I SAW Stevenson several times after that at society balls and concerts in Apia, where sometimes he seemed full of merriment and indeed the life of the party, and again at other times strangely silent, revealing the man of moods. I have never heard that he was fond of being alone, but I can vouch2 for it that he was as often alone in his wanderings over the islands as he was with friends; indeed I think I saw him more often alone than otherwise. I met Mr Strong twice, I think, when he was with Stevenson. Mr Moore too, who wrote With Stevenson in Samoa, was a pleasant man, and Robert Louis Stevenson and he were as familiar as brothers.
Almost the last time I saw Stevenson was at the Tivoli in Apia; he was with Mr Moore and several other men whom I cannot recall. They were all taking refreshments3 and talking. Stevenson was flushed a bit, his eyes were very bright, and with his hat off, revealing a lofty, pale brow, he looked unlike the ordinary run of men. He was in an excellent mood, and Mr Moore and another member of the party were so intensely amused at what he was saying that they almost upset their glasses and spluttered as they laughed; which gave Stevenson very obviously great pleasure, for he was as fond of a joke as any of them.
On that special occasion I was in the company of the chief mate of a large schooner which was leaving Apia the next day for Honolulu. Stevenson, or one of the party, called us across and offered us drinks and cigars. Soon after my companion, who had to get on board his ship, left and I went with him; and as we got outside we still heard the jovial5 exclamations6 of Stevenson and his friends as they yarned7 on, their voices fading behind us as we walked away into the moonlight and shadows of the coco-palms many years ago.
Stevenson would often tackle rough work, such as tree-chopping and digging; and was often to be seen perspiring8 and covered with grime as he helped the natives to make tracks across the rough jungle and forest land that surrounded Vailima. Bare-footed, dressed in old clothes and a seaman’s cast-off cap, he looked like some vagabond dust-man. His manner to the natives who worked for him was jovial enough; he would shout: “Go it, Sambo, that’s right, te rom and te pakea[3] if you work hard”; and then with a twinkle in his eyes he’d stand and watch them lugging9 the wheelbarrows up the slope as they jabbered10 like school-children and worked their hardest. Several of Stevenson’s friends also worked with him: one of them would be cutting the trees down as the novelist smoked, and jocularly criticising him, telling him to “keep moving and not be such a loafer.” Mrs Stevenson arrived on the scene of hard work once and chided him for exerting himself. “Don’t do that, dear, or you will be ill again,” she would say; and the novelist would look up and then work harder than ever.
3. Meaning rum, refreshments and tobacco.
He was to be found in all the out-of-the-way places and would go miles alone, usually on foot; though he had an old horse or ass4, I forget which, he seldom rode it.
One day I was walking along near the coast when a little native boy of about six years of age, came limping out of the jungle scrub just by the track. I picked the little fellow up and discovered he had trodden on some glass, and had a deep gash11 in his foot. As I was carrying him down to the shore to wash his wound, Stevenson and a boy came strolling by. Stevenson, who was always very kind to children, examined the wound, took out his pocket-handkerchief and bound the foot up, after we had well bathed it: his manner to the little outcast was one of extreme tenderness.
I was living with two kindly12 disposed old natives at that time, so I picked the child up and carried him home. We found out the next day that the poor little fellow’s parents had been drowned by the upsetting of a canoe in a typhoon off Apia harbour. He was very thin and looked ill, so I gave my hosts some money and told them to feed him up, which they did. I became very fond of him; he had thick curls all over his head, and his cheery little brown face was lit up by a pair of beautiful brown eyes. He slept near me, and every morning he would jump off his bed-mat and caper13 about like a puppy and would insist in helping14 me put my boots on. He heard me play the violin and was deeply interested in it. I was always catching15 him looking at my violin, and each time he looked up at me artfully, as much as to say: “I must not touch your wonderful music. Oh no, I’m not that kind of Samoan baby!”
I only chided him once, when I caught the little dark tinker unscrewing all my violin pegs16. He gave a terrified shriek17 as I ran after him, and was off like a frightened rabbit. When I at length caught him, and regained18 my property, he looked up at me with pleading eyes, gave a baby-like cry, and in musical, infantile Samoan phrases asked to be forgiven. So I at once placed him on my shoulder and gave him a ride to his heart’s delight; and after that he stood guard over my violin, and came rushing up to me if even the dog went near it. I let him sleep with me sometimes, and he placed his arms about my neck as though I were some sweet-bosomed mother; and so in that way fell asleep the little brown savage19 in the arms of Western civilisation20.
