In only one province did Colonel Westcott, our genial1 factotum2, place a voluntary check upon his own activities. His sphere, he decided3, was confined within the elastic4 boundaries of education, moral conduct and Pan-Saxon philosophy. And he accepted these limitations with the quiet resignation of one who owns three-quarters of the globe, and deems the remainder to be a land of frost and snow. In other hands he laid the responsibilities of the sports and entertainments committees. And for this reason, perhaps, they were the two most productive bodies.
For the average Gefangener, however, games were hard to get. Germany is not athletic5 in the sense that we are. Militarism has{194} made muscular development the supreme6 good of all outdoor exercises, and in consequence the authorities thought they had sufficiently7 catered8 for our physical propensities9 by the erection of a horizontal bar, and the largess of some iron weights. Well, that is hardly our idea of sport; and as a nation I do not think we shall ever show much enthusiasm for Swedish drill, P.T., trapezes, and the various devices of a gymnasium, that leave so little room for individuality. The allegiance to a green field and a leather ball, small or big as the season demands, will not be shaken. And at Mainz there were neither green fields nor leather balls.
The gravel10 square was the only open space we had, and it was uncommonly11 hard to fall on. There was one football in the camp, belonging to an orderly, that was from time to time the centre of an exhilarating display. But it was a dangerous pastime; every game resulted in at least three injuries, and a scraped elbow was no joke in a country
Image unavailable: OUR PRISON SQUARE. [To face page 194.
OUR PRISON SQUARE.
[To face page 194.
{195}
devoid13 of medicine. Only the very daring played, and soon most of them were “crocked.”
For a month hockey enjoyed an ephemeral popularity, and a league was arranged, in which nearly every room entered a side. While they lasted those games were great fun, and they were capital exercise. But before very long all the sticks had been smashed, and all efforts to replace them were unavailing, and though a few individuals who had had sticks sent out from England were able to get an occasional game, for the great mass of us hockey ceased almost as soon as it had begun.
The only other game was tennis. As there is no rubber in Germany, this had to be delayed till the late summer, by which time balls and racquets had arrived from England. But what is one court among six hundred? Only a very limited section of the camp could play, and those whose abilities were slight did not feel themselves justified14 in engaging the court to the exclusion15 of their more able brethren. And the{196} whole business really amounted to this: that although a newcomer to the camp would see the square at nearly all moments of the day occupied by some game or other, for the average Gefangener the athletic world did not exist. His sole form of exercise was the grey constitutional round the square; and just before the closing of the gates at night, it was as if a living tube was being moved round within the wire. Five hundred odd officers were walking in couples round a square, with a circumference16 of four hundred yards; words cannot give an impression which can only be caught in terms of paint. For the populace billiards17 was the one athletic outlet18.
And as the two chief resources of the average subaltern are athletics19 and the theatre, this suppression of one channel, diverted to the stage the entire enthusiasm of the camp. Of course each of us thinks his own little part of the world the best: our school, our company, our battalion20, they seem to each individual one of us perfect
Image unavailable: “FIVE HUNDRED ODD OFFICERS WALKING ROUND THE SQUARE.” [To face page 196.
“FIVE HUNDRED ODD OFFICERS WALKING ROUND THE SQUARE.”
[To face page 196.
{197}
and unique. It is only natural that we should think the P.O.W. Theatre, Mainz, the absolute Alhambra of the Gefangenenlagers. However bad our shows had been we should have thought them supreme. But really, considering that every costume had to be improvised21, every piece of scenery painted on flimsy paper, and that female attire22 was unpurchasable, I do not think that its shows could have been better staged. Certainly the scenic23 effects towards the end of our captivity24 were better than anything one would have seen at a provincial25 pantomime, though that is in itself hardly a recommendation.
