I spent a night at Bucharest, and I arrived at Constantinople on a drizzly1, damp, autumn day in November.
Many people have recorded the melancholy2 they have felt on arriving at Constantinople for the first time, especially in the autumn, under a grey sky, when the kaleidoscopic3, opalescent4 city loses its radiance, suffers eclipse, and seems to wallow in greyness, sadness, dirt, and squalor. A man arriving at Constantinople on November 19, 1912 would have received this melancholy impression at its very intensest. The skies were grey, the air was damp, and the streets looked more than usually squalid and dishevelled. But in addition to this, there was in the air a feeling of great gloom, which was intensified5 by the chattering6 crowds in Pera, laughing and making fun of the Turkish reverses, by the chirping7 women at the balconies, watching the stragglers and the wounded coming back from the front, and listening, in case they might hear the enemy sullenly8 firing. In the city you felt that every Turk, sublimely9 resigned as ever, and superficially, at least, utterly11 expressionless and indifferent as usual, was walking about with a heavy heart, and probably every thinking Turk was feeling bitterly that the disasters which had come were due to the criminal folly12 of a band of alien and childishly incompetent13 political quacks14. You felt also above everything else the[419] invincible15 atmosphere of Byzantium, which sooner or later conquers and disintegrates16 its conquerors17, however robust18 and however virile19. Byzantium, having disintegrated20 two great Empires, seemed to be ironically waiting for a new prey21. One remembered Bismarck’s saying that he could wish no greater misfortune to a country than the possession of Constantinople.
But so quick are the changes there, so chameleon-like is the place, that all this was already out of date two days later. In three days the mood of the city completely changed: people began to talk of the enemy being driven right back to Sofia; the feast of Bairam was celebrated22; the streets were decked with flags; the men-of-war were dressed; and, in the soft autumnal sunshine, the city glowed once more in its ethereal coat of many colours.
The stories of the cholera23, people said, had been grossly exaggerated; 8000 Bulgarians had been taken prisoners (800 was the subsequent figure, some people said three, some people said one). Cholera was raging in the enemy’s lines. New troops were pouring in. The main enemy would be repulsed24; the others would be dealt with piecemeal25, “as before”; in fact, everything was said to be going well.
But I saw a thing with my eyes, which threw some light on the conditions under which the war was being carried on. One morning I drove out in a motor-car with two companions and a Turkish officer, with the intention of reaching the Tchataldja lines. Until that day people had been able to reach the lines in motor-cars. Probably too many people had done this; and most properly an order had been issued to put a stop to the flood of visitors. In spite of the presence of a Turkish officer with us we could not get beyond the village of Kutchuk Tchekmedche, which is right on the Sea of Marmora. Not far from the village, and separated from it by a small river, is a railway station, and as we drove past the bank of the railway line we noticed several dead men lying on the bank. The station was being disinfected. We stopped by the sandy beach to have luncheon26, and before we had finished a cart passed us with more dead in it. We drove back through San Stefano. We entered through a gate and drove down the suburb, where, bounded on one side by a railway embankment, and on the other hand by a wall, there was a large empty space intersected by the road.[420] Beyond this were the houses of San Stefano. It was in this space that we were met by the most gruesome and terrible sight I have ever seen; worse than any battlefield or the sight of wounded men. This plot of ground was littered with dead and dying men. The ground itself was strewn with rags, rubbish, and filth27 of every kind, and everywhere, under the wall, on the grass, by the edge of the road, and on the road, were men in every phase and stage of cholera.
