Of the steps of my misery5, I cannot tell at length. In ordinary times what were politically called “loans” (although they were never meant to be repaid) were matters of constant course among the students, and many a man has partly lived on them for years. But my misfortune befell me at an awkward juncture6. Many of my friends were gone; others were themselves in a precarious7 situation. Romney (for instance) was reduced to tramping Paris in a pair of country sabots, his only suit of clothes so imperfect (in spite of cunningly adjusted pins) that the authorities at the Luxembourg suggested his withdrawal8 from the gallery. Dijon, too, was on a leeshore, designing clocks and gas-brackets for a dealer9; and the most he could do was to offer me a corner of his studio where I might work. My own studio (it will be gathered) I had by that time lost; and in the course of my expulsion the Genius of Muskegon was finally separated from her author. To continue to possess a full-sized statue, a man must have a studio, a gallery, or at least the freedom of a back garden. He cannot carry it about with him, like a satchel10, in the bottom of a cab, nor can he cohabit in a garret, ten by fifteen, with so momentous11 a companion. It was my first idea to leave her behind at my departure. There, in her birthplace, she might lend an inspiration, methought, to my successor. But the proprietor12, with whom I had unhappily quarrelled, seized the occasion to be disagreeable, and called upon me to remove my property. For a man in such straits as I now found myself, the hire of a lorry was a consideration; and yet even that I could have faced, if I had had anywhere to drive to after it was hired. Hysterical13 laughter seized upon me as I beheld14 (in imagination) myself, the waggoner, and the Genius of Muskegon, standing15 in the public view of Paris, without the shadow of a destination; perhaps driving at last to the nearest rubbish heap, and dumping there, among the ordures of a city, the beloved child of my invention. From these extremities16 I was relieved by a seasonable offer, and I parted from the Genius of Muskegon for thirty francs. Where she now stands, under what name she is admired or criticised, history does not inform us; but I like to think she may adorn18 the shrubbery of some suburban19 tea- garden, where holiday shop-girls hang their hats upon the mother, and their swains (by way of an approach of gallantry) identify the winged infant with the god of love.
In a certain cabman’s eating-house on the outer boulevard I got credit for my midday meal. Supper I was supposed not to require, sitting down nightly to the delicate table of some rich acquaintances. This arrangement was extremely ill-considered. My fable20, credible21 enough at first, and so long as my clothes were in good order, must have seemed worse than doubtful after my coat became frayed22 about the edges, and my boots began to squelch23 and pipe along the restaurant floors. The allowance of one meal a day besides, though suitable enough to the state of my finances, agreed poorly with my stomach. The restaurant was a place I had often visited experimentally, to taste the life of students then more unfortunate than myself; and I had never in those days entered it without disgust, or left it without nausea24. It was strange to find myself sitting down with avidity, rising up with satisfaction, and counting the hours that divided me from my return to such a table. But hunger is a great magician; and so soon as I had spent my ready cash, and could no longer fill up on bowls of chocolate or hunks of bread, I must depend entirely25 on that cabman’s eating-house, and upon certain rare, long-expected, long-remembered windfalls. Dijon (for instance) might get paid for some of his pot-boiling work, or else an old friend would pass through Paris; and then I would be entertained to a meal after my own soul, and contract a Latin Quarter loan, which would keep me in tobacco and my morning coffee for a fortnight. It might be thought the latter would appear the more important. It might be supposed that a life, led so near the confines of actual famine, should have dulled the nicety of my palate. On the contrary, the poorer a man’s diet, the more sharply is he set on dainties. The last of my ready cash, about thirty francs, was deliberately26 squandered27 on a single dinner; and a great part of my time when I was alone was passed upon the details of imaginary feasts.