Programmes began modestly enough in the days of soup and sauerkraut. We were hungry then and had little spare vitality26. But a concert party was formed that called itself the “Pows,” and which gave performances every Saturday. There were many difficulties, the chief one being an entire lack of revue music. In order to get a song the aid of many had to be invoked27. A{198} committee of six would sit round a table trying to remember the words of “We’ve got a little Cottage” or “When Paderewski plays.” Each person remembered a stray line or phrase, and gradually like a jigsaw28 puzzle the fabric29 was completed. And then the music had to be written, and luckily the “Pows” possessed30 in Aubrey Dowdon a musical director who could write music as fast as he could write a letter. He scored the parts, and the musician strummed them out. The result was a most amusing vaudeville31 performance. There were some excellent voices, romantic and humorous; Aubrey Dowdon was himself no mean vocalist, and there was Milton Hayes.
Indeed it is hard not to make the account of those early performances a mere32 chronicle of Milton Hayes. He was the supreme humorist. All he had to do was to stand on the stage and smile, and the audience was happy. It was a wonderful smile, that unconscious innocent affair that only childhood is supposed to know. And to watch{199} Hayes perform was like watching a child play with bricks. It was as if he were making his jokes simply for his own pleasure, building up his toy palace of fun, and then turning to his audience to ask them how they liked it. A small stage and a small room give scope for a far deeper intimacy33 than is possible in the large proscenium of a London hall, where the artist can see before him only a dull blur34 of faces through the dusk. At Mainz Milton Hayes could see and, as it were, speak to each individual present, and before he had been on the stage five minutes one felt as if he were an old friend that one had known all one’s life. He caught the true spirit of intimacy, the kindredship with his audience, that is the whole secret of the music-hall profession.
During the first two months the programme did not change much. There would be always some slight variety in a new stunt35 by Hayes, a new tune36 by Dowdon, or a topical sketch37. But the old numbers con{200}tinually cropped up. “The Money Moon” and “When you’re a long way from Home”—these never left us. Still, they received a hearty38 welcome. The audience in an Offiziergefangenenlager is not too captious39. It goes not to criticise40 but to be amused. And so for the first two months the “Pows” continued to entertain us every Saturday. After a while the stress of private composition caused Milton Hayes to drop out more or less, but the company went on with an undiminished vigour41. And then suddenly a rumour42 went round the camp that a rival company was being formed, and that in a fortnight’s time the “Shivers” would start their continental43 tour.
The general good being the one standard by which to judge any collective innovation, the enterprise of the “Shivers” must be considered the greatest benefit the camp received. Competition roused the ambition of the “Pows.” Each party swore to outdo the other. There ensued a race of progressive excellence44. Each performance was produced{201} with a more lavish45 outlay46 of the public funds; each time the curtain rose a deeper gasp47 paid homage48 to scenic artists; and the composers ceased to rely for their material on the work of other men. They began to write their own songs and their own music; the old ragtime49 and coon melodies disappeared, and instead we had original airs and topical numbers. And here the “Pows” had a great advantage, for their musical director, who in these pages shelters himself beneath the pseudonym50 of Aubrey Dowdon, had a gift for libretto51 that we soon expect to see on the playbills of the Alhambra, and his company finally beat all records with a musical operetta entitled The Girl on the Stairs. All the songs were original, and it was marvellously staged. There were eastern grottos52, and the gleam of white shoulders through the dusk. There was a long serenade to the Jehlum River girl, in which brown tanned slaves prostrated53 themselves before the half-naked form of a sylph arrayed in veils. There were humour{202} and naughtiness, horseplay and burlesque54. It was a triumph of impromptu55 and ingenuity56, after which the activities of the “Shivers” fell woefully flat.
From the psychological standpoint the professional jealousy57 of those weeks of hectic58 rivalry59 provided food for much deliberation. The rivalry once definitely acknowledged, the camp did its best to foment60 contention61. The manager of the “Shivers” would be told that, unless he was careful, he would be absolutely washed out by the “Pows,” and the same story was carried to Dowdon. There were few things more amusing than to sit behind either party during a rival performance. They would simulate great enthusiasm, but all the time they would be exchanging shy and nervous glances. There would be whispers of—
“Do you think it’s good?”
“Rather cheap that, isn’t it?”
“What a chestnut62!”