There was nobody to help them; nobody to look after them; nothing to be done for them. Many of them were dead, and lay like terrible black waxworks28 in contorted shapes. Others were moving and struggling, and others again were just gasping29 out the last flicker30 of life. One man was making a last effort to grasp a gourd31. And in the middle of this there were other soldiers, sitting patiently waiting and eating bread under the walls of the houses. There was not a sound, not a murmur32. Imagine a crowd of holiday-makers at Hampstead Heath suddenly stricken by plague, and you will have some idea of this terrible sight. Imagine one of Gustave Doré’s illustrations to Dante’s “Inferno” made into a tableau33 vivant by some unscrupulous and decadent34 artist. Imagine the woodcuts in old Bibles of the Children of Israel stricken in the desert and uplifting their helpless hands to the Brazen35 Serpent. Deserted36, helpless, and hopeless, this mass of men lay like a heap of half-crushed worms, to suffer and to die amidst indescribable filth, and this only seven miles from the capital, where the nurses were not allowed to get patients! Soon after I saw this grisly sight I met Mr. Philip, First Secretary of the U.S.A. Embassy, at the Club. He told me he had been to San Stefano, and that he and a U.S.A. doctor, Major Ford37, were trying to do something to relieve the people who were suffering from cholera. Would I come and help them?
The next day I went to San Stefano.
San Stefano is a small suburb of Constantinople whose name, as we all know, has been written in history. Possibly some day Clapham Junction38 will be equally famous if there is ever a Treaty of Clapham, subsequently ratified39 by the Powers at a Congress of Constantinople or Delhi. It contains a number of elegant whitewashed40 and two-storied houses, inhabited by the well-to-do of Constantinople during the summer months. San Stefano—why or how I know not—became during the war[421] one of the smaller centres of the sick—in other words, a cholera camp.
San Stefano, at the time of my visit, was entirely41 deserted; the elegant summer “residences” empty. The streets were silent. You could reach San Stefano from Constantinople either by steamer, which took a little over an hour and a half; or by train, which took an hour (but there were practically no trains running); or in a carriage, which took two hours and a half. The whole place was lifeless. Only on the quay42, porters and Red Crescent orderlies dealt with great bales of baggage, and every now and then in the silent street you heard the tinkling43, stale music of a faded pianoforte which played an old-fashioned—not an old—tune. I wondered, when I heard this music, who in the world could be playing the pianoforte in San Stefano at such a moment. I need hardly say that the effect was not only melancholy but uncanny; for what is there sadder in the world than out-of-date music played on an exhausted44 and wheezy instrument?
At the quay a line of houses fronted the sea. You then turned up a muddy side street and you came to a small square, where there were a few shops and a few cafés. In the cafés, which were owned by Greeks, people were drinking coffee. The shops were trading in articles which they have brought from the bazaars45 and which they thought might be of use to the cholera patients. A little farther on, beyond the muddy square, where a quantity of horses, donkeys, and mules46 were tethered to the leafless trees, you came to a slight eminence47 surrounded by walls and railings. Within these walls there was a small building made of stucco, Grecian in style. It was the deserted Greek school. This is the place where cholera patients at last found shelter, and this is the place which I was brought to by Major Ford, U.S.A., and Mr. Philip, who both of them went to San Stefano every day.
It was at San Stefano that under the outside wall of the town, and on the railway embankment, the dead and dying were lying like crushed insects, without shelter, without food, without water. Miss Alt, a Swiss lady of over seventy, and a friend of hers, an Austrian lady, Madame Schneider, heard of this state of things and seeing that nothing was being done for these people, and that no medical or other assistance was allowed to be brought them, took the matter into their own hands[422] and started a relief fund with a sum of ￡4, and did what they could for the sick. They turned the deserted Greek school into a hospital, and they were joined by Mr. Frew, a Scotch48 minister of the Dutch Reformed Church in Constantinople. Funds were then supplied them by the British and American Embassies, and Major Ford and Mr. Philip joined these two ladies and Mr. Frew.
