Although Mr. McMaster had lived in Amazonas for nearly sixty years, no one except a few families of Shiriana Indians was aware of his existence. His house stood in a small savannah, one of those little patches of sand and grass that crop up occasionally in that neighbourhood, three miles or so across, bounded on all sides by forest.
The stream which watered it was not marked on any map; it ran through rapids, always dangerous and at most seasons of the year impassable, to join the upper waters of the River Uraricoera, whose course, though boldly delineated in every school atlas1, is still largely conjectural2. None of the inhabitants of the district, except Mr. McMaster, had ever heard of the republic of Colombia, Venezuela, Brazil or Bolivia, each of whom had at one time or another claimed its possession.
Mr. McMaster’s house was larger than those of his neighbours, but similar in character—a palm thatch3 roof, breast high walls of mud and wattle, and a mud floor. He owned the dozen or so head of puny4 cattle which grazed in the savannah, a plantation5 of cassava, some banana and mango trees, a dog, and, unique in the neighbourhood, a single-barrelled, breech-loading shotgun. The few commodities which he employed from the outside world came to him through a long succession of traders, passed from hand to hand, bartered6 for in a dozen languages at the extreme end of one of the longest threads in the web of commerce that spreads from Manáos into the remote fastness of the forest.
One day while Mr. McMaster was engaged in filling some cartridges8, a Shiriana came to him with the news that a white man was approaching through the forest, alone and very sick. He closed the cartridge7 and loaded his gun with it, put those that were finished into his pocket and set out in the direction indicated.
The man was already clear of the bush when Mr. McMaster reached him, sitting on the ground, clearly in a very bad way. He was without hat or boots, and his clothes were so torn that it was only by the dampness of his body that they adhered to it; his feet were cut and grossly swollen9, every exposed surface of skin was scarred by insect and bat bites; his eyes were wild with fever. He was talking to himself in delirium10, but stopped when Mr. McMaster approached and addressed him in English.
“I’m tired,” the man said; then: “Can’t go any farther. My name is Henty and I’m tired. Anderson died. That was a long time ago. I expect you think I’m very odd.”
“I think you are ill, my friend.”
“Just tired. It must be several months since I had anything to eat.”
Mr. McMaster hoisted11 him to his feet and, supporting him by the arm, led him across the hummocks12 of grass towards the farm.
“It is a very short way. When we get there I will give you something to make you better.”
“Jolly kind of you.” Presently he said: “I say, you speak English. I’m English, too. My name is Henty.”
“Well, Mr. Henty, you aren’t to bother about anything more. You’re ill and you’ve had a rough journey. I’ll take care of you.”
They went very slowly, but at length reached the house.
“Lie there in the hammock. I will fetch something for you.”
Mr. McMaster went into the back room of the house and dragged a tin canister from under a heap of skins. It was full of a mixture of dried leaf and bark. He took a handful and went outside to the fire. When he returned he put one hand behind Henty’s head and held up the concoction13 of herbs in a calabash for him to drink. He sipped14, shuddering15 slightly at the bitterness. At last he finished it. Mr. McMaster threw out the dregs on the floor. Henty lay back in the hammock sobbing16 quietly. Soon he fell into a deep sleep.
“Ill-fated” was the epithet17 applied18 by the press to the Anderson expedition to the Parima and upper Uraricoera region of Brazil. Every stage of the enterprise from the preliminary arrangements in London to its tragic19 dissolution in Amazonas was attacked by misfortune. It was due to one of the early setbacks that Paul Henty became connected with it.
He was not by nature an explorer; an even-tempered, good-looking young man of fastidious tastes and enviable possessions, unintellectual, but appreciative20 of fine architecture and the ballet, well travelled in the more accessible parts of the world, a collector though not a connoisseur21, popular among hostesses, revered22 by his aunts. He was married to a lady of exceptional charm and beauty, and it was she who upset the good order of his life by confessing her affection for another man for the second time in the eight years of their marriage. The first occasion had been a short-lived infatuation with a tennis professional, the second was a captain in the Coldstream Guards, and more serious.