One gleam of hope visited me — an order for a bust28 from a rich Southerner. He was free-handed, jolly of speech, merry of countenance29; kept me in good humour through the sittings, and when they were over, carried me off with him to dinner and the sights of Paris. I ate well; I laid on flesh; by all accounts, I made a favourable30 likeness31 of the being, and I confess I thought my future was assured. But when the bust was done, and I had despatched it across the Atlantic, I could never so much as learn of its arrival. The blow felled me; I should have lain down and tried no stroke to right myself, had not the honour of my country been involved. For Dijon improved the opportunity in the European style; informing me (for the first time) of the manners of America: how it was a den1 of banditti without the smallest rudiment32 of law or order, and debts could be there only collected with a shotgun. “The whole world knows it,” he would say; “you are alone, mon petit Loudon, you are alone to be in ignorance of these facts. The judges of the Supreme33 Court fought but the other day with stilettos on the bench at Cincinnati. You should read the little book of one of my friends: Le Touriste dans le Far-West; you will see it all there in good French.” At last, incensed34 by days of such discussion, I undertook to prove to him the contrary, and put the affair in the hands of my late father’s lawyer. From him I had the gratification of hearing, after a due interval35, that my debtor36 was dead of the yellow fever in Key West, and had left his affairs in some confusion. I suppress his name; for though he treated me with cruel nonchalance37, it is probable he meant to deal fairly in the end.
Soon after this a shade of change in my reception at the cabman’s eating-house marked the beginning of a new phase in my distress38. The first day, I told myself it was but fancy; the next, I made quite sure it was a fact; the third, in mere39 panic I stayed away, and went for forty-eight hours fasting. This was an act of great unreason; for the debtor who stays away is but the more remarked, and the boarder who misses a meal is sure to be accused of infidelity. On the fourth day, therefore, I returned, inwardly quaking. The proprietor looked askance upon my entrance; the waitresses (who were his daughters) neglected my wants and sniffed40 at the affected41 joviality42 of my salutations; last and most plain, when I called for a suisse (such as was being served to all the other diners) I was bluntly told there were no more. It was obvious I was near the end of my tether; one plank43 divided me from want, and now I felt it tremble. I passed a sleepless44 night, and the first thing in the morning took my way to Myner’s studio. It was a step I had long meditated45 and long refrained from; for I was scarce intimate with the Englishman; and though I knew him to possess plenty of money, neither his manner nor his reputation were the least encouraging to beggars.
I found him at work on a picture, which I was able conscientiously46 to praise, dressed in his usual tweeds, plain, but pretty fresh, and standing out in disagreeable contrast to my own withered47 and degraded outfit48. As we talked, he continued to shift his eyes watchfully49 between his handiwork and the fat model, who sat at the far end of the studio in a state of nature, with one arm gallantly50 arched above her head. My errand would have been difficult enough under the best of circumstances: placed between Myner, immersed in his art, and the white, fat, naked female in a ridiculous attitude, I found it quite impossible. Again and again I attempted to approach the point, again and again fell back on commendations of the picture; and it was not until the model had enjoyed an interval of repose52, during which she took the conversation in her own hands and regaled us (in a soft, weak voice) with details as to her husband’s prosperity, her sister’s lamented53 decline from the paths of virtue54, and the consequent wrath55 of her father, a peasant of stern principles, in the vicinity of Chalons on the Marne; — it was not, I say, until after this was over, and I had once more cleared my throat for the attack, and once more dropped aside into some commonplace about the picture, that Myner himself brought me suddenly and vigorously to the point.
“You didn’t come here to talk this rot,” said he.
“No,” I replied sullenly56; “I came to borrow money.”
He painted awhile in silence.
“I don’t think we were ever very intimate?” he asked.
“Thank you,” said I. “I can take my answer,” and I made as if to go, rage boiling in my heart.
“Of course you can go if you like,” said Myner; “but I advise you to stay and have it out.”
“What more is there to say?” I cried. “You don’t want to keep me here for a needless humiliation57?”
“Look here, Dodd, you must try and command your temper,” said he. “This interview is of your own seeking, and not mine; if you suppose it’s not disagreeable to me, you’re wrong; and if you think I will give you money without knowing thoroughly58 about your prospects59, you take me for a fool. Besides,” he added, “if you come to look at it, you’ve got over the worst of it by now: you have done the asking, and you have every reason to know I mean to refuse. I hold out no false hopes, but it may be worth your while to let me judge.”
Thus — I was going to say — encouraged, I stumbled through my story; told him I had credit at the cabman’s eating-house, but began to think it was drawing to a close; how Dijon lent me a corner of his studio, where I tried to model ornaments60, figures for clocks, Time with the scythe61, Leda and the swan, musketeers for candlesticks, and other kickshaws, which had never (up to that day) been honoured with the least approval.
“And your room?” asked Myner.