The first day I went there, no other medical helpers except these volunteers had a Turkish sergeant49; but the day after, a Turkish medical officer arrived, and the whole matter was nominally50 under his charge. The medical work of the place was undertaken by Major Ford, and the commissariat was managed by Mr. Frew. There were in the Greek school nine rooms altogether. Of these six were occupied by patients, one formed a kind of kitchen and store-room, and two of the rooms were taken over by the medical staff of the Turkish Red Crescent. Besides this there was a compound roofed over in the open air, and there were a certain number of tents—a dozen or so. In this house, and in these tents there were at first thrown together over 350 men, all in various stages of sickness. Some of them were in the last stage of cholera; some of them had dysentery; some of them had typhus; some were suffering from exhaustion51 and starvation, and the greater part of them were sick.
At first there was some doubt whether the disease was cholera. The disease which was manifest—and terribly manifest—did not include all the best-known symptoms of cholera. It was plain also that a great number of the soldiers were suffering simply from exhaustion, exposure, and starvation. But later on medical diagnosis52 was made, and the cholera microbe was discovered. A German cholera specialist who came from Berlin, Dr. Geissler, told me that there was no doubt of the existence of the cholera microbe. Besides which, some of the symptoms were startlingly different from those of mere53 dysentery. From the human point of view, and not from the scientific point of view, the question was indifferent. The solemn fact from the human point of view was that the Turkish soldiers at San Stefano were sick and dying from a disease that in any case in many points resembled cholera, and that others were dying from what was indistinguishable from cholera in its outward manifestations54. Every day and every[423] night so many soldiers died, but less and less as the days went on. One night thirty died; another night fifteen; another night ten; and so on.
I have called the Greek school a hospital, but when you think of a hospital you call up the vision of all the luxury of modern science—of clean beds, of white sheets, of deft55 and skilful56 nurses, of supplies of sterilised water, antiseptics, lemonade, baths, quiet, space, and fresh and clean air. Here there were no such appliances, and no such things. There were no beds; there were mattresses57 on the dusty and dirty floors. The rooms were crowded to overflowing58. There was no means of washing or dressing59 the patients. It is difficult to convey to those who never saw it the impression made by the first sight of the rooms in the Greek school where the sick were lying. Some of the details are too horrible to write. It is enough to say that during the first few days after the sick were put into the Greek school, the rooms were packed and crowded with human beings, some of them in agony and all of them in extreme distress60. They lay on the floor in rows along the walls, with flies buzzing round them; and between these rows of men there was a third row along the middle of the room. They lay across the doors, so that anybody opening a door in a hurry and walking carelessly into the room trod on a sick man. They were weak from starvation. They were one and all of them parched61, groaning62 and moaning, with a torturing and unquenchable thirst. They were suffering from many other diseases besides cholera. One man had got mumps63. Many of the soldiers had gangrened feet and legs, all blue, stiff and rotten, as if they had been frost-bitten. These soldiers had either to have their limbs amputated or to die—and there is no future for an amputated Turk. There is nothing for him to do save to beg. Some of them had swellings and sores and holes in their limbs and in their faces, and although most of them were wounded, all of them were unwashed and many of them covered with vermin. Most of them besides their overcoats and their puttees had practically no clothes at all. Their underclothes were in rags, and caked with dirt. The sick were all soldiers; most of them were Turks; some of them were Greeks.
In such a place any complicated nursing was out of the question. The main duties of those who attempted to relieve[424] the sick consisted in bringing warm clothes and covering to those who were in rags and shivering; soup to those who were faint and exhausted, and water to those who were crying for it; and during the first few days at San Stefano all the sick were crying for water, and crying for it all day and all night long. You could not go into any of the rooms without hearing a piteous chorus of “Doctor Effendi, Doctor Bey, sou, sou” (sou is the Turkish for water). Luckily the water supply was good. There was a clean spring not far from the school, and water mixed with disinfectant could be given to the sick. The sick and the well at first were crowded together absolutely indiscriminately. A man who had nothing the matter with him besides hunger and faintness would be next to a man who was already rigid64 and turning grey in the last comatose65 stage of cholera.