Henty’s first thought under the shock of this revelation was to go out and dine alone. He was a member of four clubs, but at three of them he was liable to meet his wife’s lover. Accordingly he chose one which he rarely frequented, a semi-intellectual company composed of publishers, barristers, and men of scholarship awaiting election to the Athenaeum.
Here, after dinner, he fell into conversation with Professor Anderson and first heard of the proposed expedition to Brazil. The particular misfortune that was retarding23 arrangements at that moment was the defalcation24 of the secretary with two-thirds of the expedition’s capital. The principals were ready—Professor Anderson, Dr. Simmons the anthropologist25, Mr. Necher the biologist, Mr. Brough the surveyor, wireless26 operator and mechanic—the scientific and sporting apparatus27 was packed up in crates28 ready to be embarked29, the necessary facilities had been stamped and signed by the proper authorities, but unless twelve hundred pounds was forthcoming the whole thing would have to be abandoned.
Henty, as has been suggested, was a man of comfortable means; the expedition would last from nine months to a year; he could shut his country house—his wife, he reflected, would want to remain in London near her young man—and cover more than the sum required. There was a glamour30 about the whole journey which might, he felt, move even his wife’s sympathies. There and then, over the club fire, he decided31 to accompany Professor Anderson.
When he went home that evening he announced to his wife: “I have decided what I shall do.”
“Yes, darling?”
“You are certain that you no longer love me?”
“Darling, you know, I adore you.”
“But you are certain you love this guardsman, Tony whatever-his-name-is, more?”
“Oh, yes, ever so much more. Quite a different thing altogether.”
“Very well, then. I do not propose to do anything about a divorce for a year. You shall have time to think it over. I am leaving next week for the Uraricoera.”
“Golly, where’s that?”
“I am not perfectly32 sure. Somewhere in Brazil, I think. It is unexplored. I shall be away a year.”
“But darling, how ordinary! Like people in books—big game, I mean, and all that.”
“You have obviously already discovered that I am a very ordinary person.”
“Now, Paul, don’t be disagreeable—oh, there’s the telephone. It’s probably Tony. If it is, d’you mind terribly if I talk to him alone for a bit?”
But in the ten days of preparation that followed she showed greater tenderness, putting off her soldier twice in order to accompany Henty to the shops where he was choosing his equipment and insisting on his purchasing a worsted cummerbund. On his last evening she gave a supper party for him at the Embassy to which she allowed him to ask any of his friends he liked; he could think of no one except Professor Anderson, who looked oddly dressed, danced tirelessly and was something of a failure with everyone. Next day Mrs. Henty came with her husband to the boat train and presented him with a pale blue, extravagantly33 soft blanket, in a suède case of the same colour furnished with a zip fastener and monogram34. She kissed him good-bye and said, “Take care of yourself in wherever it is.”
Had she gone as far as Southampton she might have witnessed two dramatic passages. Mr. Brough got no farther than the gangway before he was arrested for debt—a matter of £32; the publicity35 given to the dangers of the expedition was responsible for the action. Henty settled the account.
The second difficulty was not to be overcome so easily. Mr. Necher’s mother was on the ship before them; she carried a missionary36 journal in which she had just read an account of the Brazilian forests. Nothing would induce her to permit her son’s departure; she would remain on board until he came ashore37 with her. If necessary, she would sail with him, but go into those forests alone he should not. All argument was unavailing with the resolute38 old lady, who eventually, five minutes before the time of embarkation39, bore her son off in triumph, leaving the company without a biologist.
Nor was Mr. Brough’s adherence40 long maintained. The ship in which they were travelling was a cruising liner taking passengers on a round voyage. Mr. Brough had not been on board a week and had scarcely accustomed himself to the motion of the ship before he was engaged to be married; he was still engaged, although to a different lady, when they reached Manáos and refused all inducements to proceed farther, borrowing his return fare from Henty and arriving back in Southampton engaged to the lady of his first choice, whom he immediately married.