“O, my room is all right, I think,” said I. “She is a very good old lady, and has never even mentioned her bill.”
“Because she is a very good old lady, I don’t see why she should be fined,” observed Myner.
“What do you mean by that?” I cried.
“I mean this,” said he. “The French give a great deal of credit amongst themselves; they find it pays on the whole, or the system would hardly be continued; but I can’t see where WE come in; I can’t see that it’s honest of us Anglo-Saxons to profit by their easy ways, and then skip over the Channel or (as you Yankees do) across the Atlantic.”
“But I’m not proposing to skip,” I objected.
“Exactly,” he replied. “And shouldn’t you? There’s the problem. You seem to me to have a lack of sympathy for the proprietors62 of cabmen’s eating-houses. By your own account you’re not getting on: the longer you stay, it’ll only be the more out of the pocket of the dear old lady at your lodgings63. Now, I’ll tell you what I’ll do: if you consent to go, I’ll pay your passage to New York, and your railway fare and expenses to Muskegon (if I have the name right) where your father lived, where he must have left friends, and where, no doubt, you’ll find an opening. I don’t seek any gratitude64, for of course you’ll think me a beast; but I do ask you to pay it back when you are able. At any rate, that’s all I can do. It might be different if I thought you a genius, Dodd; but I don’t, and I advise you not to.”
“I think that was uncalled for, at least,” said I.
“I daresay it was,” he returned, with the same steadiness. “It seemed to me pertinent65; and, besides, when you ask me for money upon no security, you treat me with the liberty of a friend, and it’s to be presumed that I can do the like. But the point is, do you accept?”
“No, thank you,” said I; “I have another string to my bow.”
“All right,” says Myner. “Be sure it’s honest.”
“Honest? honest?” I cried. “What do you mean by calling my honesty in question?”
“I won’t, if you don’t like it,” he replied. “You seem to think honesty as easy as Blind Man’s Buff: I don’t. It’s some difference of definition.”
I went straight from this irritating interview, during which Myner had never discontinued painting, to the studio of my old master. Only one card remained for me to play, and I was now resolved to play it: I must drop the gentleman and the frock -coat, and approach art in the workman’s tunic66.
“Tiens, this little Dodd!” cried the master; and then, as his eye fell on my dilapidated clothing, I thought I could perceive his countenance to darken.
I made my plea in English; for I knew, if he were vain of anything, it was of his achievement of the island tongue. “Master,” said I, “will you take me in your studio again? but this time as a workman.”
“I sought your fazer was immensely reech,” said he.
I explained to him that I was now an orphan67 and penniless.
He shook his head. “I have betterr workmen waiting at my door,” said he, “far betterr workmen.
“You used to think something of my work, sir,” I pleaded.
“Somesing, somesing — yes!” he cried; “enough for a son of a reech man — not enough for an orphan. Besides, I sought you might learn to be an artist; I did not sink you might learn to be a workman.”
On a certain bench on the outer boulevard, not far from the tomb of Napoleon, a bench shaded at that date by a shabby tree, and commanding a view of muddy roadway and blank wall, I sat down to wrestle68 with my misery. The weather was cheerless and dark; in three days I had eaten but once; I had no tobacco; my shoes were soaked, my trousers horrid69 with mire17; my humour and all the circumstances of the time and place lugubriously70 attuned71. Here were two men who had both spoken fairly of my work while I was rich and wanted nothing; now that I was poor and lacked all: “no genius,” said the one; “not enough for an orphan,” the other; and the first offered me my passage like a pauper72 immigrant, and the second refused me a day’s wage as a hewer of stone — plain dealing73 for an empty belly74. They had not been insincere in the past; they were not insincere to-day: change of circumstance had introduced a new criterion: that was all.
