To myself,
Evelyn Arthur St. John Waugh
to whose sympathy and
appreciation1 alone it owes its being,
this book is dedicated2.
Dedicatory letter,
My dear Evelyn,
Much has been written and spoken about the lot of the boy with literary aspirations3 in a philistine4 family; little can adequately convey his difficulties, when the surroundings, which he has known from childhood, have been entirely5 literary. It is a sign of victory over these difficulties that this book is chiefly, if at all, worthy6 of attention.
Many of your relatives and most of your father’s friends are more or less directly interested in paper and print. Ever since you first left the nursery for meals with your parents downstairs, the conversation, to which you were an insatiable listener, has been of books, their writers and producers; ever since, as a sleepy but triumphantly7 emancipate8 school-boy, you were allowed to sit up with our elders in the “bookroom” after dinner, you have heard little but discussion about books. Your home has always been full of them; all new books of any merit, and most of none, seem by one way or another to find their place in the files which have long overflowed9 the shelves. Among books your whole life has been layed and you are now rising up in your turn to add one more to the everlasting10 bonfire of the ephemeral.
And all this will be brought up against you. “Another of these precocious11 Waughs,” they will say, “one more nursery novel.” So be it. There is always a certain romance, to the author at least, about a first novel which no reviewer can quite shatter. Good luck! You have still high hopes and big ambitions and have not yet been crushed in the mill of professionalism. Soon perhaps you will join the “wordsmiths” jostling one another for royalties12 and contracts, meanwhile you are still very young.
Yourself,
Evelyn
I
Peter Audley awoke with “second bell” ringing dismally13 down the cloisters14 and rolling over in bed looked at his watch. Reassured15 that he had another five minutes before he need begin getting up, he pulled his rug up over his shoulders and lay back gazing contentedly17 down the dormitory, which was already stirring with the profoundly comforting sounds made by other people dressing18. The splashing of the showers next door, the chipping of the thick crockery and the muttered oaths at backstuds accentuated19 the pleasure of the last minutes.
Early school was kept up practically all the year round at Selchurch, which took a certain pride in the gloom of these early mornings. Peter, however, had got his “privileges” which took away the bitterest sting of frantic20 punctuality and allowed him, after reporting to his form master, to sit out and work in his study.
With a heave he got out of bed and went to wash. The showers looked singularly uninviting but the water for the basins was stone cold—the furnaces were not lit until midday in March 1918—and with rising gloom he returned shivering and half dry to the dormitory. Some fanatic21 had opened one of the high Gothic windows and a cold gust22 of wind swept down the room. There was a chorus of protestastion and the window was closed. He dressed dully and leaving the dormitory at a few minutes past seven crossed the quad23 to “report.” Several fags, laden24 with books, dashed past him, trying desperately25 to avoid recognition by the prefect “taking lates.” His form master nodded to him and he turned on his heel and made for his study. The gravel26 was dark with fallen rain, the sky menacing with monstrous27 rough hewn clouds; over everything spread a fine, wet mist.
The handle of his study door was cold; he went in, kicked the door to and fell into an easy chair gazing round the tiny room. It was pleasant enough and he had spent considerable pains on it, but this morning it afforded him no pleasure.
The carpet was black—a burst of aestheticism which he had long regretted as it took a great deal of brushing and earned his study the name of the “coal cellar”—and the walls distempered a bluish grey. On them were hung four large Medici prints, the gift of his grandmother but his own choice; Botticelli’s Mars & Venus—he had had some difficulty over this with his house master, to whom a nude28 was indecent whether it came from the National Gallery or La Vie Parisienne—Beatrice d’Este, Rembrandt’s “Philosopher” and Holbein’s Duchess of Milan. These he liked either because they were very beautiful or because they gave an air of distinction which his friends’ Harrison Fishers and Rilette pictures lacked. The curtains, cushions on the window seat and table cloth were blue; the whole room was pleasantly redolent of the coffee of the evening before.