And if the piece did make a hit, what colossal63 “wind-up,” what profound trepidation64!{203} And with what eager haste was the next show rehearsed. From the point of view of the public, this was entirely65 excellent. We got excellent shows, for there is no goad66 like jealousy.
But competition is a dangerous tool, and I often used to wonder where all this frenzy67 would end, and to what point it was leading. It had got beyond the well-defined limits of a good-humoured race. If it had been a case of nations, it is quite plain what the result would have been. Competition would have become contention, jealousy would have bred hatred68, and there would have been a war, of which the real issue would have been, shall we say, the prop-box. But of course the companies themselves would not have fought; they had started the war, that would have been enough for them. And the ordinary Gefangener, who had quite unconsciously fanned this flame, by scratching at the sore place and aggravating69 the little itch70, would find himself enrolled71 under one standard or the other, and involved{204} in a war of which he was the unwitting cause.
And he would be told—well, what would he be told? That he was fighting for a prop-box? That would never do. There might come a time when he would not consider a prop-box worth the surrender of his liberty. No, the manager would have to find some striking and impersonal72 cause, “not for passion, or for power.” A theme must be found fitting for high oratory73, a framework constructed that would bear the weight of many sounding phrases. Let the poor Gefangener believe that he is fighting for the freedom of the English stage; let the old catchwords rip, “Art against Vulgarity,” “The Drama against the Vaudeville,” “Shakespeare against A Little Bit of Fluff.” And then....
But fortunately we were not nations armed with a pulpit and a Press, we were simply prisoners of war, and this competition produced some very delightful74 entertainment. But all the same, I still wonder{205} where things would have ended, if we had stayed there much longer. We were riding for a smash. We had exhausted75 our limited resources; for one man cannot compose, stage and produce a new musical comedy every fortnight, and the rivalry of the two parties had developed at such an alarming pace that we were faced with the prospect76 of a return to “The Money Moon,” when Milton Hayes returned to the stage, and, in his own phrase, “let loose the light that set the vault77 of heaven on fire.”
§ 2
For some weeks Milton Hayes had been living the retired78 life of an author, architect or other student. For he had found the effort of repeated performances in an unnatural79 atmosphere a very real strain on his nerves.
“No Sanatogen,” he said, “that’s what does it. I can’t act without Sanatogen. I used to try champagne80 once, but it left me like a rag afterwards. Sanatogen’s the stuff.”{206}
As a traveller in this commodity he would have made quite a hit. He never wearied of singing its praises, and we used to ask him why he did not forward to the firm one of those credentials81 that begin, “Since using your admirable tonic82....”
“Why don’t you try it, Milton?” we used to say. “It would be a jolly good advertisement. ‘Milton Hayes, the author of the Green Eye, says....’ You’d have your name placarded all over the kingdom.”
But he would none of it.
“No,” he said, “that’s far too obvious. Any beginner tries that stunt, or men that are ‘has beens.’ I might invent a mixture. But no, not the other thing. It’s not the sort of publicity83 one wants.”
But whatever commercial advantage Sanatogen may have lacked as an advertising84 agent, its absence in Hayes’s life certainly affected85 his nerves. It is a compound that he found palatable86 only in milk, and even condensed milk was a rare commodity. The result was that Milton Hayes joined the band{207} of Wordsmiths in the Alcove87, and spent his time working on his lyrics88 and on a musical comedy.
This programme satisfied him well enough for a couple of months. In France he had spent much of his time organising concert parties, and in his heart of hearts he was not sorry to be quit for a time of grease paints and the greenroom. But it could not last; and within a short time he was longing12 for fresh worlds to conquer. And, at the suggestion of a friend, he altered and abbreviated90 his musical comedy into a farcical libretto calculated to run for about a hundred minutes. This composition he laid in all good faith before the Entertainments Committee, suggesting that he should choose his cast from the pick of the “Pows” and the “Shivers,” and should himself produce the show. It was a simple proposal; but he had not calculated upon the extent to which professional rivalry had imprisoned91 the dramatic activities of the camp.
