At length, the meal and family prayers being both happily over, I requested the favour of an interview with Uncle Adam on “the state of my affairs.” At sound of this ominous14 expression, the good man’s face conspicuously16 lengthened17; and when my grandfather, having had the proposition repeated to him (for he was hard of hearing) announced his intention of being present at the interview, I could not but think that Uncle Adam’s sorrow kindled18 into momentary19 irritation20. Nothing, however, but the usual grim cordiality appeared upon the surface; and we all three passed ceremoniously to the adjoining library, a gloomy theatre for a depressing piece of business. My grandfather charged a clay pipe, and sat tremulously smoking in a corner of the fireless chimney; behind him, although the morning was both chill and dark, the window was partly open and the blind partly down: I cannot depict21 what an air he had of being out of place, like a man shipwrecked there. Uncle Adam had his station at the business table in the midst. Valuable rows of books looked down upon the place of torture; and I could hear sparrows chirping22 in the garden, and my sprightly23 cousin already banging the piano and pouring forth24 an acid stream of song from the drawing-room overhead.
It was in these circumstances that, with all brevity of speech and a certain boyish sullenness25 of manner, looking the while upon the floor, I informed my relatives of my financial situation: the amount I owed Pinkerton; the hopelessness of any maintenance from sculpture; the career offered me in the States; and how, before becoming more beholden to a stranger, I had judged it right to lay the case before my family.
“I am only sorry you did not come to me at first,” said Uncle Adam. “I take the liberty to say it would have been more decent.”
“I think so too, Uncle Adam,” I replied; “but you must bear in mind I was ignorant in what light you might regard my application.”
“I hope I would never turn my back on my own flesh and blood,” he returned with emphasis; but to my anxious ear, with more of temper than affection. “I could never forget you were my sister’s son. I regard this as a manifest duty. I have no choice but to accept the entire responsibility of the position you have made.”
I did not know what else to do but murmur26 “thank you.”
“Yes,” he pursued, “and there is something providential in the circumstance that you come at the right time. In my old firm there is a vacancy27; they call themselves Italian Warehousemen now,” he continued, regarding me with a twinkle of humour; “so you may think yourself in luck: we were only grocers in my day. I shall place you there to-morrow.”
“Stop a moment, Uncle Adam,” I broke in. “This is not at all what I am asking. I ask you to pay Pinkerton, who is a poor man. I ask you to clear my feet of debt, not to arrange my life or any part of it.”
“If I wished to be harsh, I might remind you that beggars cannot be choosers,” said my uncle; “and as to managing your life, you have tried your own way already, and you see what you have made of it. You must now accept the guidance of those older and (whatever you may think of it) wiser than yourself. All these schemes of your friend (of whom I know nothing, by the by) and talk of openings in the West, I simply disregard. I have no idea whatever of your going troking across a continent on a wild-goose chase. In this situation, which I am fortunately able to place at your disposal, and which many a well-conducted young man would be glad to jump at, you will receive, to begin with, eighteen shillings a week.”
“Eighteen shillings a week!” I cried. “Why, my poor friend gave me more than that for nothing!”
“And I think it is this very friend you are now trying to repay?” observed my uncle, with an air of one advancing a strong argument.
“Aadam!” said my grandfather.
“I’m vexed29 you should be present at this business,” quoth Uncle Adam, swinging rather obsequiously30 towards the stonemason; “but I must remind you it is of your own seeking.”
“Aadam!” repeated the old man.
“Well, sir, I am listening,” says my uncle.
My grandfather took a puff31 or two in silence; and then, “Ye’re makin’ an awfu’ poor appearance, Aadam,” said he.
My uncle visibly reared at the affront32. “I’m sorry you should think so,” said he, “and still more sorry you should say so before present company.”
“A believe that; A ken33 that, Aadam,” returned old Loudon, dryly; “and the curiis thing is, I’m no very carin’. See here, ma man,” he continued, addressing himself to me. “A’m your grandfaither, amn’t I not? Never you mind what Aadam says. A’ll see justice din28 ye. A’m rich.”