Peter, however, lay back staring gloomily at the grey block of class rooms opposite. It was Saturday morning and Saturday afternoon was the time chosen, as being the longest uninterrupted time in the week, for the uniform parade. He could just remember when, his first term, summer 1914, it had been the great social time of the week when tea was brewed29 and quantities of eclaires eaten, and now that he had grown to an age to have a study and enjoy these things, they were all blotted30 out and from two to six he would have to manoeuvre31 a section of sullen32 fags over the wet downs in some futile33 “attack scheme.”
He knew exactly what would happen. They would fall in on one of the quads34 and be inspected—that meant half an hours work with reeking35 brasso and s.a.p. cleaning his uniform and equipment. They would then march up to the downs and in a driving wind stand easy while the O.C. explained the afternoons work. Ordnance36 maps would be issued to all N.C.O.’s with which to follow the explanation; these always bulged37 with incorrect folding and flapped in the wind.
It was never considered sufficient for one company merely to come and attack the other; a huge campaign of which they formed a tiny part would have to be elaborated. A company would be the advanced guard of part of an army, which had landed at Littlehampton and was advancing upon Hasting, intending to capture important bridge heads on the local river on their way; B company, with white hat bands, would be a force set to hold the spur of the downs above the Sanatorium cooperating with hypothetical divisions on either flank, until another division could arrive from Arundel. Rattles38 would be issued to serve as Lewis guns and this game of make-believe would go on for three hours, with extreme discomfort39 to both sides, when whistles and bugles40 would sound and the corps41 form up again for a criticism of the afternoon’s work. They would be told that, when the parade was dismissed, all rifles were to be wiped over with an oily rag before being returned to the armoury and that all uniforms were to be back in the lockers42 before six o’clock. They would then dismiss, hungry, bad tempered and with only twenty minutes in which to change for Chapel43.
He hated the corps and all the more now that he had to take it seriously. He was seventeen and a half; next year, if the war was still on, as it showed every sign of being, would see him fighting. It brought everything terribly near. He had learnt much of what it was like over there from his brother, but Ralf saw everything so abstractedly with such imperturbable44 cynicism. Peter flattered himself that he was far more sensitive and temperamental. He was sure that he would not be able to stand it; Ralf had won the D.S.O. some months ago.
He collected his thoughts with a start and looked at his time table. He had to finish the chapter of Economics which he had left the evening before. The book was lying where he had tossed it and, like everything that morning, looked singularly uninviting. It was bound in a sort of greasy45, limp, oil cloth, “owing,” a label half scraped off the back proclaimed, “to shortage of labour”; it was printed crookedly46 on a thin greyish paper with little brown splinters of wood in it; it was altogether a typical piece of wartime workmanship. He took it up with listless repulsion and began to read.
“From considerations of this nature,” he read, “which, while not true of every person, taken individually, are yet on the average true, it may be inferred, with approximate accuracy, that by adding to the wealth of the poor, something taken, by some recognised and legal process, from the wealth of the rich, while some dissatisfaction as well as satisfaction is inevitably47 caused, yet, provided that the poor be greater in number than the rich, the satisfaction is greater than the dissatisfaction. Inequality of wealth, insofar as ...”
It was all ineffably48 tedious. He tossed the book on to the table in the corner and taking up a novel passed the next half hour in dissatisfied gloom.
II
The clock in the quad struck quarter to eight and voices and shuffling49 sounded across the gravel as the forms began emptying. The door of his study was burst open and Bellinger came in.
“Edifying spectacle of history specialist at work! Here have I been doing geography with the ‘door mouse’ for three mortal quarters of an hour, while you read low novels.”
Bellinger was in the army class, a cheery soul, athletic50, vacant, with an obsession51 for clothes. This was the only subject about which he could talk; he was always perfectly52 dressed himself and had earned something of a reputation by it. People would bring him patterns of cloth and consult him when they were getting suits, which was complimentary53, although they never took his advice. It was said of him that he had once cut the headmaster in London because he met him wearing a brown overcoat with evening dress.
Peter turned down the corner of his page—a pernicious habit even in a wartime “Outlines of Economics” of which he could never cure himself—and got up.
“Come across to hall, you silly old ass16, and tell me the latest bulletins from Sackville Street.”