While all the world slept momentous92 things{208} had happened. A scheme of regulations had been drawn93 up for the guidance of the managing directors, which in a way resembled the qualifications of League Football. To prevent poaching it had been decided that, once a performer had figured on the playbills of one company, he could not transfer his allegiance elsewhere. No assistance was to be given by one party to another; only the piano, the orchestra and the prop-box were common property. There was a sort of trade boycott94 afoot in which only neutral waters were free from tariff95.
And then into this world of regulated commerce Milton Hayes entered like the bold bad buccaneer of Romance, demanding free ports and free transport, the very pirate of legality.
Well, what the committee’s opinion on this subject was, we can only conjecture96. What it did is a matter of common knowledge. It absolutely refused to lend its support: why, we can but guess. Perhaps they were a little piqued97 at the infrequency of Hayes’s appearance on the vaudeville{209} stage; perhaps they had advanced so far into the land of tabulated98 orders that they could see no safe withdrawal99. Perhaps.... But it is unfair to impute100 motives101 to any one. One can merely state facts, and register one’s personal opinion that collectively humanity is rather stupid, and that if committees are allowed a free hand, they usually do manage to mess things up somehow; and that the conclusions at which they arrive do not at all represent the opinions of those individuals framing them.
I remember that some four and a half years ago I received a sufficiently severe beating from the School’s Games Committee, on the ground that I had played roughly in a house match; and that within a week six of the seven members of that committee had apologised to me in person for their assault. This, as a testimonial to my moral worth, was no doubt comforting; but as an alleviation102 for the pain of those fourteen strokes, it was an inadequate103 recompense. And the treatment of Milton was not very different.{210}
The committee, which consisted of ten officers, refused him their support; but each individual member of the community considered it a grave injustice104, and one and all they came up to Hayes with apologies to the tune of—
“Awfully105 sorry, old man, about this show of yours. I wish we could have helped you. I’d love to myself, only the committee won’t let me. Beastly nuisance I call it, a man isn’t his own master any longer. Awfully sorry, old man.”
By the time the tenth member had expressed a similar regret, Milton Hayes began to wonder whether the committee was a blind force, with a will independent of its component106 parts. He was naturally gratified to receive so many sympathetic condolences, but they did not materially assist him in his task of finding a company to produce his libretto. However, he beat the by-ways and hedges, and finally amassed107 a nondescript community, which for want of a better name he called the “Buckshees.”{211}
The company numbered thirty-two, and was supported by voluntary contribution. The “Pows” and the “Shivers” had drawn within their folds the pick of the vocalists and humorists; two dramatic societies had gleaned108 after them. The remaining stubble was a sorry sight, and as an insignificant109 member of that distinguished110 caste, I must confess that I viewed the first mustering111 of the “Buckshees” with an eye of profound misgiving112. All of them were strangers to one another; and though it is easy to talk of flowers “that blow unseen,” in a community such as a prison camp one is usually aware pretty early of those whom the Fates have endowed with talents. There had been little selection. Affairs had taken a course something like this. Hayes had been walking across the square when he had been accosted113 by a total stranger.
“I say, Hayes,” he would say, “you are getting up a show or something, aren’t you?”
“Yes; like a part in it?”{212}
“Well, that’s what I really came up for.”
“Done any acting114?”
“Oh, not much, you know, a few charades115.”
“Well, what do you fancy?”
“Low comedy.”
“Right, then I’ll put you down for the drunken slaveboy. First rehearsal116 to-morrow at ten in the lecture hall; thanks so much. Cheerioh.”
And so the “Buckshees” were formed.
But the difficulties did not lie merely in the calibre of the artists. There was the staging, the scenery, the music. Hayes had written the songs, but who was to score the melodies? The versatile117 Dowdon had promised to overrule the committee and orchestrate the parts, but what of the piano? For the only two musicians had been collared by the “Pows” and the “Shivers.” There were, of course, numerous strummers, but there was no composer. And it was amusing to watch the way Hayes set to work.
