IT was some time since I had left Samoa. Things there seemed to have considerably4 changed. Many of my friends, both natives and white men, had gone away to another island. I went up to Mulinuu village, expecting to see my friend Raeltoa, the Samoan, and to my great regret learnt that his wife had died of consumption and that he had gone away to the Line Islands, in the Equatorial Group. Robert Louis Stevenson had died some months before, and was at rest on the top of Vaea Mountain. Indeed with his death the old Samoa seemed to have passed away.
I felt rather depressed5 for a time, but I met an American tourist, staying at the German hotel in Apia, who was very eccentric, and he cheered me up considerably. He was a collector of native curios, and his whole life seemed to be centred on his strange hobby. He invited me into his apartments, and I could hardly move for the lumber6 and his large crates7 of native pottery8, old breech-loading weapons, cutlasses, mummified human heads, dried native feet cut off at the ankles, war-clubs, human teeth and skeletons, native musical instruments and barbarian9 furniture. He talked of nothing else but his gruesome collection. He had a high, bald head and beak-like nose, whereon he was eternally fingering his pince-nez, which kept falling off whilst he enthusiastically held up relics10 for my inspection11. His passion for getting curios seemed never satisfied. We dined at a native’s house together; suddenly he lifted the cloth and saw that the table was a rough, native-made table of platted cane12 and bamboo. Immediately he bargained for it, and to the native’s delight purchased it, and off we went with it. How he got them all away from the hotel I don’t know, for he had a regular cargo13 of stuff, but eventually he got his curios on board a steamer and went off to San Francisco.
I stayed on in Apia for several weeks, joining a party of tourists, and with them I visited the various scenes and islands of the group. As I write, in a dream I see the slopes rising from the sea, lying silent in the moonlight. The curling smoke from the camp fires steals above the still coco-palms that shelter the huts of the native villages. The big, hive-shaped houses are musical with humming melody and the jabbering14 voices of rough-haired native girls and women. Some squat15 cross-legged by door-holes, whence emerge tiny, brown, naked children, to turn head over heels, or race like joyful16 puppies after each other round the dens17. Big full-blooded Samoan chiefs smile and show their white teeth as they roll banana-leaf cigarettes between their dusky fingers. Across the flat lies Apia town with its one main street; beyond the inland plateaux rise, and far off you can see the moonlit waves breaking into patches like white moss18 on the level ocean plains.
By the copra and coco plantations19 are the emigrant20 settlements, where tired coolies, most of them Malay Indians, rest after their toil21. Native women linger near them, for they are generous men those coolies, and give the velvet-skinned native girls sham22 jewellery. The Indian sadhu (saint) sits by the line of dens and stores under the palms; he looks like some carved holy image as he stares with bright, unblinking eyes. The natives’ wooden idols24 have long since been smashed, or have rotted away, and that living idol23 of the East is one from many cargoes25 that have arrived to take the place of the old deaf South Sea idols. The new idols are real; they have live tongues and eyes that lure26 on true believers, converts to Allah, to do monstrous27 things. The deaf, dumb wooden gods of heathen times were sanctified compared with these new immigrant idols that breathe!
That old fakir, with outstretched withered28 arm that brings him reverence29 and cash, represents Hinduism, or Buddha30. His thick beard is almost solid with filth31, where-from at intervals32, out to the hot sky, buzz big blow-flies. Just across the track is the bazaar33, wooden cabins under the mangroves and coco-palms, where the Indians sell jewellery, the Koran, and richly coloured dress materials to the Samoan women. The Indians appear fine-looking men when dressed, with their dark, brilliant eyes and curly, close-cropped beards. They swear to all things by the holy prophet Mahomet, and wear a poetic35 smile that enlarges when you are not looking to a sardonic36 grin! Native women meet them at dark under the coco-palms, stroke their beards and gaze secretly up into their faces with passionate37 admiration38.