“Father,” said Uncle Adam, “I would like one word with you in private.”
I rose to go.
“Set down upon your hinderlands,” cried my grandfather, almost savagely34. “If Aadam has anything to say, let him say it. It’s me that has the money here; and by Gravy35! I’m goin’ to be obeyed.”
Upon this scurvy36 encouragement, it appeared that my uncle had no remark to offer: twice challenged to “speak out and be done with it,” he twice sullenly37 declined; and I may mention that about this period of the engagement, I began to be sorry for him.
“See here, then, Jeannie’s yin!” resumed my grandfather. “A’m goin’ to give ye a set-off. Your mither was always my fav’rite, for A never could agree with Aadam. A like ye fine yoursel’; there’s nae noansense aboot ye; ye’ve a fine nayteral idee of builder’s work; ye’ve been to France, where they tell me they’re grand at the stuccy. A splendid thing for ceilin’s, the stuccy! and it’s a vailyable disguise, too; A don’t believe there’s a builder in Scotland has used more stuccy than me. But as A was sayin’, if ye’ll follie that trade, with the capital that A’m goin’ to give ye, ye may live yet to be as rich as mysel’. Ye see, ye would have always had a share of it when A was gone; it appears ye’re needin’ it now; well, ye’ll get the less, as is only just and proper.”
Uncle Adam cleared his throat. “This is very handsome, father,” said he; “and I am sure Loudon feels it so. Very handsome, and as you say, very just; but will you allow me to say that it had better, perhaps, be put in black and white?”
The enmity always smouldering between the two men at this ill-judged interruption almost burst in flame. The stonemason turned upon his offspring, his long upper lip pulled down, for all the world, like a monkey’s. He stared a while in virulent39 silence; and then “Get Gregg!” said he.
The effect of these words was very visible. “He will be gone to his office,” stammered40 my uncle.
“Get Gregg!” repeated my grandfather.
“I tell you, he will be gone to his office,” reiterated41 Adam.
“And I tell ye, he’s takin’ his smoke,” retorted the old man.
“Very well, then,” cried my uncle, getting to his feet with some alacrity42, as upon a sudden change of thought, “I will get him myself.”
“Ye will not!” cried my grandfather. “Ye will sit there upon your hinderland.”
“Then how the devil am I to get him?” my uncle broke forth, with not unnatural43 petulance44.
My grandfather (having no possible answer) grinned at his son with the malice45 of a schoolboy; then he rang the bell.
“Take the garden key,” said Uncle Adam to the servant; “go over to the garden, and if Mr. Gregg the lawyer is there (he generally sits under the red hawthorn), give him old Mr. Loudon’s compliments, and will he step in here for a moment?”
“Mr. Gregg the lawyer!” At once I understood (what had been puzzling me) the significance of my grandfather and the alarm of my poor uncle: the stonemason’s will, it was supposed, hung trembling in the balance.
“Look here, grandfather,” I said, “I didn’t want any of this. All I wanted was a loan of (say) two hundred pounds. I can take care of myself; I have prospects46 and opportunities, good friends in the States ——”
The old man waved me down. “It’s me that speaks here,” he said curtly47; and we waited the coming of the lawyer in a triple silence. He appeared at last, the maid ushering48 him in — a spectacled, dry, but not ungenial looking man.
“Here, Gregg,” cried my grandfather. “Just a question: What has Aadam got to do with my will?”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand,” said the lawyer, staring.
“What has he got to do with it?” repeated the old man, smiting49 with his fist upon the arm of his chair. “Is my money mine’s, or is it Aadam’s? Can Aadam interfere50?”
“O, I see,” said Mr. Gregg. “Certainly not. On the marriage of both of your children a certain sum was paid down and accepted in full of legitim. You have surely not forgotten the circumstance, Mr. Loudon?”