In Brazil the officials to whom their credentials42 were addressed were all out of power. While Henty and Professor Anderson negotiated with the new administrators43, Dr. Simmons proceeded up river to Boa Vista44 where he established a base camp with the greater part of the stores. These were instantly commandeered by the revolutionary garrison45, and he himself imprisoned46 for some days and subjected to various humiliations which so enraged47 him that, when released, he made promptly48 for the coast, stopping at Manáos only long enough to inform his colleagues that he insisted on leaving his case personally before the central authorities at Rio.
Thus, while they were still a month’s journey from the start of their labours, Henty and Professor Anderson found themselves alone and deprived of the greater part of their supplies. The ignominy of immediate41 return was not to be borne. For a short time they considered the advisability of going into hiding for six months in Madeira or Tenerife, but even there detection seemed probable; there had been too many photographs in the illustrated49 papers before they left London. Accordingly, in low spirits, the two explorers at last set out alone for the Uraricoera with little hope of accomplishing anything of any value to anyone.
For seven weeks they paddled through green, humid tunnels of forest. They took a few snapshots of naked, misanthropic50 Indians; bottled some snakes and later lost them when their canoe capsized in the rapids; they overtaxed their digestions51, imbibing52 nauseous intoxicants at native galas; they were robbed of the last of their sugar by a Guianese prospector53. Finally, Professor Anderson fell ill with malignant54 malaria55, chattered56 feebly for some days in his hammock, lapsed57 into coma58 and died, leaving Henty alone with a dozen Maku oarsmen, none of whom spoke59 a word of any language known to him. They reversed their course and drifted down stream with a minimum of provisions and no mutual60 confidence.
One day, a week or so after Professor Anderson’s death, Henty awoke to find that his boys and his canoe had disappeared during the night, leaving him with only his hammock and pajamas61 some two or three hundred miles from the nearest Brazilian habitation. Nature forbade him to remain where he was although there seemed little purpose in moving. He set himself to follow the course of the stream, at first in the hope of meeting a canoe. But presently the whole forest became peopled for him with frantic62 apparitions63, for no conscious reason at all. He plodded64 on, now wading65 in the water, now scrambling66 through the bush.
Vaguely67 at the back of his mind he had always believed that the jungle was a place full of food; that there was danger of snakes and savages68 and wild beasts, but not of starvation. But now he observed that this was far from being the case. The jungle consisted solely69 of immense tree trunks, embedded70 in a tangle71 of thorn and vine rope, all far from nutritious72. On the first day he suffered hideously73. Later he seemed anaesthetized and was chiefly embarrassed by the behaviour of the inhabitants who came out to meet him in footman’s livery, carrying his dinner, and then irresponsibly disappeared or raised the covers of their dishes and revealed live tortoises. Many people who knew him in London appeared and ran round him with derisive74 cries, asking him questions to which he could not possibly know the answer. His wife came, too, and he was pleased to see her, assuming that she had got tired of her guardsman and was there to fetch him back; but she soon disappeared, like all the others.
It was then that he remembered that it was imperative75 for him to reach Manáos; he redoubled his energy, stumbling against boulders76 in the stream and getting caught up among the vines. “But I mustn’t waste my strength,” he reflected. Then he forgot that, too, and was conscious of nothing more until he found himself lying in a hammock in Mr. McMaster’s house.
His recovery was slow. At first, days of lucidity77 alternated with delirium; then his temperature dropped and he was conscious even when most ill. The days of fever grew less frequent, finally occurring in the normal system of the tropics, between long periods of comparative health. Mr. McMaster dosed him regularly with herbal remedies.
“It’s very nasty,” said Henty, “but it does do good.”