That pretty Samoan girl, with staring, romantic eyes and rough, bronze-coloured hair, who only a week ago gave herself body and soul to some Indian, the scum of the East, sits alone under the dark mangroves by the lagoon39 and thinks and thinks of the day before her fall. A red, decorated loin-cloth reaches to her waist, the forest winds kiss the maiden40 curves of her brown, flower-like bosom41. She is very young: her childhood’s dolls are still unbroken, and are being loved and nursed by her little sisters who live on the neighbouring Savaii Isle42. Her father was eaten by a shark last year, and her mother is married to a white man who is never sober.
Not far away sit a group of Indian women, dark and evil-looking, with round faces. Dressed in gorgeous garments of rich yellow and crimson43, they are certainly attractive; earrings44 dangle45 from their ears and some of them have a silver hoop46 through the nose. They loll under the coco-palms, whisper viciousness, and mortally hate the handsome Samoan girls.
The mail steamer arrived in Apia harbour a few hours ago. Along the white, dusty, inland track goes the fair, handsome white woman, Maria Mandy. She is off to her bungalow47 up the hill, a secluded48, romantic spot. Her round, pretty face is getting quite sunburnt and brown. By her side walks an aristocratic-looking tourist; he wears pince-nez, is deeply religious and in a great hurry! Maria is dressed up to “the nines,” is scented49 and looks fine and sweet: the “light o’ Love” of a score of German naval50 officers and men of respectable repute, she has grown wealthy and intends to go soon to Sydney. With her wit and courtly polish she will get on well in Australia, and will probably get into Government House society, be extremely virtuous51 and so shocked that she will suggest the removal from the select clique52 of such suspicious characters as old Colonel B——, who will foam53 at the mouth and wonder why he is snubbed. Mrs S. A. and Lady H. B. will go into hysterics, weep, grind their delicate white teeth, look at the ceiling of their bedroom and ask heaven who could possibly have guessed about those intrigues54; and they will never dream of the knowing Apia harlot—handsome Maria Mandy.
That fat, thick-necked German official, who likes Samoa better than the Berlin suburbs, is out walking alone; he is just off to see Salvao Marva and gaze upon her through those big-rimmed, academic spectacles. He is nearly sixty, and pretty Marva is nearly fifteen years old! No one knows about it though. He is a good man at home, plays the Austrian zither perfectly56, and sings in a deep religious bass57 voice folk-songs of the Fatherland. Romantic Marva loves those songs, and knows them all by heart; she has a voice like a wild bird, and you do not feel so hard upon the in-auspicious fall of German culture. He is due back in Berlin soon, for his time is up in six months, so he is quite safe, and poor Marva can place the parental58 responsibility for her baby on to the back of the beachcomber, Bill Grimes, who will say, “Well I’m blowed, if this ain’t all right,” then accept the position and make his home in the South Seas after all.
Hongis Track, Rotorua, N.Z.
Maria Mandy is not the only lady who will become respectable and make the devil rub his hands and chuckle59 with delight. On the beach stroll other white women, and droves of pretty half-caste girls who will eventually get jobs as “ladies’ maids” to touring families that call at Apia on the homeward voyage to New York and London. They have fine times those girls with the German and English sailors, or with “perfect gentlemen,” and sometimes a black-sheep missionary60 who has been dismissed from the L.M.S. Off they go on the spree and forget themselves and do things that make even the beachcomber Bill Grimes rub his eyes and stare; for, after all, he’s not so bad; he can some day, in that “far-off event of perfect good,” buy a new suit of clothes; but the beachcombers that loaf and eat the fruit of frailty61 in this Eden of the South Seas can never buy another soul.