“Nothing doing,” said Bellinger with the self righteous gloom of one whose religion has been insulted and pulled at the points of his waistcoat, “nothing doing at all. It’s the curse of this infernal war. While all the best people are in uniform they don’t pay any attention to civilian54 fashions. Thank the Lord I shall be in khaki in a couple of months.”
They linked up and walked down to hall, Bellinger earnestly enlarging upon the advantages of the R.A.F. over the ordinary uniform.
When they arrived at the “pits-table,” where people with studies sat, a heated discussion was going on. The head, Peter gathered, had proposed to the Games Committee the night before that none of the house cups should be competed for until after the war and that the time saved should be devoted55 to more parades and longer digging upon the house potatoe plots. Cook, the captain of Lane’s, had apparently56 been the only one with the courage to hold out against him. Lane’s were certain to get the open football and stood a good chance for the Five Mile.
Beaton, a small science specialist, was voluble in the head’s defence.
“After all,” he was saying, “what effects has the war had on us here? We’ve had a little less food and coal, people have been leaving a little earlier, the young masters have gone and these antiquated57 old fools like Boyle have taken their places, parades have become a bit longer, but is this enough? Has anything been done to make us realize that we are in the middle of the biggest war in history?”
“Everything has been done,” said Peter, “to make school life excessively unpleasant—after you with the bread, please Travers—what little of the old life does remain, is what keeps it just tolerable. Good God, isn’t it bad enough for you. I pity the men who’ve come during the last year and know only this side of Selchurch. I hate school, now, and shall be only too glad to get away; why utterly58 spoil it for the ‘underschools’?”
“Yes,” said Travers a large, sad “historian” on the other side of the table, “You seem to be one of the maniacs59 who believe in making themselves wretched because other people are. It’s only by the misery61 of three quarters, that life can be even tolerable for a quarter of society. It’s unjust but it’s better than the whole show being miserable62. It’s a fundamental principle of political science”—any particularly sweeping63 cynicism was a “fundamental principle” with Travers.
“My pater had that craze badly in 1914,” said Garth, a pleasant, spotty youth, next to Peter, “he dug up the tennis court to grow vegetables when there was plenty of waste ground behind the stable yard.”
“And the mater makes me wear old clothes,” said Bellinger, “because she thinks it looks bad to wear new ones in war time.”
“Everyone is quite imbecile about the war”—Travers loved dismissing subjects—“they don’t realize that it is a natural function of development. It’s a fundamental principle that society can only remain normal if it is decimated at regular periods.”
The “paper boy” came to the table. Every day it was the duty of one of the fags to fetch the house papers from the porter’s lodge64, as soon as he came out of early school, and bring them up to hall. They were supposed to go to the people who had bought them at the “paper auction” at the beginning of term, but in practice they went first to the high table where the prefects sat with the housemaster; when they had made their choice, he took them to the “pits-table” and distributed what were left as he liked.
“Times, please” said Peter over his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Audley, that’s gone.”
“All right, Morning Post. Thanks.”
He spread it out over the table and glanced down the columns. It was full of the usual war news (Peter wondered vaguely65 what they managed to put in the papers in peace time); there were rumours66 of preparations for a big German offensive, factious67 political questions in the house, pages of minor68 engagements in the East. He folded it and passed it on to Bellinger.
III
It was a gloomy morning; gloomy even for the Easter term 1918. For half an hour after breakfast he sat in his study cleaning his uniform; in chapel he could smell the cleaning stuff up his nails. After chapel he had to go in for a double period of European History. He went into school profoundly depressed70.
