
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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apparently
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sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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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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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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53
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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54
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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55
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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56
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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57
plod
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| v.沉重缓慢地走，孜孜地工作 | |
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58
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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59
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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60
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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61
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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62
residential
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| adj.提供住宿的；居住的；住宅的 | |
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63
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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64
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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65
primly
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| adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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66
itches
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| n.痒( itch的名词复数 )；渴望，热望v.发痒( itch的第三人称单数 ) | |
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67
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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68
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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69
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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70
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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71
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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72
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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73
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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74
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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75
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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76
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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77
dummy
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| n.假的东西；(哄婴儿的)橡皮奶头 | |
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78
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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79
spank
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| v.打，拍打(在屁股上) | |
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80
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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81
shears
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| n.大剪刀 | |
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82
ensemble
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| n.合奏(唱)组；全套服装；整体，总效果 | |
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83
watery
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|
| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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84
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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85
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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86
unnatural
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|
| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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87
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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90
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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91
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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92
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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93
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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94
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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95
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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96
spanking
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| adj.强烈的，疾行的；n.打屁股 | |
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97
encyclopedia
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| n.百科全书 | |
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98
prodigious
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|
| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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99
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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100
sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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101
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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102
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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103
antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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104
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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105
dictatorial
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| adj. 独裁的，专断的 | |
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106
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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107
initiated
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|
| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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108
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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109
determinedly
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| adv.决意地；坚决地，坚定地 | |
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110
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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111
concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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112
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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113
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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114
freshman
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| n.大学一年级学生(可兼指男女) | |
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115
registrar
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| n.记录员，登记员；(大学的)注册主任 | |
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116
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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117
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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118
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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119
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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120
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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121
permeated
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| 弥漫( permeate的过去式和过去分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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122
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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123
awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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124
bustles
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| 热闹( bustle的名词复数 )； （女裙后部的）衬垫； 撑架 | |
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125
prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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126
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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127
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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128
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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129
lustreless
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| adj.无光泽的，无光彩的，平淡乏味的 | |
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130
platinum
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| n.白金 | |
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131
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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132
aromas
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| n.芳香( aroma的名词复数 )；气味；风味；韵味 | |
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133
translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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134
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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135
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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136
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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137
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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138
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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139
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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140
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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141
sputtering
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| n.反应溅射法；飞溅；阴极真空喷镀；喷射v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的现在分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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142
bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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143
eddied
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| 起漩涡，旋转( eddy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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145
obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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146
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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147
jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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148
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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149
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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150
enamel
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| n.珐琅，搪瓷，瓷釉；(牙齿的)珐琅质 | |
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151
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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152
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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153
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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154
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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155
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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157
lugs
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| 钎柄 | |
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158
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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159
sprouting
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| v.发芽( sprout的现在分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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160
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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161
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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162
mellowness
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| 成熟； 芳醇； 肥沃； 怡然 | |
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163
prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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164
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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165
coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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166
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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167
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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168
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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169
cargoes
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| n.（船或飞机装载的）货物( cargo的名词复数 )；大量，重负 | |
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170
statute
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| n.成文法，法令，法规；章程，规则，条例 | |
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171
automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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172
enviously
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| adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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173
atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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174
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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175
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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176
inertia
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| adj.惰性，惯性，懒惰，迟钝 | |
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177
adaptable
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| adj.能适应的，适应性强的，可改编的 | |
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178
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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179
toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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181
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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182
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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183
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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184
inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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185
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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186
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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187
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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188
debutantes
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| n.初进社交界的上流社会年轻女子( debutante的名词复数 ) | |
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189
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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190
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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191
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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192
compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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193
proficient
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| adj.熟练的，精通的；n.能手，专家 | |
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194
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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195
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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196
ointment
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| n.药膏，油膏，软膏 | |
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197
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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198
freshmen
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| n.（中学或大学的）一年级学生( freshman的名词复数 ) | |
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199
sophomores
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| n.（中等、专科学校或大学的）二年级学生( sophomore的名词复数 ) | |
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200
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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201
heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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202
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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203
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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204
crimsoned
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| 变为深红色（crimson的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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205
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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206
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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207
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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208
itched
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| v.发痒( itch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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209
scouts
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| 侦察员[机，舰]( scout的名词复数 )； 童子军； 搜索； 童子军成员 | |
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210
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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211
enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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212
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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213
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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214
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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215
infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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216
sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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217
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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218
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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219
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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220
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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221
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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222
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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223
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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224
sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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225
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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226
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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227
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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228
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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229
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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230
inefficient
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| adj.效率低的，无效的 | |
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231
supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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232
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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233
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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234
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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235
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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236
flustered
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| adj.慌张的；激动不安的v.使慌乱，使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
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237
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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238
differentiated
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| 区分，区别，辨别( differentiate的过去式和过去分词 )； 区别对待； 表明…间的差别，构成…间差别的特征 | |
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