Of course this is not telling you much of Robert Louis Stevenson, but to me, and in my memory of it all, it’s just as important, perhaps even more so. The old Samoan wife became very fond of Timbo, as I called him, and he became quite plump. So I secured a good home for him for life, or till he grew up, and therefore you will see that I have also done good mission work in the South Seas!
I heard when I came home afterwards that Stevenson had seen Timbo and given him some presents, including a box of tin German soldiers. Timbo gave me half of them. I was obliged to accept them to please him. If he’s alive still he must be a fine young fellow, for he was affectionate and plucky21 even as a tiny child. I remember how I once took him for a canoe ride, and his delight as I rocked the small craft in the shallow water till he fell overside, for he could swim like a fish. Once I took him out in Apia harbour and we went aboard a schooner that had encountered a typhoon; she was being overhauled22, for her deck was almost washed clean, the rigging was a mass of tangle23 and the galley24 had been washed away. The skipper was a pleasant enough man; he hailed from San Francisco and had a voice that could compete with the wildest gale’s thunder, but nevertheless his heart was in the right place when whisky was scarce. I had met him ashore25 and, hearing that I came from Sydney, and had lived near his home in San Francisco, he got into conversation with me and hinted that there was a chance of a berth26 aboard for me, if I felt inclined to take it.
While I was on this schooner one afternoon suddenly Stevenson and his wife came on board; they had been brought out in one of the small native canoes that were always hovering27 by the beach, awaiting passengers wanting to visit the anchored crafts in the harbour. The novelist was in high spirits and helped Mrs Stevenson up the rope ladder in great mirth. Mrs Robert Louis Stevenson was an excellent sailor and made no fuss about the ascent28, as she clambered up and leapt on the deck with a bounce!
The skipper knew them well and was very polite to them. A young American or Australian lady, I forget which, was also visiting on board, and the skipper introduced her to Mr and Mrs Stevenson. She devoted29 all her attention to the novelist, and as they were having lunch together in the schooner’s cuddy Stevenson’s misery30, as she plied31 him with questions and reiterated32 her flattering approval of his books, was very evident. “Oh, I think your books most delightful33; how do you think of such things? Was it really true about that rich uncle and the derelict piano? Have you read Lady Audley’s Secret?” So she rattled34 on. Stevenson looked appealingly at his wife, in an attempt to get her to engage the girl’s attention, but still she persisted in reiterating35 those things which she thought were music to the novelist’s ears. Suddenly Stevenson looked up, and with his fine eyes alive with satire36 said something to the effect that “he did not write books for ladies to read,” punctuating37 the remark with a look that made the garrulous38 visitor immediately retire into her shell.
The convivial39 equilibrium40 was not restored till the skipper sat down at the cuddy’s harmonium and, with his feet pedalling away at full speed, started to sing with his thunderous voice:
“Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest,
Yo! Ho! Ho! for a bottle of rum!”
The young lady who had so annoyed Stevenson joined in, and revealed the fact that her voice as a musical medium was a deal more pleasant than when it tried to flatter a writer of books. Stevenson seemed delighted to find such an opportunity insidiously41 to apologise for his previous irritability42, and so at once started to applaud the lady’s singing in an almost exaggerated fashion.
A bottle of whisky was opened, and the skipper drank half-a-tumblerful, just to sample it and see if he had really opened the special brand which he had been recommending to his visitors. Finding there was no mistake, with all the liberality of a sailor, he allotted43 to each a due portion; whereby the dimly lit cabin festival was immensely enhanced. Stevenson’s mirth was frequently stimulated44 by the drunken mate, who repeatedly poked45 his head into the cuddy door and, with a half-apologetic leer at the ladies, looked at the skipper and said: “All’s well, sir. I’m going ashore.” The skipper, who was half-seas-over himself, looked at him contemptuously and said: “Clear out of it.” “Ay, ay, sir,” responded the mate, and in a few minutes he was back again, and out came the same information, “All’s well, sir. I’m off ashore.”
Suddenly the skipper arose and went on deck and a loud argument commenced, interspersed46 with those maritime47 epithets48 which enforce sea law and are not to be found in navigation books. After a brief interval49 of silence the skipper could be heard shouting out oaths as he shook his fist to the mate, who was being rowed away ashore by the natives who always haunted the gangways of anchored ships.
At sunset the party left the schooner, and the skipper went with them, and we heard their laughter fading away over the darkening waters as the singing natives paddled them away to Apia’s island town.