The “historians” were now taken by one Boyle. He had been, until the outbreak of war, the headmaster of a prosperous preparitory school on the East coast and had lived a life of lucrative71 dignity, making himself agreeable to distinguished72 parents and employing a large and competent staff to do the teaching. For two years he had kept doggedly73 on, feeling that it would be a surrender to the barbarian74 enemy if he left, but the numbers steadily75 sank, until one night a bomb was actually dropped onto the gymnasium breaking every frame of glass in the house. Then he realized that he must give it up, “St. Pendred’s” was commandeered to house a garrison76 staff, and Mr. Boyle set about finding other employment. The head forced to choose between Mr. Boyle and a mistress, to his eternal discredit77 chose Mr. Boyle and in less than a year the Senior History Specialist Set had sunk from the intellectual mekka of the school to the haven78 which sheltered those who considered that the work they had had to do to pass the School Certificate absolved79 them from any further exertions80, at any rate, while they were at Selchurch. Not that he was ragged—that would have been beneath the dignity of a Sixth Form set—They merely sat through his hours in complete apathy81. His predecessor82 had been a young man fresh from Cambridge and had made his history extremely entertaining, they had held debates, read each other papers and discussed current politics, but now there were no Varsity scholarships, the battle clouds of France shut out all but the immediate83 future and no one had any particular motive84 for, or interest in, working. Mr. Boyle certainly had not and Youth, far from being the time of burning quests and wild, gloriously vain ideals beloved of the minor poets, is essentially85 one of languor86 and repose87. Every hour he dictated88 notes, from a large leather bound note book, which most people took; every week he set an essay which several people wrote; every month he gave out a syllabus89 of books for out of school study, which nobody read. He asked for little and was content with far less but the Senior History Specialist set often seemed unsatisfactory even to Mr. Boyle.
He came into the class room smiling a dignified90 welcome all round, laid his note book on one side of the high oak desk, his mortar91 board on the other, and sat down smoothing out his gown.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he began in his usual formula, “What are we doing this morning? European history, isn’t it Travers? Thank you. Ah yes, well I don’t think we can do better than go on with our notes for a little. Now let me see where was it we had got to. Alberoni? Yes I see I have the place marked. The last thing I gave you was ‘willing to cede92 Sardinia to secure her nephew’s succession to the Duchy of Parma’ wasn’t it? Well then, head this ‘D. Alberoni’s third coalition93.’” For two hours he dictated an essay on XVIIth diplomacy94.
Peter had reduced the taking of notes to an entirely subconscious95 exercise. He could now sit schooled by long practice, with his mind completely blank or filled with other things while his pen wrote out pages of notes industriously96 and quite correctly. Sometimes he would be woken from his reverie by a pause over some proper name, but often on looking them through he would find names which he had no recollection of having heard before. He sat writing out,
“... invited ‘pretender’ to Spain and arranged with Görz a northern alliance with Sweden and Russia to support the Stuart claims, while at the same time he entered into correspondence with Polignac and the Duchess of Main, to overthrow97 the Regency. The death of Charles XII, however.....”
Mr. Boyle’s notes did not elucidate98 any difficult problems or sift99 the important facts of history from the trivial. They merely stated things in direct paraphrase100 of Lodge; for the whole double period Peter steadily took them down.
At last the clock chimed and Mr. Boyle stood up, shut his note book and took up his mortar board. “That will be enough for this morning, I think. Remember that I want the essays on ‘The Freedom of the civilized101 State’ by Monday evening, without fail this time please. I will ask you to read up Catherine the Great for next Tuesday, if you will—I recommend Lecky. Thank you, good morning.”
Wearily they filed out for break. In the war time efficiency mania60 P.T. had been innovated102 which effectually took up all the break—ten minutes in which to change and twenty minutes drill. Peter hurried to the changing room and began undressing; he suddenly remembered that he had broken the lace of his gym shoe the day before. He succeeded in borrowing another and then realized that he had forgotten to get a new hat for parade as he had been told to last time. Everything seemed to be conspiring103 against him this morning.
“You never lose a stud but you lose the lot,” sighed Bellinger, “Hullo, what the devil does he want.”
Peter looked round and saw the porter’s burly figure framed in the doorway104.
“Telegram for Mr. Audley, sir.”
“Hullo, what?” Peter tore open the orange envelope and hurriedly took out the telegram; it was getting late for P.T.
“Ralf on leave,” it ran, “return home wiring head will meet 4:52 Bulfrey.”