During the first week of this desperate state of things Miss Alt and Madame Schneider worked like slaves. They spent the whole day, and very often the whole night, in bringing clothes to the ragged66, food to the hungry, and water to the thirsty. Mr. Frew managed the whole commissariat and the food supply, and he managed it with positive genius. He smoothed over difficulties, he razed67 obstacles, and in all the creaking joints68 of the difficult machinery69 he poured the inestimable oil of his cheerfulness, his good-humour, and his kindness. Major Ford acted with an equal energy in taking over the medical side of the school and in sorting from the heaped-up sick those who were less ill, and separating them from those who were dangerously ill; and in this task he had the help of Mr. Philip. This sounds a simple thing to say. It was in practice and in fact incredibly difficult. During the first days there were scarcely any orderlies at all and few soldiers, and it was a desperately70 slow and difficult task to get people carried from one place to another. One afternoon, which I shall never forget as long as I live, Major Ford undertook in one of the crowded rooms to shift temporarily all the sick from one side of the room to the other side of it, and while they were there to lay down a clean piece of oilcloth. This was immensely difficult. The patients, of course, were unwilling71 to move. First of all it had to be explained to them that the thing was not a game, and that it would be to their ultimate advantage; and then they had to be bribed72 from one side of the room to the other with baits[425] of lemons and cigarettes. Nevertheless, Major Ford managed to do it and get down a clean piece of oilcloth. When one had spent the whole day in this place, and one had seen people like Miss Alt, Madame Schneider, Major Ford, and Mr. Frew working like slaves from morning till night, one still had the feeling nothing had been done at all compared with what remained undone73, so overwhelming were the odds74. And yet at the end of one week there was a vast change for the better in the whole situation.
Great as was the distress of the wretched victims, they were sublime10 in their resignation. They consented, like Job, in what was worse than dust and ashes, to the working of the Divine will. They most of them had military water-bottles; they used to implore75 to have these bottles filled; and when they were filled—thirsty as they were—they would not drink all the water, but they kept a little back in order to perform the ablutions which the Mohammedan religion ordains76 should accompany the prayers of the faithful. Even in their agony the Turks never lost one particle of their dignity, and never for one moment forgot their perfect manners. They died as they lived—like the Nature’s noblemen they are—always acknowledging every assistance; and when they refused a gift or an offer they put into the refusal the graciousness of an acceptance.
Only those who have been to Turkey can have any idea of the politeness, the innate77 politesse du c?ur, of the Turk. One day when I was coming back from San Stefano on board a Turkish Government launch, and together with an English officer I was talking to the Turkish naval78 officer who was in command of the launch, the Englishman offered a cigarette to the Turkish officer. He accepted it and lit it. The Englishman then offered one to the officer’s younger brother, who was there also. “He does not smoke,” said the officer. Then he added, after a pause, “I do not either.” “He has lit and smoked the cigarette so as not to offend me,” said the Englishman aside to me. This is typical of the kind of politeness the Turks show. Equally polite were the soldiers who were dying of a horrible disease amidst awful conditions. They never forgot their manners. They were childlike and infinitely79 pathetic in their wants. One man in a tent where some of the convalescent were assembled cried out in Turkish his need—which[426] was interpreted to me by a Greek. He wanted a candle, by which a man, he said, might tell stories to the others; for, he added, it was impossible for a story-teller to tell stories in the dark; the audience could not see his face. There was no candle in the place, but I am not ashamed to say that I stole a small lamp and gave it to this man to afford illumination to that story-telling. Another man wanted a lemon. There were then no lemons. The man produced a five-piastre piece (a franc, nearly a shilling). This was a large fortune to him, but he offered it to me if I could get him a lemon. One soldier refused either to eat or to drink. He would not touch either soup or milk or water or sour milk, which was the favourite dish of the soldiers there, and which, being a national dish of Turkey, could be supplied to them in great quantities. He kept on reiterating80 one word. It turned out to mean prune81 soup. He was hankering after prune soup. He wanted prune soup and nothing else. Another man wanted a pencil above all things, which was duly given him.