But if I acquitted75 my two Job’s comforters of insincerity, I was yet far from admitting them infallible. Artists had been contemned76 before, and had lived to turn the laugh on their contemners. How old was Corot before he struck the vein77 of his own precious metal? When had a young man been more derided78 (or more justly so) than the god of my admiration79, Balzac? Or if I required a bolder inspiration, what had I to do but turn my head to where the gold dome80 of the Invalides glittered against inky squalls, and recall the tale of him sleeping there: from the day when a young artillery-sub could be giggled81 at and nicknamed Puss-in-Boots by frisky82 misses; on to the days of so many crowns and so many victories, and so many hundred mouths of cannon83, and so many thousand war- hoofs84 trampling85 the roadways of astonished Europe eighty miles in front of the grand army? To go back, to give up, to proclaim myself a failure, an ambitious failure, first a rocket, then a stick! I, Loudon Dodd, who had refused all other livelihoods86 with scorn, and been advertised in the Saint Joseph Sunday Herald87 as a patriot88 and an artist, to be returned upon my native Muskegon like damaged goods, and go the circuit of my father’s acquaintance, cap in hand, and begging to sweep offices! No, by Napoleon! I would die at my chosen trade; and the two who had that day flouted89 me should live to envy my success, or to weep tears of unavailing penitence90 behind my pauper coffin91.
Meantime, if my courage was still undiminished, I was none the nearer to a meal. At no great distance my cabman’s eating- house stood, at the tail of a muddy cab-rank, on the shores of a wide thoroughfare of mud, offering (to fancy) a face of ambiguous invitation. I might be received, I might once more fill my belly there; on the other hand, it was perhaps this day the bolt was destined92 to fall, and I might be expelled instead, with vulgar hubbub93. It was policy to make the attempt, and I knew it was policy; but I had already, in the course of that one morning, endured too many affronts94, and I felt I could rather starve than face another. I had courage and to spare for the future, none left for that day; courage for the main campaign, but not a spark of it for that preliminary skirmish of the cabman’s restaurant. I continued accordingly to sit upon my bench, not far from the ashes of Napoleon, now drowsy95, now light-headed, now in complete mental obstruction96, or only conscious of an animal pleasure in quiescence97; and now thinking, planning, and remembering with unexampled clearness, telling myself tales of sudden wealth, and gustfully ordering and greedily consuming imaginary meals: in the course of which I must have dropped asleep.
It was towards dark that I was suddenly recalled to famine by a cold souse of rain, and sprang shivering to my feet. For a moment I stood bewildered: the whole train of my reasoning and dreaming passed afresh through my mind; I was again tempted51, drawn98 as if with cords, by the image of the cabman’s eating-house, and again recoiled99 from the possibility of insult. “Qui dort dine,” thought I to myself; and took my homeward way with wavering footsteps, through rainy streets in which the lamps and the shop-windows now began to gleam; still marshalling imaginary dinners as I went.
“Ah, Monsieur Dodd,” said the porter, “there has been a registered letter for you. The facteur will bring it again to-morrow.”
A registered letter for me, who had been so long without one? Of what it could possibly contain, I had no vestige100 of a guess; nor did I delay myself guessing; far less form any conscious plan of dishonesty: the lies flowed from me like a natural secretion101.
“O,” said I, “my remittance102 at last! What a bother I should have missed it! Can you lend me a hundred francs until to-morrow?”
I had never attempted to borrow from the porter till that moment: the registered letter was, besides, my warranty103; and he gave me what he had — three napoleons and some francs in silver. I pocketed the money carelessly, lingered a while chaffing, strolled leisurely104 to the door; and then (fast as my trembling legs could carry me) round the corner to the Cafe de Cluny. French waiters are deft105 and speedy; they were not deft enough for me; and I had scarce decency106 to let the man set the wine upon the table or put the butter alongside the bread, before my glass and my mouth were filled. Exquisite107 bread of the Cafe Cluny, exquisite first glass of old Pomard tingling108 to my wet feet, indescribable first olive culled109 from the hors d’oeuvre — I suppose, when I come to lie dying, and the lamp begins to grow dim, I shall still recall your savour. Over the rest of that meal, and the rest of the evening, clouds lie thick; clouds perhaps of Burgundy; perhaps, more properly, of famine and repletion110.
I remember clearly, at least, the shame, the despair, of the next morning, when I reviewed what I had done, and how I had swindled the poor honest porter; and, as if that were not enough, fairly burnt my ships, and brought bankruptcy111 home to that last refuge, my garret. The porter would expect his money; I could not pay him; here was scandal in the house; and I knew right well the cause of scandal would have to pack. “What do you mean by calling my honesty in question?” I had cried the day before, turning upon Myner. Ah, that day before! the day before Waterloo, the day before the Flood; the day before I had sold the roof over my head, my future, and my self-respect, for a dinner at the Cafe Cluny!