First of all he would write the lyric89, and beat out a rhythm. He would then go and{213} recite his composition to one Radcliffe, who could play the piano, but could not score a part; Radcliffe would get the drift of Hayes’s idea, and would in the course of hours compose a harmony of sorts, which he would play to his friend Gladstone, who could score a part but could not play a piano. Gladstone would jot118 down the notes; and behold119 a finished song, the result of a sort of Progressive Whist.
The troubles of staging were less difficult. The experts had, it is true, been already commandeered by the other societies. But a serviceable quartet of carpenters was discovered, and some decorative120 artists procured121. All these arrangements Hayes left in charge of others. He knew the art of delegating responsibility, and he certainly had his hands full with his cast. For he relied for his success on vitality, innovations, and the quality which he always dubbed122 as “punch.” He did not ask for elaborate scenery. He knew he could not expect to equal effect of The Girl on the Stairs.{214} He simply demanded an adequate setting. He would do the rest.
§ 3
With a company endowed with mediocre123 ability Hayes did wonders. He decided to have a beauty chorus, and with curses and entreaties124 he beat sixteen ungainly males into a semblance125 of the charm and delicacy126 of an Empire revue. It suffered a great deal, that chorus; it was cursed, and excommunicated. It was made a target for all the unmentionable swears. If it had been composed of girls, it would have spent half its time in tears. But eventually it emerged, in all its nudity, a machine. There was a big joyboard, running well into the auditorium127; and on this it affected all the airs and graces of the courtesan. It cajoled and pleaded; it undulated with emotion. It swayed to each breath of melody, and it was not too unpleasant a sight, for Hayes had wisely transported it to an Eastern
Image unavailable: OUR LEADING LADY. [To face page 214.
OUR LEADING LADY.
[To face page 214.
{215}
island, to a harem, and the kindly128 veils of Ethiopian modesty129. Through a mist of white calico it was impossible to discern the razored roughness of a cheek, and the unrazored blackness of an upper lip. The chorus was a triumph.
And the same tribute must be accorded to the leading ladies. Nature had provided them with pleasing features. Under Hayes’s tuition they learnt the art of the glad eye and the droop130 of the lower lip. To see those beauties was to be back again in the gay world of colour and revue. A breath of femininity quivered about the rough-cast masculinity of Mainz. So much so, indeed, that on the night of the first performance a distinguished field officer, who had drunk deeply not only of romance, was observed chasing round the corridor behind the flying feet of an inclement131 Venus, and murmuring between his gasps132, “Don’t call me Major, call me Jim”; and even the most hardened misogynists133 were not unconscious of a thrill when “Leola,” the daughter of the{216} Hesperides, tripped down the joyboard, and sang with outspread, enticing134 arms, that beckoned135 to the audience—
“Come to Sonalia with me.”
The plot of the play was extravagantly136 simple. The curtain went up, revealing a harassed137 author searching among his papers for a hidden plot. The show was billed to start at two o’clock, but the play was lost, what should he do? And then the machinery138 of Romance began. An Arabic inscription139 gave the key. “Why should they not wish for the plot?” Faith would remove mountains, and Faith caused to emerge from the back of the stage a green-faced being, who called himself “The King of Wishland.”
From then onwards it was plain sailing: the barrier between the phenomenal and the real was torn aside, and we were in the world of fancy. And it was no surprise when this obliging monarch140 produced a strange device which he called a “thoughtoscope,” through which could be observed{217} the hurried arrival from New York of the Financier who was to find a plot. Through this mendacious141 lens we saw him cross from Halifax to London. He was in an aeroplane, he was over Holland, he was coming down the Rhine, he had landed in Mainz, and look, amid gigantic enthusiasm the gates of the theatre were flung open and Milton Hayes, disguised as Silas P. Hawkshaw, was observed charging across the square, waving a stick and a suitcase.
What followed was sheer joy. The company rose to the occasion. With perfect equanimity142 we received the news that, in order to find the plot, we should have to be transported to Wishland. In Silas P. Hawkshaw we placed a blind unquestioning trust, and before we knew where we were, the curtain was down, and the chorus was regaling the audience, while the scene-shifters did their noble work.