The gratitude82 of these poor people to anyone who did any little thing for them was immense. “Allah will restore to you everything you have done for us a hundredfold,” they would say. Or again: “You are more than a doctor to us; you are a friend.” One day Mr. Philip brought some flowers to the sick soldiers. Their delight knew no bounds. The Turks love flowers. They treasured them. They even sacrificed their water-bottles—and every drop of water was precious to them—to keep the flowers fresh a little longer.
The curious resignation of the Turkish character used often to be manifest in a striking way, in little matters. Here is an instance which struck me. When lemons or cigarettes, or indeed anything else, were distributed to the patients, one cigarette or one lemon, as the case might be, was given to each man all round the room. Sometimes a patient would ask for two, and his demand used to arouse the indignation of his fellow-patients, which they often expressed in violent terms. Nevertheless, he would persist in his demand, and would keep on saying: “Give me two, Doctor, give me two”; and finally one of the Turkish orderlies present would nod his head and say: “Yes, give him two”; and then he would be given two, and the other patients, instead of grumbling83, would acquiesce84 in the fait accompli and say: “Yes, yes, give him two.” It[427] was curious that they never dreamt of all of them asking for two of any one thing; but the importunate85 were acknowledged to be privileged, if they were sufficiently86 importunate. One morning, when lemons were being distributed to the soldiers, each man receiving a lemon apiece, one, who like the rest wore a fez, said in a whisper to the distributor: “δ?σ? μοι δ?ο ε?μαι Χριστιαν??” (“Give me two. I am a Christian”). There were several Greeks among the sick, and I regret to say that when they were given shirts they frequently sold them to their neighbours, and then appeared naked the next day and asked for another.
Miss Alt’s plan was to give to all who asked—the undeserving as well as the deserving—and the plan worked out quite well in the long run, for, as she said, they were none of them too well off.
After the first few days the Turkish medical authorities took steps in the matter of the Greek school. During the first week of the work there, a British unit of the Turkish Red Crescent arrived from England under the sound direction of Dr. Baines, and a further recruit joined the helpers in the person of Lady Westmacott, who brought with her an energetic, clever and untiring Russian doctor. Although it was impossible to persuade any of the owners of the houses at San Stefano to allow them to be used as hospitals, a house was found for Dr. Baines’ unit. He soon set up a lot of tents, withdrew from the overcrowded school a number of the patients, and was able to do excellent work. But he received this house for himself and his staff on the express condition that no sick of any kind whatsoever87, and not even the owner’s father, should be allowed to go into it. Later on, a unit of the Egyptian Red Crescent arrived, with a staff of German doctors and an Englishman. Wooden barracks were built for them in the plain outside the Greek school, fronting the sea.
Hard words were said about the Turkish medical authorities with regard to this matter; and it is, of course, easy for people who know nothing about the local conditions and the local difficulties to pass sweeping88 judgments89. On the whole, I was told by competent authorities, the Turkish Red Crescent did exceedingly well in dealing90 with the wounded and the sick in the large field of their operations. But an epidemic91 of cholera such as that which I have described seemed[428] to paralyse them. It took the Turks unprepared. Steps were taken, but tardily92; and to Western minds the procedure seemed incredibly and criminally slow; yet in the East it is impossible to do things in a hurry, and if you try to hustle93, you will find that there will be less speed in the long run. If you consider all these things, the Turkish medical authorities, and especially the Turkish doctor in charge at San Stefano, did their best when once they started to work. But when the appalling94 situation arose at San Stefano, when the cholera victims were lying like flies on the railway embankment, they took no steps to face the situation until they were stimulated95 to do so by the example of Miss Alt and Madame Schneider and the pressure of foreign opinion. This was partly due to the fatalism of their outlook, to the resignation of their temperament96, and partly to the disorder97 which was rife98 throughout their military organisation99. As to San Stefano, which is the small area I had the opportunity of observing personally, had it not been for the spontaneous efforts of Miss Alt, Madame Schneider, and Mr. Frew, the Turkish and Greek soldiers who were shut up in the cholera camp, without any possibility of egress100, would have died of hunger and thirst. It must be remembered, as I have said before, that among the cholera patients there were a great number of soldiers who were suffering simply and solely101 from exhaustion and starvation.