Hark! the harbour is musical with voices, for this is fair Italy of the Southern Seas, where natives paddle their canoes and sing their weird62 melodies as naturally as men breathe. You can hear the splash of the paddles and oars63 as they cut the thickly star-mirrored water. The native boats are bringing sailors ashore64 from the ships that arrived at twilight65. The moonlit shore and the palm-clad slopes look like fairyland to the silent ships lying out in the harbour. The men step ashore, pay one shilling, or one mark, each, then off go the canoes back to the ships for other crews, as the groups of sailors go up to Apia town. Before they get there dusky guides offer their services, and they see the sights—such sights too! No missionaries67 could ever reform such creatures as they see. One of them, she is one of many, wears almost nothing, the curved, thick lips in her wide mouth murmur68 forth69 alluring70 Samoan speech. Her girth is enormous, and her brown bosom heaves with simulated professional passion, like a wave on the treacherous71 deep dark ocean of sensuality—whereon so often travelling men are shipwrecked. Her eyes are large, the pupils widely encircled with white, and warm with the sunlight gleam of downright wickedness; she has been taught her art in the vast university of experience with white men in the foremost ranks of civilisation72’s pioneer tramp! Paid vice66 was never known in Samoa till the white men came; but now she lures73 to her velvety74 brown arms the unwary innocence75 of fragile sailormen and tourists who come from London on the civilised Thames; where the missionaries hail from, who in our land of purity, of course, cannot exert and bring into play their noble efforts, and so through innocence, O England, my England, your children fall before the lure of the wicked South!
Low-caste Samoan women are not all hideous76; some have large, innocent eyes alive with wonder; half angel and half devil they look as they stand before the camera and, answering the stern voice of the operator, strive to look modest and sweet.
By the edge of the small lagoon, under those tall coco-nut-trees sit four little naked baby girls. It is dark, but their brown faces imaged in the water can be seen by the brilliant moonlight; they look like truant78 cherubims from Paradise out on the spree, as they sit side by side whispering musical Samoan baby words, and kissing the rag doll that was made in Germany. Their Samoan father is away in a far village on a visit to a wedding feast; if you listen you can hear the far-off sounds of tom-toms and cymbal-clanging coming across on the drifting forest wind that brings with it odours of wild, decaying flowers and fruit. Their mother is fast asleep by the door of their native home close by; she sleeps soundly, and the mongrel dog’s snout is couched softly on her bare, warm, brown breast. It looks a mystical, beautiful world, like some spiritual land beyond the stars, as the bright eyes of those tiny faces peep through the wind-blown palm leaves; and I watch them in my dreams to-night, though long since those little girls are women and now meet the eyes of Indian, Chinese and European men.
Civilisation’s iron foot is on the hills, and along the tracks that lead inland where mission schools and churches stand, to collect on weekdays and Sundays the high-class native folk who live in comfortable Polynesian homes. The night is hot, starry79 and almost windless, and handsome Samoan youths attired80 in the lava-lava (loin-cloth) patter swift-footed along the tracks under the coco-nut and tropical trees that shelter the primitive81 homes of the South Sea paradise. Samoan girls with wild, bright eyes, round, plump, brown faces, and curved figures as perfect as sculptural art, pass and repass up the forest tracks. They are singing Samoan songs that intensify82 the romantic, dream-like atmosphere of the tropical night—an atmosphere not even to be dispelled83 by the wailing85 cry of the native babies, who give short, wild, smothered86 screams as they lose and then suddenly recover the breasts of sleeping mothers in those thatched homes by the palms and banana groves34. The vast night sky, agleam with stars, shines like a mighty87 mirror. You can see the red glow of the reflection from the volcanic88 crater89 miles away on Savaii’s Isle.
If you go up the slope and stand on the plateau, away inland, when dawn is stealing in grey tints90 along the ocean horizon, awakening91 the birds on Vaea Mountain, and the native homes are astir, you can distinctly see afar something that looks like a cow-shed by coco-palms and thick jungle growth. It is Vailima, the home of Robert Louis Stevenson. One light gleams in the large shed-room, and the intellectual, sensitive face of the poet-author moves there in the gloom. He has come back from Apia town and is tired, yet secretly as pleased as the two old shellbacks who have carried his curios back, and who hitch92 up their trousers and cough respectfully as the world-famous author sneaks94 them in and gives each a bumping glass of the best brand. How quietly his keen eyes gaze upon them as they drink! On a shelf the large clock ticks warningly. He glances at it now and again as the belated sailors yarn2 on, grow more and more garrulous95 and continue their strange experiences, that cling to the wonderful, distilling96 brain of the listener as moonlight clings to deep, dark waters. At last, with intellectual delicacy97, they are hurriedly slipped off; for soon the respectable folk, whom he gave the slip to early in the evening, will return, and he must not be seen in such company again. The old shellbacks grip the extended, thin, delicate hand, look into the keen eyes and wipe their mouths as they go down the narrow track. “He’s a gentleman ’e is, d——d if ’e ain’t,” they say to each other, as the silent, lonely man they have just left sits and dreams on alone, and thinks and feels those things that no book ever did, or ever can, tell.