“So that, if I like,” concluded my grandfather, hammering out his words, “I can leave every doit I die possessed51 of to the Great Magunn?”— meaning probably the Great Mogul.
“No doubt of it,” replied Gregg, with a shadow of a smile.
“Ye hear that, Aadam?” asked my grandfather.
“I may be allowed to say I had no need to hear it,” said my uncle.
“Very well,” says my grandfather. “You and Jeannie’s yin can go for a bit walk. Me and Gregg has business.”
When once I was in the hall alone with Uncle Adam, I turned to him, sick at heart. “Uncle Adam,” I said, “you can understand, better than I can say, how very painful all this is to me.”
“Yes, I am sorry you have seen your grandfather in so unamiable a light,” replied this extraordinary man. “You shouldn’t allow it to affect your mind though. He has sterling52 qualities, quite an extraordinary character; and I have no fear but he means to behave handsomely to you.”
His composure was beyond my imitation: the house could not contain me, nor could I even promise to return to it: in concession53 to which weakness, it was agreed that I should call in about an hour at the office of the lawyer, whom (as he left the library) Uncle Adam should waylay54 and inform of the arrangement. I suppose there was never a more topsy-turvy situation: you would have thought it was I who had suffered some rebuff, and that iron-sided Adam was a generous conqueror55 who scorned to take advantage.
It was plain enough that I was to be endowed: to what extent and upon what conditions I was now left for an hour to meditate56 in the wide and solitary57 thoroughfares of the new town, taking counsel with street-corner statues of George IV. and William Pitt, improving my mind with the pictures in the window of a music-shop, and renewing my acquaintance with Edinburgh east wind. By the end of the hour I made my way to Mr. Gregg’s office, where I was placed, with a few appropriate words, in possession of a cheque for two thousand pounds and a small parcel of architectural works.
“Mr. Loudon bids me add,” continued the lawyer, consulting a little sheet of notes, “that although these volumes are very valuable to the practical builder, you must be careful not to lose originality58. He tells you also not to be ‘hadden doun’— his own expression — by the theory of strains, and that Portland cement, properly sanded, will go a long way.”
I smiled, and remarked that I supposed it would.
“I once lived in one of my excellent client’s houses,” observed the lawyer; “and I was tempted59, in that case, to think it had gone far enough.”
“Under these circumstances, sir,” said I, “you will be rather relieved to hear that I have no intention of becoming a builder.”
At this, he fairly laughed; and, the ice being broken, I was able to consult him as to my conduct. He insisted I must return to the house, at least, for luncheon60, and one of my walks with Mr. Loudon. “For the evening, I will furnish you with an excuse, if you please,” said he, “by asking you to a bachelor dinner with myself. But the luncheon and the walk are unavoidable. He is an old man, and, I believe, really fond of you; he would naturally feel aggrieved61 if there were any appearance of avoiding him; and as for Mr. Adam, do you know, I think your delicacy62 out of place. . . . And now, Mr. Dodd, what are you to do with this money?”
Ay, there was the question. With two thousand pounds — fifty thousand francs — I might return to Paris and the arts, and be a prince and millionaire in that thrifty63 Latin Quarter. I think I had the grace, with one corner of my mind, to be glad that I had sent the London letter: I know very well that with the rest and worst of me, I repented64 bitterly of that precipitate65 act. On one point, however, my whole multiplex estate of man was unanimous: the letter being gone, there was no help but I must follow. The money was accordingly divided in two unequal shares: for the first, Mr. Gregg got me a bill in the name of Dijon to meet my liabilities in Paris; for the second, as I had already cash in hand for the expenses of my journey, he supplied me with drafts on San Francisco.