After the arrival of the British unit of the Red Crescent, and that of the Egyptian Red Crescent, matters were got into shape at San Stefano, and there was no longer need of volunteers. The worst cases had died. Those who had been suffering from exhaustion and starvation recovered and were sent home. Those who had mild attacks of cholera and dysentery became convalescent, and were moved into the tents. Rooms were cleared out for the worst cases, and it was possible to introduce beds, and to clear up matters. What was at the beginning an ante-chamber to Hell was later, I believe, converted into a clean hospital with all the necessary appliances and attendants.
That this was done was due to the initial enterprise of Miss Alt and Madame Schneider. They were the leading spirits and the soul of this undertaking102. Their work was untiring and incessant103. To have seen Miss Alt at work was a rare privilege. Impervious104 to disgust, but saturated105 with pity, overflowing with love and radiating charity, she threaded her way, bowed with[429] age and with silvered hair, like a good angel or a kind fairy, from tent to tent, from room to room, laden106 with gifts; unconscious of the filth, disdainful of the stench, blind to the hideous107 sights, she went her way, giving with both hands, helping108 with her arms, cheering with her speech, and healing with her smile. Miss Alt came to San Stefano like an angel to Hell, and she could have said, like Beatrice:
“Io son fatta da Dio, sua mercè, tale,
Che la vostra miseria non mi tange,
Nè fiamma d’ esto incendio non m’ assale.”
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drizzly
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| a.毛毛雨的(a drizzly day) | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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kaleidoscopic
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| adj.千变万化的 | |
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opalescent
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| adj.乳色的，乳白的 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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sullenly
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sublimely
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sublime
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utterly
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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quacks
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| abbr.quacksalvers 庸医，骗子(16世纪习惯用水银或汞治疗梅毒的人)n.江湖医生( quack的名词复数 )；江湖郎中；（鸭子的）呱呱声v.（鸭子）发出嘎嘎声( quack的第三人称单数 ) | |
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invincible
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disintegrates
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conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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robust
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virile
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disintegrated
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prey
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celebrated
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cholera
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repulsed
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piecemeal
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luncheon
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filth
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waxworks
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gasping
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flicker
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gourd
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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33
tableau
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| n.画面，活人画（舞台上活人扮的静态画面） | |
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34
decadent
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| adj.颓废的，衰落的，堕落的 | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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39
ratified
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| v.批准，签认（合约等）( ratify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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42
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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43
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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45
bazaars
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| （东方国家的）市场( bazaar的名词复数 )； 义卖； 义卖市场； （出售花哨商品等的）小商品市场 | |
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46
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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47
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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48
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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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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50
nominally
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| 在名义上，表面地； 应名儿 | |
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51
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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diagnosis
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| n.诊断，诊断结果，调查分析，判断 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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mattresses
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| 褥垫，床垫( mattress的名词复数 ) | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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mumps
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| n.腮腺炎 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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comatose
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| adj.昏睡的，昏迷不醒的 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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razed
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| v.彻底摧毁，将…夷为平地( raze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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76
ordains
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的第三人称单数 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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reiterating
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的现在分词 ) | |
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81
prune
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| n.酶干；vt.修剪，砍掉，削减；vi.删除 | |
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82
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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83
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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84
acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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85
importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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86
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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87
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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88
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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89
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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90
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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91
epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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tardily
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| adv.缓慢 | |
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93
hustle
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| v.推搡；竭力兜售或获取；催促；n.奔忙(碌) | |
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94
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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96
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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97
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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98
rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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99
organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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100
egress
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| n.出去；出口 | |
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101
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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102
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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103
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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104
impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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105
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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106
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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107
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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108
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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