When next the curtain rose it revealed a tropical island splashed in sunshine. Through a vista143 of palms gleamed the azure144 stretches{218} of some ultimate shoreless sea. But no one would have willingly set sail. The island was too full of charm. There were singing girls and dancing girls, a sultan’s harem, and an American bar, and the story lost itself in a riot of intrigue145. The plot abandoned all coherence146. It was a fairy dream, in which a magic ring changed hands innumerable times, involving disastrous147 loves and deserted148 widows.
And through all this medley149 of incidents Hayes wandered, first in one garb150, then in another. As a Scotsman he swallowed whisky, as a Welshman took two wives, as a padre wandered into a harem, and as “Leda was the mother of Helen of Troy, and all this was to him but as the sound of lyres and flutes151.” It was for him a great triumph, and perhaps the most supreme moment was, when he proffered152 marriage to a much-married widow, and suggested that they should spend their holiday in a bungalow153, in a duet of which the first verse is too good to be forgotten—
Image unavailable: LIEUT. MILTON HAYES, M.C. AS SILAS P. HAWKSHAW. [To face page 218.
LIEUT. MILTON HAYES, M.C. AS SILAS P. HAWKSHAW.
[To face page 218.
{219}
“He. How’d you like a Bungalow for two, dear?
She. How’d you like to furnish it complete?
He. It would be a cosy154 nest, dear.
Like the grey home in the west, dear.
She. And on Sunday I should let you cook the meat,
He. We’d have a little bedroom made for two, dear,
She. A little bed, a little chair or so;
He. And in a month or two, it maybe,
We should have a little baby
Both. Grand piano in our Bungalow.”
There were four more verses, in the main topical, and the play ran its way through the complete gamut155 of upheavals156, matrimonial and domestic. It was impossible to tell who was allied157 to whom. It was a complete and utter socialism, and even the great Plato himself would have been satisfied with that community of wives.
But it had to end; and, to carry the spirit of burlesque to its conclusion, we finished with a pantomime procession. The chorus came on, as choruses always do, in couples beating time with their heels. And in their hands they brandished158 banners on which{220} were inscribed159 the names nearest to the northern heart, “Preston,” “Wigan,” “Johnnie Walker,” “Steve Bloomer.” Then the protagonists160 appeared, each with an appropriate tag, the lovers with a curtsey and a bow—
“And so through every kind of weather
We two will always cling together.”
The gay lady still naughtily impenitent—
“Although I haven’t chanced to find a feller,
I crave161 your pity; pity poor Finella.”
The evil genie162 of the piece, his brows wrinkled with gloom—
“You see my work I never shirk,
For I’ve done all the dirty work.”
And, last of all, Milton Hayes with a wand, a simper and a skirt—
“Without my aid where would poor Jack163 have been?
So please reward the little fairy queen.”
And after that was sung once again the opening chorus, and the curtain was rung down on the most enjoyable show of the P.O.W. Theatre, Mainz, which by a strange{221} and lucky coincidence also happened to be the last. For within a day or two the armistice164 was signed, and the companies and committees were scattered165. It remains166 now for Milton Hayes to give once more to London audiences the pleasure that he gave to us. But because sentiment lies so near to the human heart, I think his association with the “Buckshees” will recall to Milton Hayes more pleasant memories than those of his other and perhaps more universal successes. At a time when life was grey and tedious, he provided us with interest, with employment and amusement. We can only hope that he enjoyed himself as much as we did.