“There is medicine for everything in the forest,” said Mr. McMaster; “to make you well and to make you ill. My mother was an Indian and she taught me many of them. I have learned others from time to time from my wives. There are plants to cure you and give you fever, to kill you and send you mad, to keep away snakes, to intoxicate78 fish so that you can pick them out of the water with your hands like fruit from a tree. There are medicines even I do not know. They say that it is possible to bring dead people to life after they have begun to stink79, but I have not seen it done.”
“But surely you are English?”
“My father was—at least a Barbadian. He came to British Guiana as a missionary. He was married to a white woman but he left her in Guiana to look for gold. Then he took my mother. The Shiriana women are ugly but very devoted80. I have had many. Most of the men and women living in this savannah are my children. That is why they obey—for that reason and because I have the gun. My father lived to a great age. It is not twenty years since he died. He was a man of education. Can you read?”
“Yes, of course.”
“It is not everyone who is so fortunate. I cannot.”
Henty laughed apologetically. “But I suppose you haven’t much opportunity here.”
“Oh yes, that is just it. I have a great many books. I will show you when you are better. Until five years ago there was an Englishman—at least a black man, but he was well educated in Georgetown. He died. He used to read to me every day until he died. You shall read to me when you are better.”
“I shall be delighted to.”
“Yes, you shall read to me,” Mr. McMaster repeated, nodding over the calabash.
During the early days of his convalescence81 Henty had little conversation with his host; he lay in the hammock staring up at the thatched roof and thinking about his life, rehearsing over and over again different incidents in their life together, including her affairs with the tennis professional and the soldier. The days, exactly twelve hours each, passed without distinction. Mr. McMaster retired82 to sleep at sundown, leaving a little lamp burning—a hand-woven wick drooping83 from a pot of beef fat—to keep away vampire84 bats.
The first time that Henty left the house Mr. McMaster took him for a little stroll around the farm.
“I will show you the black man’s grave,” he said, leading him to a mound85 between the mango trees. “He was very kind to me. Every afternoon until he died, for two hours, he used to read to me. I think I will put up a cross—to commemorate86 his death and your arrival—a pretty idea. Do you believe in God?”
“I’ve never really thought about it much.”
“You are perfectly right. I have thought about it a great deal and I still do not know ... Dickens did.”
“I suppose so.”
“Oh yes, it is apparent in all his books. You will see.”
That afternoon Mr. McMaster began the construction of a headpiece for the Negro’s grave. He worked with a large spokeshave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal.
At last when Henty had passed six or seven consecutive87 days without fever, Mr. McMaster said, “Now I think you are well enough to see the books.”
At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft88 formed by a rough platform erected89 up in the eaves of the roof. Mr. McMaster propped90 a ladder against it and mounted. Henty followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr. McMaster sat on the platform and Henty stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of small bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and rawhide91.
“It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians know how to make that is useful.”
He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of Bleak92 House.
“It does not matter which we take first.”
“You are fond of Dickens?”
“Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man ... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words ... I have all Dickens’s books except those that the ants devoured93. It takes a long time to read them all—more than two years.”
“Well,” said Henty lightly, “they will well last out my visit.”
“Oh, I hope not. It is delightful94 to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire.”
They took down the first volume of Bleak House and that afternoon Henty had his first reading.
He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with his wife, until one day, in one of her rare moments of confidence, she remarked that it was torture to her. Sometimes after that he had thought it might be agreeable to have children to read to. But Mr. McMaster was a unique audience.
The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Henty, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, “Repeat the name, I have forgotten him,” or, “Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman.” He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Henty would have imagined about the circumstances of the story—such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor’s Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible95, did not concern him—but always about the characters. “Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?” He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Henty, asking him to repeat them two or three times; and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in “Tom-all-Alone’s” tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. “I think that Dedlock is a very proud man,” or, “Mrs. Jellyby does not take enough care of her children.” Henty enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did.