The rest of my business in Edinburgh, not to dwell on a very agreeable dinner with the lawyer or the horrors of the family luncheon, took the form of an excursion with the stonemason, who led me this time to no suburb or work of his old hands, but with an impulse both natural and pretty, to that more enduring home which he had chosen for his clay. It was in a cemetery66, by some strange chance, immured67 within the bulwarks68 of a prison; standing69, besides, on the margin70 of a cliff, crowded with elderly stone memorials, and green with turf and ivy71. The east wind (which I thought too harsh for the old man) continually shook the boughs72, and the thin sun of a Scottish summer drew their dancing shadows.
“I wanted ye to see the place,” said he. “Yon’s the stane. Euphemia Ross: that was my goodwife, your grandmither — hoots73! I’m wrong; that was my first yin; I had no bairns by her; — yours is the second, Mary Murray, Born 1819, Died 1850: that’s her — a fine, plain, decent sort of a creature, tak’ her athegether. Alexander Loudon, Born Seventeen Ninety-Twa, Died — and then a hole in the ballant: that’s me. Alexander’s my name. They ca’d me Ecky when I was a boy. Eh, Ecky! ye’re an awfu’ auld74 man!”
I had a second and sadder experience of graveyards75 at my next alighting-place, the city of Muskegon, now rendered conspicuous15 by the dome76 of the new capitol encaged in scaffolding. It was late in the afternoon when I arrived, and raining; and as I walked in great streets, of the very name of which I was quite ignorant — double, treble, and quadruple lines of horse-cars jingling77 by — hundred-fold wires of telegraph and telephone matting heaven above my head — huge, staring houses, garish78 and gloomy, flanking me from either hand — the thought of the Rue79 Racine, ay, and of the cabman’s eating -house, brought tears to my eyes. The whole monotonous80 Babel had grown, or I should rather say swelled81, with such a leap since my departure, that I must continually inquire my way; and the very cemetery was brand new. Death, however, had been active; the graves were already numerous, and I must pick my way in the rain, among the tawdry sepulchres of millionnaires, and past the plain black crosses of Hungarian labourers, till chance or instinct led me to the place that was my father’s. The stone had been erected82 (I knew already) “by admiring friends”; I could now judge their taste in monuments; their taste in literature, methought, I could imagine, and I refrained from drawing near enough to read the terms of the inscription83. But the name was in larger letters and stared at me — JAMES K. DODD. What a singular thing is a name, I thought; how it clings to a man, and continually misrepresents, and then survives him; and it flashed across my mind, with a mixture of regret and bitter mirth, that I had never known, and now probably never should know, what the K had represented. King, Kilter, Kay, Kaiser, I went, running over names at random84, and then stumbled with ludicrous misspelling on Kornelius, and had nearly laughed aloud. I have never been more childish; I suppose (although the deeper voices of my nature seemed all dumb) because I have never been more moved. And at this last incongruous antic of my nerves, I was seized with a panic of remorse85 and fled the cemetery.
Scarce less funereal86 was the rest of my experience in Muskegon, where, nevertheless, I lingered, visiting my father’s circle, for some days. It was in piety87 to him I lingered; and I might have spared myself the pain. His memory was already quite gone out. For his sake, indeed, I was made welcome; and for mine the conversation rolled awhile with laborious88 effort on the virtues89 of the deceased. His former comrades dwelt, in my company, upon his business talents or his generosity90 for public purposes; when my back was turned, they remembered him no more. My father had loved me; I had left him alone to live and die among the indifferent; now I returned to find him dead and buried and forgotten. Unavailing penitence91 translated itself in my thoughts to fresh resolve. There was another poor soul who loved me: Pinkerton. I must not be guilty twice of the same error.
A week perhaps had been thus wasted, nor had I prepared my friend for the delay. Accordingly, when I had changed trains at Council Bluffs92, I was aware of a man appearing at the end of the car with a telegram in his hand and inquiring whether there were any one aboard “of the name of LONDON Dodd?” I thought the name near enough, claimed the despatch93, and found it was from Pinkerton: “What day do you arrive? Awfully94 important.” I sent him an answer giving day and hour, and at Ogden found a fresh despatch awaiting me: “That will do. Unspeakable relief. Meet you at Sacramento.” In Paris days I had a private name for Pinkerton: “The Irrepressible” was what I had called him in hours of bitterness, and the name rose once more on my lips. What mischief95 was he up to now? What new bowl was my benignant monster brewing96 for his Frankenstein? In what new imbroglio97 should I alight on the Pacific coast? My trust in the man was entire, and my distrust perfect. I knew he would never mean amiss; but I was convinced he would almost never (in my sense) do aright.