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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factotum
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| n.杂役；听差 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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catered
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| 提供饮食及服务( cater的过去式和过去分词 )； 满足需要，适合 | |
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propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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athletics
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| n.运动，体育，田径运动 | |
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battalion
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| n.营；部队；大队(的人) | |
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improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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scenic
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| adj.自然景色的，景色优美的 | |
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captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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26
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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27
invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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28
jigsaw
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| n.缕花锯，竖锯，拼图游戏；vt.用竖锯锯，使互相交错搭接 | |
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29
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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30
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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31
vaudeville
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| n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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32
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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33
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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34
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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35
stunt
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| n.惊人表演，绝技，特技；vt.阻碍...发育，妨碍...生长 | |
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36
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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37
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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38
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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39
captious
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| adj.难讨好的，吹毛求疵的 | |
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40
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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41
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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42
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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43
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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44
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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45
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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46
outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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47
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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48
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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49
ragtime
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| n.拉格泰姆音乐 | |
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50
pseudonym
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| n.假名，笔名 | |
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51
libretto
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|
| n.歌剧剧本，歌曲歌词 | |
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52
grottos
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|
| n.（吸引人的）岩洞，洞穴，（人挖的）洞室( grotto的名词复数 ) | |
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53
prostrated
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|
| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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54
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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55
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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56
ingenuity
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|
| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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57
jealousy
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|
| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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58
hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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59
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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60
foment
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| v.煽动，助长 | |
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61
contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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62
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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63
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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64
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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65
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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66
goad
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| n.刺棒，刺痛物；激励；vt.激励，刺激 | |
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67
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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68
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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69
aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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70
itch
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|
| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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71
enrolled
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|
| adj.入学登记了的v.[亦作enrol]( enroll的过去式和过去分词 )；登记，招收，使入伍（或入会、入学等），参加，成为成员；记入名册；卷起，包起 | |
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72
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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73
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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74
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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75
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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76
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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77
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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78
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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79
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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80
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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81
credentials
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|
| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
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82
tonic
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|
| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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83
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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84
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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85
affected
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|
| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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86
palatable
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|
| adj.可口的，美味的；惬意的 | |
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87
alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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88
lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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89
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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90
abbreviated
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| adj. 简短的，省略的 动词abbreviate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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91
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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93
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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94
boycott
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| n./v.(联合)抵制，拒绝参与 | |
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95
tariff
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| n.关税，税率；(旅馆、饭店等)价目表，收费表 | |
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96
conjecture
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|
| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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97
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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98
tabulated
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| 把（数字、事实）列成表( tabulate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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100
impute
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| v.归咎于 | |
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101
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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102
alleviation
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| n. 减轻，缓和，解痛物 | |
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103
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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104
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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105
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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106
component
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| n.组成部分，成分，元件；adj.组成的，合成的 | |
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107
amassed
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
gleaned
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的过去式和过去分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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109
insignificant
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|
| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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110
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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111
mustering
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|
| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的现在分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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112
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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113
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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114
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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115
charades
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| n.伪装( charade的名词复数 )；猜字游戏 | |
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116
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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117
versatile
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| adj.通用的，万用的；多才多艺的，多方面的 | |
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118
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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119
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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120
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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121
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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122
dubbed
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| v.给…起绰号( dub的过去式和过去分词 )；把…称为；配音；复制 | |
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123
mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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124
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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125
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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126
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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127
auditorium
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| n.观众席，听众席；会堂，礼堂 | |
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128
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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129
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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130
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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131
inclement
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| adj.严酷的，严厉的，恶劣的 | |
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132
gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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133
misogynists
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| n.厌恶女人的人( misogynist的名词复数 ) | |
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134
enticing
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| adj.迷人的；诱人的 | |
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135
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
extravagantly
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|
| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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137
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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138
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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139
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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140
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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141
mendacious
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| adj.不真的，撒谎的 | |
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142
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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143
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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144
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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145
intrigue
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|
| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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146
coherence
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| n.紧凑；连贯；一致性 | |
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147
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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148
deserted
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|
| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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149
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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150
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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151
flutes
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|
| 长笛( flute的名词复数 )； 细长香槟杯（形似长笛） | |
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152
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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153
bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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154
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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155
gamut
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| n.全音阶，(一领域的)全部知识 | |
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156
upheavals
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| 突然的巨变( upheaval的名词复数 )； 大动荡； 大变动； 胀起 | |
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157
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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158
brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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159
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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160
protagonists
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| n.（戏剧的）主角( protagonist的名词复数 )；（故事的）主人公；现实事件（尤指冲突和争端的）主要参与者；领导者 | |
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161
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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162
genie
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| n.妖怪，神怪 | |
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163
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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164
armistice
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| n.休战，停战协定 | |
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165
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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166
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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