A few miles away lives the great high chief Mataafa; he knows Tusitala, the writer of tales. Mataafa is the old King of Samoa: his warriors98 have charged up those slopes and the sound of the guns from the enemy’s warships99 echoed and re-echoed across the bay. It is all like some far-off dream to me that in my boyhood I should have met and fiddled100 to the Napoleon of the South Seas, for Mataafa was exiled, though there the similarity ends. I can still see the handsome, intelligent face and remember the quick, kind eyes of Samoa’s dethroned king. I did not know, or at least realise, who Mataafa was, as he sat on a chest in the schooner’s cabin in Apia harbour. I knew he was someone important by the skipper’s behaviour and respectful attention. Only long after did I clearly realise that I was in at the death at one of the most tragic102 periods of Samoa’s history. I helped row the exiled king ashore and went with him to Mulinuu village, where I stayed the night, and then rowed him back in the ship’s boat again. Had I known the truth I would have clung to the old king with all the romantic vigour103 of my soul. The opportunity of my boyish dreams had presented itself, but I knew it not. How I would have striven to lean on that chieftain’s right arm, helping104 in some tragical105 drama of war and intrigue55 that would have given me the fame that my boyish aspirations106 yearned107 for as I read the novels of Alexandre Dumas. Alas108! I can only remember a sad, aged77 face in a South Sea forest homestead, in a schooner’s dingy109 cabin, or earnestly talking under the forest trees by night to loyal chiefs ere he returned to the ship. I saw him three or four times ashore, and entertained him in the refuge where he lived with his faithful chiefs. Also I played the violin to him several times, while he smiled gravely and the garrulous skipper drank whisky and sang out of tune110, or read out loudly snatches from The Samoan Times, which was a paper something after the style in size of The Dead Bird, published in Sydney, but suppressed and issued again as The Bird of Freedom.
Behind the stores in Apia’s street is the primeval ballroom where I played the violin to the Samoan grandees111, and to tripping, white-shoed German officials, while five half-caste girls in pink frocks, with crimson ribbons in their forests of hair, went through the Siva dances. Robert Louis Stevenson gazed on, or argued with the crusty German official, who was red in the face as Stevenson expressed his opinions on Samoan politics. Just below too, down the street, is the bar-room, where I played the violin with the manager’s wife, who was a good pianist. I only performed there once: a trader was half-seas over and was arguing with a German official; suddenly he picked my violin up and hit the German over the head with it. There was a great scene and the trader was thrown out. Everyone laughed to see the look on my face as I scanned the fiddle101 to see if it had been damaged; even the manager and his wife put their fists in their mouths to hide a noisy smile. The German shouted: “Mein Gott! I vill see that this mans be arrested! Mein Gott! Mein Gott!”
It’s a lively place, this Samoan isle. There sits an aged, tattooed112 native from Motootua village. He is a wandering scribe, a poet and author of the South Seas, and well beloved by all his critics, who mostly wear no clothes! He does not write on paper, but engraves113 on the brains of his audiences his memories, impromptu114 poems and improvisations; or he tells of Samoan history and poetic lore115. He wears the primitive ridi to his bony knees and a large shawl of native tappu-cloth round his brown shoulders; tall and majestic116-looking, with strong, imaginative face, when he stands quite still and lifts one arm to heaven he looks like an exiled scapegrace god.