I suppose these vague anticipations98 added a shade of gloom to that already gloomy place of travel: Nebraska, Wyoming, Utah, Nevada, scowled99 in my face at least, and seemed to point me back again to that other native land of mine, the Latin Quarter. But when the Sierras had been climbed, and the train, after so long beating and panting, stretched itself upon the downward track — when I beheld100 that vast extent of prosperous country rolling seaward from the woods and the blue mountains, that illimitable spread of rippling101 corn, the trees growing and blowing in the merry weather, the country boys thronging102 aboard the train with figs103 and peaches, and the conductors, and the very darky stewards104, visibly exulting105 in the change — up went my soul like a balloon; Care fell from his perch106 upon my shoulders; and when I spied my Pinkerton among the crowd at Sacramento, I thought of nothing but to shout and wave for him, and grasp him by the hand, like what he was — my dearest friend.
“O Loudon!” he cried. “Man, how I’ve pined for you! And you haven’t come an hour too soon. You’re known here and waited for; I’ve been booming you already; you’re billed for a lecture to-morrow night: Student Life in Paris, Grave and Gay: twelve hundred places booked at the last stock! Tut, man, you’re looking thin! Here, try a drop of this.” And he produced a case bottle, staringly labelled PINKERTON’S THIRTEEN STAR GOLDEN STATE BRANDY, WARRANTED ENTIRE.
“God bless me!” said I, gasping107 and winking108 after my first plunge109 into this fiery110 fluid. “And what does ‘Warranted Entire’ mean?”
“Why, Loudon! you ought to know that!” cried Pinkerton. “It’s real, copper-bottomed English; you see it on all the old-time wayside hostelries over there.”
“But if I’m not mistaken, it means something Warranted Entirely111 different,” said I, “and applies to the public house, and not the beverages112 sold.”
“It’s very possible,” said Jim, quite unabashed. “It’s effective, anyway; and I can tell you, sir, it has boomed that spirit: it goes now by the gross of cases. By the way, I hope you won’t mind; I’ve got your portrait all over San Francisco for the lecture, enlarged from that carte de visite: H. Loudon Dodd, the Americo-Parisienne Sculptor113. Here’s a proof of the small handbills; the posters are the same, only in red and blue, and the letters fourteen by one.”
I looked at the handbill, and my head turned. What was the use of words? why seek to explain to Pinkerton the knotted horrors of “Americo-Parisienne”? He took an early occasion to point it out as “rather a good phrase; gives the two sides at a glance: I wanted the lecture written up to that.” Even after we had reached San Francisco, and at the actual physical shock of my own effigy114 placarded on the streets I had broken forth in petulant115 words, he never comprehended in the least the ground of my aversion.
“If I had only known you disliked red lettering!” was as high as he could rise. “You are perfectly116 right: a clear-cut black is preferable, and shows a great deal further. The only thing that pains me is the portrait: I own I thought that a success. I’m dreadfully and truly sorry, my dear fellow: I see now it’s not what you had a right to expect; but I did it, Loudon, for the best; and the press is all delighted.”
At the moment, sweeping117 through green tule swamps, I fell direct on the essential. “But, Pinkerton,” I cried, “this lecture is the maddest of your madnesses. How can I prepare a lecture in thirty hours?”
“All done, Loudon!” he exclaimed in triumph. “All ready. Trust me to pull a piece of business through. You’ll find it all type-written in my desk at home. I put the best talent of San Francisco on the job: Harry118 Miller119, the brightest pressman in the city.”