In the midst of these lamentations the famous registered letter came to my door, with healing under its seals. It bore the postmark of San Francisco, where Pinkerton was already struggling to the neck in multifarious affairs: it renewed the offer of an allowance, which his improved estate permitted him to announce at the figure of two hundred francs a month; and in case I was in some immediate112 pinch, it enclosed an introductory draft for forty dollars. There are a thousand excellent reasons why a man, in this self-helpful epoch113, should decline to be dependent on another; but the most numerous and cogent114 considerations all bow to a necessity as stern as mine; and the banks were scarce open ere the draft was cashed.
It was early in December that I thus sold myself into slavery; and for six months I dragged a slowly lengthening115 chain of gratitude and uneasiness. At the cost of some debt I managed to excel myself and eclipse the Genius of Muskegon, in a small but highly patriotic116 Standard Bearer for the Salon117; whither it was duly admitted, where it stood the proper length of days entirely unremarked, and whence it came back to me as patriotic as before. I threw my whole soul (as Pinkerton would have phrased it) into clocks and candlesticks; the devil a candlestick-maker would have anything to say to my designs. Even when Dijon, with his infinite good humour and infinite scorn for all such journey-work, consented to peddle118 them in indiscriminately with his own, the dealers119 still detected and rejected mine. Home they returned to me, true as the Standard Bearer; who now, at the head of quite a regiment120 of lesser121 idols122, began to grow an eyesore in the scanty123 studio of my friend. Dijon and I have sat by the hour, and gazed upon that company of images. The severe, the frisky, the classical, the Louis Quinze, were there — from Joan of Arc in her soldierly cuirass to Leda with the swan; nay124, and God forgive me for a man that knew better! the humorous was represented also. We sat and gazed, I say; we criticised, we turned them hither and thither125; even upon the closest inspection126 they looked quite like statuettes; and yet nobody would have a gift of them!
Vanity dies hard; in some obstinate127 cases it outlives the man: but about the sixth month, when I already owed near two hundred dollars to Pinkerton, and half as much again in debts scattered128 about Paris, I awoke one morning with a horrid sentiment of oppression, and found I was alone: my vanity had breathed her last during the night. I dared not plunge129 deeper in the bog130; I saw no hope in my poor statuary; I owned myself beaten at last; and sitting down in my nightshirt beside the window, whence I had a glimpse of the tree-tops at the corner of the boulevard, and where the music of its early traffic fell agreeably upon my ear, I penned my farewell to Paris, to art, to my whole past life, and my whole former self. “I give in,” I wrote. “When the next allowance arrives, I shall go straight out West, where you can do what you like with me.”
It is to be understood that Pinkerton had been, in a sense, pressing me to come from the beginning; depicting131 his isolation among new acquaintances, “who have none of them your culture,” he wrote; expressing his friendship in terms so warm that it sometimes embarrassed me to think how poorly I could echo them; dwelling132 upon his need for assistance; and the next moment turning about to commend my resolution and press me to remain in Paris. “Only remember, Loudon,” he would write, “if you ever DO tire of it, there’s plenty of work here for you — honest, hard, well-paid work, developing the resources of this practically virgin133 State. And of course I needn’t say what a pleasure it would be to me if we were going at it SHOULDER TO SHOULDER.” I marvel134 (looking back) that I could so long have resisted these appeals, and continue to sink my friend’s money in a manner that I knew him to dislike. At least, when I did awake to any sense of my position, I awoke to it entirely; and determined135 not only to follow his counsel for the future, but even as regards the past, to rectify136 his losses. For in this juncture of affairs I called to mind that I was not without a possible resource, and resolved, at whatever cost of mortification137, to beard the Loudon family in their historic city.
In the excellent Scots’ phrase, I made a moonlight flitting, a thing never dignified138, but in my case unusually easy. As I had scarce a pair of boots worth portage, I deserted139 the whole of my effects without a pang140. Dijon fell heir to Joan of Arc, the Standard Bearer, and the Musketeers. He was present when I bought and frugally141 stocked my new portmanteau; and it was at the door of the trunk shop that I took my leave of him, for my last few hours in Paris must be spent alone. It was alone (and at a far higher figure than my finances warranted) that I discussed my dinner; alone that I took my ticket at Saint Lazare; all alone, though in a carriage full of people, that I watched the moon shine on the Seine flood with its tufted islets, on Rouen with her spires142, and on the shipping143 in the harbour of Dieppe. When the first light of the morning called me from troubled slumbers144 on the deck, I beheld the dawn at first with pleasure; I watched with pleasure the green shores of England rising out of rosy145 haze146; I took the salt air with delight into my nostrils147; and then all came back to me; that I was no longer an artist, no longer myself; that I was leaving all I cared for, and returning to all that I detested148, the slave of debt and gratitude, a public and a branded failure.