IV
One of the awfully105 clever things that Ralf had said was that life should be divided into water tight compartments106 and that no group of friends or manner of living should be allowed to encroach upon any other. Peter lay back and compared the day with the prospects107 early that morning.
As soon as he had got the telegram he had put on his shoes and told the porter to ’phone for a taxi. After a frantic search for his house master and an incoherent but convincing explanation to him and a hurried interview with the matron about his bag, he had managed to get away in time to catch the 11:12 to Victoria. There he had had a hasty but excellent lunch at the Grosvenor and had dashed across to Paddington and got into the train just as it was starting.
He now had a clear two hours run to Bulfrey. He lay back and took a cigarette from the box he had bought at lunch. Very contentedly he watched the telegraph wires rising falling and recrossing each other, mile after mile.
He had not had time in the rush of half packed pyjamas108, moving trains and lost tickets, to think of what it all meant; now in the empty first class carriage with magazines and cigarettes he began to shake off the shadows of the prison house. He looked at his watch. At the very time that he was swaying into the country through the short wayside stations, Bellinger and Beaton and Garth and everyone else with whose lives his own had seemed so inextricably bound that morning were marching about on the downs. It was very cold at Selchurch, he reflected and the sea mist was lying in the valleys; he was warm with the close atmosphere of the carriage and the glass of port he had had after lunch and with a deep inward content.
Mile succeeded mile through the avenue of telegraph poles. Outside the weather was clearing up and a bright cool sun came out. He watched the fields reeling by and began to pass the landmarks109 which had grown familiar through many home comings, an imposing110 patent medicine factory, the neat beds of a large market garden, an Elizabethan farmhouse111.
He wondered how long this unexpected holiday was going to last; he supposed about four days. This was really the first time that Ralf had made any mark in his life; he was five years older and had always kept himself very much aloof112. They had had many quarrels as brothers always have. At times Ralf had been almost a prig, particularly when he was head of the house at Selchurch, and his first year at Oxford113. Anyway it was through him that Peter was now sitting in comfort instead of marching his section up a wet hill in “blob” formation, and in the warmth of heart that can come only from physical comfort, Peter prepared to be very gracious towards his brother.
At last the train slowed to a stop and stood panting but unexhausted like a well-trained runner. Peter suddenly realized that they had reached Bulfrey. He snatched up his hat and bag, buttoned his coat and leapt onto the platform. Ralf was striding down towards him.
Peter had seen him in uniform before but then it had been with the timid pride of a 1914 subaltern. Now after three years fighting he looked wonderfully fit and hansome. A slanting114 ray of sunlight lit up his fair hair; he was wearing no cap.
“Hullo, Peter,” he cried, shaking hands, “we were afraid that you mightn’t be able to get the train. I suppose you’ve had lunch?”
“Yes thanks, I managed to get some in town. Pretty fair rush though. Hold on a second while I find my ticket.” He handed Ralf his bag and began exploring his pockets. Finding it, at last, between the leaves of his school “blue-book,” he gave it to the collector and taking back his bag followed his brother out.
“Is that all the luggage you’ve got?” he asked, “That’s splendid; we shall be able to bring it up with us now. I’ve got the dog-cart outside. Moira’s looking after it. She was coming into Bulfrey to do some shopping so I asked her to come and meet you.”
Moira Gage69 was the daughter of the vicar of Bulfrey Combe. Peter’s age, she and her brother had been the constant companions of the Audley boys before they went to school. They had seen less of each other as they grew up, Chris had gone to Winchester, Ralf and Peter to Selchurch, but the Vicarage was next door to the Hall and they had seen a good deal of each other in the holidays. Their fathers were close friends.
“Good work, I was afraid she would be away doing that V.A.D. work. I only saw her once all last holidays. Ah there she is.”
They had come out into the small station yard. On the other side of it stood the dog-cart and in it stood Moira Gage, one hand holding the reins115, the other shading her eyes. She was tall, slim and pale, not really pretty but graceful116 and attractive; from a distance she looked like a Shepperson drawing but when you got nearer you saw depths in her grey, scrutable eyes, which his charming mannerisms could never convey; she was dressed in a tweed coat and a skirt with a grey silk scarf over her shoulders. Peter ran forward and greeted her.