And so he rattled120 on, beyond reach of my modest protestations, blurting121 out his complicated interests, crying up his new acquaintances, and ever and again hungering to introduce me to some “whole-souled, grand fellow, as sharp as a needle,” from whom, and the very thought of whom, my spirit shrank instinctively122.
Well, I was in for it: in for Pinkerton, in for the portrait, in for the type-written lecture. One promise I extorted123 — that I was never again to be committed in ignorance; even for that, when I saw how its extortion puzzled and depressed the Irrepressible, my soul repented me; and in all else I suffered myself to be led uncomplaining at his chariot wheels. The Irrepressible, did I say? The Irresistible124 were nigher truth.
But the time to have seen me was when I sat down to Harry Miller’s lecture. He was a facetious125 dog, this Harry Miller; he had a gallant126 way of skirting the indecent which (in my case) produced physical nausea127; and he could be sentimental128 and even melodramatic about grisettes and starving genius. I found he had enjoyed the benefit of my correspondence with Pinkerton: adventures of my own were here and there horridly129 misrepresented, sentiments of my own echoed and exaggerated till I blushed to recognise them. I will do Harry Miller justice: he must have had a kind of talent, almost of genius; all attempts to lower his tone proving fruitless, and the Harry- Millerism ineradicable. Nay38, the monster had a certain key of style, or want of style, so that certain milder passages, which I sought to introduce, discorded130 horribly, and impoverished131 (if that were possible) the general effect.
By an early hour of the numbered evening I might have been observed at the sign of the Poodle Dog, dining with my agent: so Pinkerton delighted to describe himself. Thence, like an ox to the slaughter132, he led me to the hall, where I stood presently alone, confronting assembled San Francisco, with no better allies than a table, a glass of water, and a mass of manuscript and typework, representing Harry Miller and myself. I read the lecture; for I had lacked both time and will to get the trash by heart — read it hurriedly, humbly133, and with visible shame. Now and then I would catch in the auditorium134 an eye of some intelligence, now and then, in the manuscript, would stumble on a richer vein135 of Harry Miller, and my heart would fail me, and I gabbled. The audience yawned, it stirred uneasily, it muttered, grumbled136, and broke forth at last in articulate cries of “Speak up!” and “Nobody can hear!” I took to skipping, and being extremely ill-acquainted with the country, almost invariably cut in again in the unintelligible137 midst of some new topic. What struck me as extremely ominous, these misfortunes were allowed to pass without a laugh. Indeed, I was beginning to fear the worst, and even personal indignity138, when all at once the humour of the thing broke upon me strongly. I could have laughed aloud; and being again summoned to speak up, I faced my patrons for the first time with a smile. “Very well,” I said, “I will try, though I don’t suppose anybody wants to hear, and I can’t see why anybody should.” Audience and lecturer laughed together till the tears ran down; vociferous139 and repeated applause hailed my impromptu140 sally. Another hit which I made but a little after, as I turned three pages of the copy: “You see, I am leaving out as much as I possibly can,” increased the esteem with which my patrons had begun to regard me; and when I left the stage at last, my departing form was cheered with laughter, stamping, shouting, and the waving of hats.
Pinkerton was in the waiting-room, feverishly141 jotting142 in his pocket-book. As he saw me enter, he sprang up, and I declare the tears were trickling143 on his cheeks.
“My dear boy,” he cried, “I can never forgive myself, and you can never forgive me. Never mind: I did it for the best. And how nobly you clung on! I dreaded144 we should have had to return the money at the doors.”
“It would have been more honest if we had,” said I.
The pressmen followed me, Harry Miller in the front ranks; and I was amazed to find them, on the whole, a pleasant set of lads, probably more sinned against than sinning, and even Harry Miller apparently145 a gentleman. I had in oysters146 and champagne147 — for the receipts were excellent — and being in a high state of nervous tension, kept the table in a roar. Indeed, I was never in my life so well inspired as when I described my vigil over Harry Miller’s literature or the series of my emotions as I faced the audience. The lads vowed148 I was the soul of good company and the prince of lecturers; and — so wonderful an institution is the popular press — if you had seen the notices next day in all the papers, you must have supposed my evening’s entertainment an unqualified success.