At the end of the first day the old man said, “You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again.” And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously96. “I enjoyed that very much. It was an extremely distressing97 chapter. But, if I remember rightly, it will all turn out well.”
By the time that they were well into the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man’s delight had begun to wane98, and Henty was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr. McMaster seemed obtuse99 and paid no attention to these hints.
One day, running his thumb through the pages of Bleak House that remained to be read, Henty said, “We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go.”
“Oh yes,” said Mr. McMaster. “Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend.”
For the first time Henty noticed something slightly menacing in his host’s manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef eaten just before sundown, Henty renewed the subject.
“You know, Mr. McMaster, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality for too long.”
Mr. McMaster bent100 over his plate, crunching101 mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply.
“How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? ... I said how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but ...”
“My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again.”
“Well, I’m very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back ...”
“Yes,” said Mr. McMaster. “The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here ...”
Twice during the next day Henty opened the subject but his host was evasive. Finally he said, “Forgive me, Mr. McMaster, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?”
“There is no boat.”
“Well, the Indians can build one.”
“You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now.”
“How long will that be?”
“A month ... two months ...”
They had finished Bleak House and were nearing the end of Dombey and Son when the rain came.
“Now it is time to make preparations to go.”
“Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season—it is one of their superstitions102.”
“You might have told me.”
“Did I not mention it? I forgot.”
Next morning Henty went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Shirianas sitting in one of the doorways103. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Maku he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch104 of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed105 from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled106, but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied.
At their midday meal Mr. McMaster said, “Mr. Henty, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in most cases, as my children.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe.”
“So they gave me to understand ... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book.”
They finished Dombey and Son; nearly a year had passed since Henty had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of Martin Chuzzlewit, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters.
Year 1919
I James McMaster of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished.
There followed a heavy pencil X, and after it: Mr. McMaster made this mark signed Barnabas Washington.
“Mr. McMaster,” said Henty. “I must speak frankly107. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released.”
“But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like.”
“You know very well that I can’t get away without your help.”
“In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter.”
“Mr. McMaster, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Manáos I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day.”
“But I have no need of another man. You read so well.”
“I have read for the last time.”
“I hope not,” said Mr. McMaster politely.
That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr. McMaster ate alone. Henty lay without speaking, staring at the thatch.
Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr. McMaster, but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Henty resumed the reading of Martin Chuzzlewit where it had been interrupted.
Weeks passed hopelessly. They read Nicholas Nickleby and Little Dorrit and Oliver Twist. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting108 the gravel109 and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars’ worth of gold hung around their necks. Mr. McMaster was vexed110 at his arrival, gave him farine and passo and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Henty had time to scribble111 his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man’s hand.
From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr. McMaster pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and passo at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and passo and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Henty lived in quiet confidence and expectation.
Some time, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters to the Anderson expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Henty could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now probably there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices might sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate112 to himself incidents of his homecoming—the gradual re-encounters with civilization; he shaved and bought new clothes at Manáos, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely113 river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting his wife and uncertain how to address ... “Darling, you’ve been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost ...”
And then Mr. McMaster interrupted. “May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy.”
The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue, but Henty endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his gaoler and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour, he proposed a celebration.
“It is one of the local feast days,” he explained, “and they have been making piwari. You may not like it, but you should try some. We will go across to this man’s home tonight.”
Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic114, monotonous115 manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Henty and Mr. McMaster, and they were given hammocks to sit in.
“You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette116.”
Henty gulped117 the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages118 he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented119. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours’ journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy120. The cadence121 of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically122. Another calabash of piwari was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Shirianas began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and his wife and fell asleep.
He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party.
“I must have been tight last night,” he reflected. “Treacherous drink, that.” He had a headache and feared a recurrence123 of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On the way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr. McMaster sitting there.
“Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?”
“Rotten. That drink doesn’t seem to agree with me.”
“I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep.”