With eyes shining brilliantly he tells you the tale of creation, how man- and woman-kind came on earth. Ages ago a giant turtle, like a fish that walked on a thousand legs, came up from the bottom of the ocean and saw the blue sky for the first time, and far away the coral reefs and forest-clad shores of Samoa. Full of excitement, it slashed117 its tail, swam to the isle and crept ashore. Once on dry land it could not move and get back to its native ocean again. The sun blazed on its tremendous back as it crouched118 and died, and underneath119 its vast shell a plot of tiny crimson and blue flowers trembled with fear in the sudden darkness that had fallen over them. When the giant turtle was dead its crumbling120 flesh fed the flowers with moisture, while they cried bitterly at being hidden from the beautiful golden sunlight. When only the shell was left, and the sun was shining beautifully, the flowers peeped out and saw the green hills and coco-palms, and found that they were able to move: out they all ran and tripped up the shore, a delighted flock of laughing faces, and climbed the coco-nut and palm trees—they were Samoan girls!
That same night a cloud was leisurely121 travelling across the clear skies with a cargo of male stars asleep on its breast; and as it passed right over the very spot where the new girls were climbing and clinging to the trees, the high chief of the stars, who was old and grey, looked over the side of the cloud and was astonished, for he saw the girls and at once called loudly to the youthful, sleeping stars, who rubbed their eyes and jumped up. They were beautiful youths with bright faces. “Look down there,” said the old, grey star, and all the young stars looked and saw the Samoan maidens122 climbing about the tree-tops. “Oh, what shall we do to get down to them?” they all wailed123, and the old, grey star said, “Ah, you were happy till I awoke you from sleep, but now your passions are awake and you cry aloud for sorrow.” Then they all became impatient and fierce, and cried out: “Stop the cloud, stop the cloud”; and the old, grey-bearded star sighed and said: “So shall it be.” The moon at once shone out in the sky and the old leader put his hand up to the orb124 and filled his arms with beautiful moonlight ere he struck the cloud with his magic breath and the thick, dark mist dissolving fell as sparkling rain softly to the isle far below. The bright moonlight clinging to the falling drops made ropes of moonbeams dangle to the forest tree-tops, on which the laughing stars slid as they went down, down—as beautiful youths, to fall into the outstretched arms of the surprised maidens. And that’s how man and woman first came to the Samoan Isles125!
Many more were the strange but really poetic tales told by him and by other wandering authors, but their memories and the children of their poetic imaginations are forgotten for ever. I do not think many of the old-time South Sea legends have ever been collected and translated, and so they only survive in the biographical writing of men who visited the islands and happened to have retentive126 memories for such things as poetic lore, and so preserved some of those old fragments of Samoan stories, as I have attempted to do from my recollection of many of them.
The lore of the South Seas has faded and has been replaced by tragic human drama and rumour127. Subject matter for three-volume novels is plentiful128 in Samoa; indeed throughout the whole of the South Seas you could draw and never drain dry the living fountains of human drama.
Peaceful-looking homesteads, clean, religious and happy, abound129, but some are tense with passion. By the mission room down at Mulinuu lives pretty Lavo; she is only sixteen and deeply religious. She loves the handsome white missionary with all her soul, but dares not speak out or confess. Eventually he goes away back to his own country, and a few days later they find poor Lavo’s body in the lagoon. She looks beautiful even in death, as she still clutches the photograph of the homeward-bound missionary. Her native relatives wring130 their hands and wail84; they lay her in the native cemetery131 just by the plateau, and sing sadly of her childhood till she is forgotten.
A white man was found with the side of his head blown off last night; he arrived at Apia a week ago, looking worried and haggard. All evidence of his identity had been destroyed by him, excepting a torn, half-obliterated letter which reads like this:
“My own dear R——. Yes, I still love you, and will not believe you did that. I read the full account in this morning’s Chronicle. My heart is heavy, dear; give yourself up and face it. Oh, my darling, don’t leave the country. I love you, and will die, I am sure, if you go away. Meet me to-night at same place. I long to see your poor dear face. God watch over you. Yours ever,
E——.”