From this picture of my own disgrace and wretchedness, it is not wonderful if my mind turned with relief to the thought of Pinkerton, waiting for me, as I knew, with unwearied affection, and regarding me with a respect that I had never deserved, and might therefore fairly hope that I should never forfeit149. The inequality of our relation struck me rudely. I must have been stupid, indeed, if I could have considered the history of that friendship without shame — I, who had given so little, who had accepted and profited by so much. I had the whole day before me in London, and I determined (at least in words) to set the balance somewhat straighter. Seated in the corner of a public place, and calling for sheet after sheet of paper, I poured forth150 the expression of my gratitude, my penitence for the past, my resolutions for the future. Till now, I told him, my course had been mere selfishness. I had been selfish to my father and to my friend, taking their help, and denying them (which was all they asked) the poor gratification of my company and countenance.
Wonderful are the consolations151 of literature! As soon as that letter was written and posted, the consciousness of virtue glowed in my veins152 like some rare vintage.
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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flout
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| v./n.嘲弄，愚弄，轻视 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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satchel
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| n.(皮或帆布的)书包 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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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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extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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squelch
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| v.压制，镇压；发吧唧声 | |
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nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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25
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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26
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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27
squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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29
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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30
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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31
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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32
rudiment
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| n.初步；初级；基本原理 | |
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33
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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34
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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35
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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36
debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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37
nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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38
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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39
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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40
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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41
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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42
joviality
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| n.快活 | |
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43
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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44
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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45
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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46
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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47
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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48
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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49
watchfully
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| 警惕地，留心地 | |
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50
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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51
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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52
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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53
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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55
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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56
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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57
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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58
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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59
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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60
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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61
scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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62
proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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63
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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64
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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65
pertinent
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| adj.恰当的；贴切的；中肯的；有关的；相干的 | |
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66
tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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67
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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68
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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69
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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70
lugubriously
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71
attuned
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| v.使协调( attune的过去式和过去分词 )；调音 | |
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72
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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73
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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74
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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75
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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76
contemned
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| v.侮辱，蔑视( contemn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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78
derided
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| v.取笑，嘲笑( deride的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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80
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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81
giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
frisky
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| adj.活泼的，欢闹的；n.活泼，闹着玩；adv.活泼地，闹着玩地 | |
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83
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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84
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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85
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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86
livelihoods
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| 生计，谋生之道( livelihood的名词复数 ) | |
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87
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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88
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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89
flouted
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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91
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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92
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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93
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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94
affronts
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| n.（当众）侮辱，（故意）冒犯( affront的名词复数 )v.勇敢地面对( affront的第三人称单数 )；相遇 | |
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95
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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96
obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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97
quiescence
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| n.静止 | |
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98
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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99
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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100
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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101
secretion
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| n.分泌 | |
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102
remittance
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| n.汇款，寄款，汇兑 | |
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103
warranty
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| n.担保书，证书，保单 | |
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104
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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105
deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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106
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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107
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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108
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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109
culled
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| v.挑选，剔除( cull的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
repletion
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| n.充满，吃饱 | |
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111
bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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112
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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113
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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114
cogent
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| adj.强有力的，有说服力的 | |
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115
lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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116
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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117
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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118
peddle
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| vt.(沿街)叫卖，兜售；宣传，散播 | |
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119
dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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120
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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121
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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122
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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123
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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124
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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125
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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126
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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127
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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128
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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129
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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130
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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131
depicting
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| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
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132
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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133
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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134
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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135
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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136
rectify
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| v.订正，矫正，改正 | |
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137
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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138
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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139
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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140
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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141
frugally
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| adv. 节约地, 节省地 | |
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142
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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143
shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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144
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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145
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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146
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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147
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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148
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149
forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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150
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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151
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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152
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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