“You haven’t seen my watch anywhere?”
“You have missed it?”
“Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I’ve never slept so long.”
“Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days.”
“Nonsense. I can’t have.”
“Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests.”
“Guests?”
“Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so—I thought you would not mind—as you could not greet them yourself I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take home to your wife who is offering a great reward for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired ... no pleasures except reading ... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again ... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not ... We will not have any Dickens today ... but tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read Little Dorrit again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep.”
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atlas
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conjectural
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thatch
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puny
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plantation
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bartered
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| v.作物物交换，以货换货( barter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cartridge
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| n.弹壳，弹药筒；(装磁带等的)盒子 | |
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8
cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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9
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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10
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
hummocks
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| n.小丘，岗( hummock的名词复数 ) | |
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13
concoction
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| n.调配(物)；谎言 | |
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sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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16
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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17
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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19
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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20
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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21
connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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22
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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retarding
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| 使减速( retard的现在分词 )； 妨碍； 阻止； 推迟 | |
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24
defalcation
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| n.盗用公款，挪用公款，贪污 | |
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25
anthropologist
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| n.人类学家，人类学者 | |
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26
wireless
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| adj.无线的；n.无线电 | |
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27
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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28
crates
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| n. 板条箱, 篓子, 旧汽车 vt. 装进纸条箱 | |
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29
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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30
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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31
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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32
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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33
extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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34
monogram
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| n.字母组合 | |
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35
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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36
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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37
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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38
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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39
embarkation
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| n. 乘船, 搭机, 开船 | |
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40
adherence
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| n.信奉，依附，坚持，固着 | |
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41
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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42
credentials
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| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
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43
administrators
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| n.管理者( administrator的名词复数 )；有管理（或行政）才能的人；（由遗嘱检验法庭指定的）遗产管理人；奉派暂管主教教区的牧师 | |
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44
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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45
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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46
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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49
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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50
misanthropic
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| adj.厌恶人类的，憎恶（或蔑视）世人的；愤世嫉俗 | |
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51
digestions
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| n.消化能力( digestion的名词复数 )；消化，领悟 | |
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52
imbibing
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| v.吸收( imbibe的现在分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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53
prospector
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| n.探矿者 | |
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54
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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55
malaria
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| n.疟疾 | |
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56
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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57
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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58
coma
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| n.昏迷，昏迷状态 | |
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59
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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60
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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61
pajamas
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| n.睡衣裤 | |
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62
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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63
apparitions
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| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
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64
plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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65
wading
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的现在分词 ) | |
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66
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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67
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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68
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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69
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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70
embedded
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| a.扎牢的 | |
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71
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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72
nutritious
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| adj.有营养的，营养价值高的 | |
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73
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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74
derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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75
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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76
boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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77
lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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78
intoxicate
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| vt.使喝醉，使陶醉，使欣喜若狂 | |
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79
stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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80
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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81
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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82
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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83
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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84
vampire
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| n.吸血鬼 | |
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85
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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86
commemorate
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| vt.纪念，庆祝 | |
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87
consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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88
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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89
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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90
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
rawhide
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| n.生牛皮 | |
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92
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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93
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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94
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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95
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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96
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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97
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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98
wane
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| n.衰微，亏缺，变弱；v.变小，亏缺，呈下弦 | |
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99
obtuse
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| adj.钝的；愚钝的 | |
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100
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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101
crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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102
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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103
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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104
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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105
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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106
giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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108
sifting
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| n.筛，过滤v.筛( sift的现在分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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109
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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110
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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111
scribble
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| v.潦草地书写，乱写，滥写；n.潦草的写法，潦草写成的东西，杂文 | |
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112
narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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113
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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114
apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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115
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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116
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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117
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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118
beverages
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| n.饮料( beverage的名词复数 ) | |
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119
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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120
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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121
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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122
liturgically
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| adj.礼拜仪式的 | |
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123
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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