The German High Commissioner132 kept the revolver that was found by the dead man’s side, and his fat old wife took possession of the photograph that was found on him. She has tacked133 it up on her bedroom wall; it’s such a nice, happy-looking, girlish face. They buried the suicide in the whites’ cemetery, at the far end, among the “no-name graves.”
On the slopes around Apia a few emigrants134 from far-off countries live in comfortable bungalows135. They are happy with their wives and children. Their memory of the cities and turmoil136 of the old country is sweeter for the dreaming distance; they were a bit homesick at first, but now they have become contented137 and love the new peaceful surroundings, and look forward to the arrival of the mails. They still suffer, though, with the unrestful disease of the far-away suburban138 towns of advanced civilisation, and so cannot sleep for wondering who the strange couple are who rent the solitary139 bungalow on the edge of the forest up in the hills. It is quite evident that the new-comer is a gentleman, for he speaks well and has polished ways, but his wife talks like a servant-girl; she’s pretty, though. They arrived suddenly in Apia, and three months after the baby was born. He seems very fond of the baby, and the mother too, but he often gets very despondent140. He’s a handsome man and does not look a bit practical; indeed he looks as though for the sake of affection and his word he would sacrifice all ambition and leave the world behind him. He seems to hate respectable people, and only goes down to the Apia bar-rooms to mix with old sailors and traders and the remnants of the beach; he stands treat and is a godsend to them, for he seems to have plenty of cash. One old shellback entertains him for hours with wonderful tales of other days, and his comrades sit by and silently smoke and drink as the bar becomes hazy141 with tobacco smoke. The lights grow dim as the old sailor’s yarn rolls the world back, and in the now romantic atmosphere of the bar shades of old pioneers dance ghostly wise; old schooners142 and slave galleons143 are anchored in the harbour; you can hear the laughter and song of dead sailors and traders. They are dancing jigs144, their sea-boots shuffle145, under the coco-palms just outside the bar-room, the bright eyes of dark native girls shine as they whirl clinging to their arms: how they welcome the white men from the far-away Western world—the men whose ships long ago died down the seaward sunsets, and faded away beyond the sky-line into Time’s silent sea ere our generation was born.
Out on the promontory146 sits the high chief Tuputo in his homestead. He has a noble, wrinkled, tattooed face, and, though he belongs to the old school, he wears glasses. The lizard147 slips across his moonlit floor, and through his door he can see the silvered waves and the wind-stirred coco-nut trees twinkling by the barrier reefs; the waves are breaking and wailing as they wailed and broke in his childhood. He has been a sailor in the South Seas; he remembers tribal wars in Fiji and Samoa and has refused many invitations to secret cannibalistic festivals. Now he sits reading the English newspapers, for long ago they taught him to read English, and he is a staunch Catholic. Often he reads and wonders over the terrible crimes that are reported in the police news of his late-dated London newspapers. He had once, long ago, thought that England and New York were sinless lands ethereal with Christian148 dreams, imparadised cities, their spires149 glittering in the sunlight of the Golden Age. If not, why did missionaries leave them to come across the big seas to Samoa, and all the isles of the Southern Seas?
The great world war has not commenced yet, but even now his withered hands itch93 to clutch his disused war-club and sally forth to take revenge on those white men who laugh at his majestic bearing; those men who stole his isles and brought rum and vice to contaminate the virtue150 of his race. How spiteful will he feel when he wipes his spectacles, and, astonished, reads the truth! But then he will cool down, look at his innocent old war-club on his homestead wall and offer his humble151 services for the vast tribalistic war clash in the white man’s lands, while Thakambau and Tano, the cannibal kings, and Ritova and King Naulivan, who never heard the word culture, sigh and turn in their graves to think that they are dead, while the very world is trembling with glorious, bloodthirsty battle. Ah, well, their children’s children are coming to help us: may the old Thakambau spirit still be alive in their blood to help the advance of culture—the civilisation of sad humanity. Let us hope, too, that our semi-savage Allies will not eat the fallen foe152! But I must proceed with my own wanderings, for I have a long way to travel yet.