“Peter,” she said, “before you do anything else, do make Ralf put his hat on. He looks simply dreadful and I’m sure he’d be court-martialled or something, if anyone saw.”
“Three years of military life shatter any illusions about military discipline,” Ralf replied, climbing up into the dog-cart, “the only hardened militarist nowadays is the newly conscripted civilian.”
“Now he’s being clever again,” Moira laughed, “I really thought you lost that when you came down from Oxford. Among other things, it’s very bad manners when you are in stupid company.”
“Thank you,” Peter expostulated, “I wish you’d speak for yourself. I’m in the sixth now and write essays on industrial history and all sorts of things.”
“You seem to regard your history with most unreasonable117 pride,” said Moira, “from all I hear it sounds only slack.”
“All pride is unreasonable” said Ralf. To Peter it seemed that he had paused a moment hesitating whether “no pride is unreasonable” was the more impressive; he had long gone beyond the stage when a sweeping generalization118 could pass as an epigram.
“The aphorisms119 of a disappointed man,” said Moira. “The next remark like that Ralf and I get out and walk.”
收听单词发音 |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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philistine
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| n.庸俗的人；adj.市侩的，庸俗的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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emancipate
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| v.解放，解除 | |
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overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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royalties
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| 特许权使用费 | |
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dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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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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accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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quad
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| n.四方院；四胞胎之一；v.在…填补空铅 | |
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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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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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nude
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| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
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brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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34
quads
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| n.四倍( quad的名词复数 )；空铅；（大学的）四周有建筑物围绕的方院；四胞胎之一 | |
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35
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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36
ordnance
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| n.大炮，军械 | |
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37
bulged
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| 凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 )； 充满； 塞满（某物） | |
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38
rattles
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| （使）发出格格的响声， （使）作嘎嘎声( rattle的第三人称单数 )； 喋喋不休地说话； 迅速而嘎嘎作响地移动，堕下或走动； 使紧张，使恐惧 | |
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39
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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40
bugles
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| 妙脆角，一种类似薯片但做成尖角或喇叭状的零食； 号角( bugle的名词复数 )； 喇叭； 匍匐筋骨草； （装饰女服用的）柱状玻璃（或塑料）小珠 | |
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41
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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42
lockers
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| n.寄物柜( locker的名词复数 ) | |
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43
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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44
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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45
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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46
crookedly
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| adv. 弯曲地，不诚实地 | |
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47
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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48
ineffably
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| adv.难以言喻地，因神圣而不容称呼地 | |
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49
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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50
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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51
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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52
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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56
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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57
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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58
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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59
maniacs
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| n.疯子（maniac的复数形式） | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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64
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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factious
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| adj.好搞宗派活动的，派系的，好争论的 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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gage
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| n.标准尺寸，规格；量规，量表 [=gauge] | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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76
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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81
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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82
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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83
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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84
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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85
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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86
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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87
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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88
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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89
syllabus
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| n.教学大纲，课程大纲 | |
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90
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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91
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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92
cede
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| v.割让，放弃 | |
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93
coalition
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| n.结合体，同盟，结合，联合 | |
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94
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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95
subconscious
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| n./adj.潜意识(的)，下意识(的) | |
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96
industriously
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97
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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98
elucidate
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| v.阐明，说明 | |
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99
sift
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| v.筛撒，纷落，详察 | |
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100
paraphrase
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| vt.将…释义，改写；n.释义，意义 | |
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101
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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102
innovated
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| v.改革，创新( innovate的过去式和过去分词 )；引入（新事物、思想或方法）， | |
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103
conspiring
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| 密谋( conspire的现在分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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104
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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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
compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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107
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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108
pyjamas
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| n.（宽大的）睡衣裤 | |
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109
landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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110
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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111
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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112
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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113
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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114
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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115
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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116
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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117
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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118
generalization
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| n.普遍性，一般性，概括 | |
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119
aphorisms
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| 格言，警句( aphorism的名词复数 ) | |
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