I was in excellent spirits when I returned home that night, but the miserable149 Pinkerton sorrowed for us both.
“O, Loudon,” he said, “I shall never forgive myself. When I saw you didn’t catch on to the idea of the lecture, I should have given it myself!”
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mutation
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| n.变化，变异，转变 | |
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stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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freshman
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| n.大学一年级学生(可兼指男女) | |
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unfamiliar
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salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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lengthening
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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sprightliest
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concealed
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bosom
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herald
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depressed
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ominous
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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conspicuously
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lengthened
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kindled
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momentary
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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21
depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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22
chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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23
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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24
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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25
sullenness
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| n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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26
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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27
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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28
din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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29
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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30
obsequiously
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31
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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32
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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33
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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34
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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35
gravy
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| n.肉汁；轻易得来的钱，外快 | |
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36
scurvy
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| adj.下流的，卑鄙的，无礼的；n.坏血病 | |
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37
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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38
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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39
virulent
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| adj.有毒的，有恶意的，充满敌意的 | |
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40
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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43
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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44
petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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45
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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46
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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47
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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48
ushering
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的现在分词 ) | |
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49
smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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50
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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51
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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52
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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53
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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54
waylay
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| v.埋伏，伏击 | |
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55
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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56
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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57
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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58
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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59
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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60
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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61
aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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62
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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63
thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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64
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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66
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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67
immured
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| v.禁闭，监禁( immure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
bulwarks
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| n.堡垒( bulwark的名词复数 )；保障；支柱；舷墙 | |
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69
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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70
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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71
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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72
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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73
hoots
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| 咄，啐 | |
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74
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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75
graveyards
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| 墓地( graveyard的名词复数 )； 垃圾场； 废物堆积处； 收容所 | |
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76
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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77
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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78
garish
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|
| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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79
rue
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|
| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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80
monotonous
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|
| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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81
swelled
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|
| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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82
ERECTED
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|
| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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83
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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84
random
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|
| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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85
remorse
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|
| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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86
funereal
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|
| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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87
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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88
laborious
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|
| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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89
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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90
generosity
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|
| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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91
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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92
bluffs
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| 恐吓( bluff的名词复数 )； 悬崖； 峭壁 | |
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93
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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94
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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95
mischief
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|
| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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96
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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97
imbroglio
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| n.纷乱，纠葛，纷扰，一团糟 | |
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98
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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99
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
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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101
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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102
thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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103
figs
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| figures 数字，图形，外形 | |
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104
stewards
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| （轮船、飞机等的）乘务员( steward的名词复数 )； （俱乐部、旅馆、工会等的）管理员； （大型活动的）组织者； （私人家中的）管家 | |
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105
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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106
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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107
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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108
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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109
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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110
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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111
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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112
beverages
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| n.饮料( beverage的名词复数 ) | |
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113
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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114
effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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115
petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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116
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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117
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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118
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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119
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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120
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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121
blurting
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的现在分词 ) | |
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122
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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123
extorted
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| v.敲诈( extort的过去式和过去分词 )；曲解 | |
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124
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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125
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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126
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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127
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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128
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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129
horridly
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| 可怕地，讨厌地 | |
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130
discorded
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| 不一致（discord的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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131
impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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132
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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133
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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134
auditorium
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| n.观众席，听众席；会堂，礼堂 | |
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135
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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136
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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137
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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138
indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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139
vociferous
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| adj.喧哗的，大叫大嚷的 | |
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140
impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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141
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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142
jotting
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| n.简短的笔记，略记v.匆忙记下( jot的现在分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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143
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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144
dreaded
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|
| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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145
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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146
oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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147
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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148
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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149
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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