Samoa still rises silently in moonlight out of the sea of my dreams. I can hear the barbarian orchestra clanging away down in the native village, as Samoan girls and youths, and two or three white men, waltz under the palms just below the plateau, where groves of orange-trees hang their golden fruit amongst dark leaves. As I play the violin the semi-savage people whirl to the wild rhythm of the forest ballroom music of a tribal waltz.
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1
ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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tribal
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| adj.部族的，种族的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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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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lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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crates
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| n. 板条箱, 篓子, 旧汽车 vt. 装进纸条箱 | |
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pottery
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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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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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jabbering
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| v.急切而含混不清地说( jabber的现在分词 )；急促兴奋地说话；结结巴巴 | |
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squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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emigrant
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| adj.移居的，移民的；n.移居外国的人，移民 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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22
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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23
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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24
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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25
cargoes
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| n.（船或飞机装载的）货物( cargo的名词复数 )；大量，重负 | |
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26
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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27
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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28
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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29
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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30
Buddha
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| n.佛；佛像；佛陀 | |
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31
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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32
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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33
bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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34
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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35
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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36
sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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37
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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38
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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39
lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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40
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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41
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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42
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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43
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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44
earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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45
dangle
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| v.(使)悬荡，(使)悬垂 | |
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46
hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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47
bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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48
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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49
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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50
naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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51
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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52
clique
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| n.朋党派系，小集团 | |
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53
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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54
intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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55
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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56
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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57
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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58
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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59
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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60
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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61
frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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62
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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63
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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64
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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65
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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66
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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67
missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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68
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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69
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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70
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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71
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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72
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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73
lures
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| 吸引力，魅力（lure的复数形式） | |
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74
velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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75
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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76
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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77
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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78
truant
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|
| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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79
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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80
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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82
intensify
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| vt.加强；变强；加剧 | |
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83
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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85
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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86
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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87
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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88
volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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89
crater
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| n.火山口，弹坑 | |
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90
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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91
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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92
hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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93
itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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94
sneaks
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| abbr.sneakers (tennis shoes) 胶底运动鞋（网球鞋）v.潜行( sneak的第三人称单数 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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95
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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96
distilling
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| n.蒸馏（作用）v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )( distilled的过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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97
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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98
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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99
warships
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| 军舰，战舰( warship的名词复数 )； 舰只 | |
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100
fiddled
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| v.伪造( fiddle的过去式和过去分词 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
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101
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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102
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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103
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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104
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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105
tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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106
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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107
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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109
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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110
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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111
grandees
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| n.贵族，大公，显贵者( grandee的名词复数 ) | |
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112
tattooed
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| v.刺青，文身( tattoo的过去式和过去分词 )；连续有节奏地敲击；作连续有节奏的敲击 | |
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113
engraves
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的第三人称单数 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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114
impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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115
lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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116
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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117
slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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118
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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120
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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121
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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122
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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123
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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125
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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126
retentive
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| v.保留的，有记忆的；adv.有记性地，记性强地；n.保持力 | |
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127
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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128
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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129
abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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130
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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131
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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132
commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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133
tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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134
emigrants
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| n.（从本国移往他国的）移民( emigrant的名词复数 ) | |
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135
bungalows
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| n.平房( bungalow的名词复数 )；单层小屋，多于一层的小屋 | |
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136
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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137
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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138
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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139
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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140
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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141
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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142
schooners
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| n.（有两个以上桅杆的）纵帆船( schooner的名词复数 ) | |
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143
galleons
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| n.大型帆船( galleon的名词复数 ) | |
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144
jigs
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| n.快步舞（曲）极快地( jig的名词复数 )；夹具v.（使）上下急动( jig的第三人称单数 ) | |
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145
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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146
promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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147
lizard
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| n.蜥蜴，壁虎 | |
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148
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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149
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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150
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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151
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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152
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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