That same night I also went ashore with the sailors. Timbo sat in the middle of the ship’s boat; he had been entertained by the hands in the forecastle. As soon as I arrived on the beach I made my way to my friendly natives’ home, for the hour was late and I wanted to get Timbo off to bed. I was deep in thought, and as he toddled50 beside me I held his hand. Suddenly I was startled by hearing the child make throaty gurgles as though he wanted to be sick, his little brown face wrinkling up as he made fearful grimaces51. “What’s the matter, Timbo?” I said, somewhat alarmed, and for answer he looked up at me helplessly and dropped several objects in the scrub. I picked them up and found that he had been sucking away at a large, rank meerschaum pipe, which I at once recognised as belonging to the boatswain of the schooner which we had just left. The boy had also stolen a purse with a few coppers52 in it and a small leather belt purse full of brass54 buttons. I felt pretty wild with the little fellow at first, because it meant that I had to go back to the schooner and return the things.
Taking Timbo up, I sat on a log and laid him across my knees, ready to give him a good spanking55, for it was not his first misdemeanour; indeed, he had done many things which I have left untold56. As I laid him face downwards57, so that I might administer chastisement58, he twisted his little curly head round and looked appealingly up at me with his big brown eyes: as if to say: “Oh, noble white man from the far-off moral integrity of Western civilisation, may I beg of you to overlook the sad indiscretion of a Samoan child?” That part whereon I was about to administer justice looked so small and helpless that I did that which I should have liked to have been done to me in my earlier years, for I relented and stood Timbo on his feet. Then I said: “Timbo, for that which you have done you will be arrested and taken to Mulinuu Jail, where the wicked chiefs are imprisoned59.” Hearing this, he clung to me and sobbed60, and large tears rolled down his cheeks and splashed on to his small mahogany-coloured toes. So I said: “Timbo, I forgive you.” For I knew, deep down in my heart, that, though I was white, I had in my childish days committed several little indiscretions very similar to Timbo’s. He was only a tiny fellow, and I thought of English babies who at his age were still in arms and busy sucking dummies61; and I knew that civilisation itself was a monstrous62 baby, devoid63 of wit, sucking away at the dry, windy dummy64 and soothing65 itself with the thought that it was swallowing kindly feeding milk. As I thought I looked at Timbo, and the expression of gratitude66 on his little half-wild face, as he stood on his head and waved his feet to the skies, seemed to applaud my mild philosophy.
In all that I recall of Robert Louis Stevenson—his manner to strangers, his ever-ready attention to those who would earnestly tell him something, his kindness to the natives and to all who were in a conventional sense beneath him—was revealed a large mind with a sympathetic, human outlook.
Often little actions, something done on the impulse of the moment, told of simplicity67 and tenderness and the greatness which reveals a spirit that sees the link of fellowship between men, no matter what their caste or position in human affairs.
At times he might have appeared theatrical68 to those around him; but it was the expression of an intellectual, dramatic instinct, not for the stage, but for the drama played by men of this world, as though he were ever gazing critically on mortals before the limelight of existence and saying, half to himself: “There you are! I told you so. What would you say to all that you’ve just heard if you read it in a book? You wouldn’t believe it, I’ll be bound.”
His manner to Mrs Stevenson revealed an affectionate, confiding69 nature that loved attention. I should think it was the affection of a boy’s heart, with the strong strain of a discerning man who knew the nature of women. He would always treat native women with the same deference70 that he showed to the women of his own race; a deference always delicately courteous71, excepting on those occasions when women might court his criticism by criticising him, or by casting aside the delicate armour72 of their sex and assuming man’s r?le.
His kindness and the trouble he took on behalf of the Samoans is well known, and the natives earnestly expressed their gratitude by listening to and following the advice of “Tusitala,” as they called him, and when he died they loudly bewailed his death. The poet-author’s coffin73 was borne on the strong shoulders of Samoan chiefs, and the sound of their wailing74, as they carried the coffin onwards up the slopes, with slow footsteps, to the grave on Vaea’s sea-girt height, was his funeral chant.
I saw Robert Louis Stevenson in many places and in many moods, and looking back, as I now can, the perspective clearly shows me that he was a religious man in the true sense of that term. In no wise bigoted75, he often fell into the ranks of Christianity and beat time, with a smile on his lips, as though he wished to set an example to those around him, in his knowledge that the example was better than his own half-sad, hopeful smile. At times, too, he would fall out of the ranks and become a harum-scarum renegade, and at such moments he seemed to have no idea of the existence of the barrier-lines that men, before the public, draw between the jovial rogue76 and the respectable citizen. “Well, captain, how goes it? Got an eye-opener aboard?” he would say as he jumped aboard the schooner’s deck; and then he would turn to the sailor who might be cleaning brass close by and offer him a cigarette, or walk into the forecastle and chum with the crew, or look over the ship’s side and shy a copper53 to the swimming natives who haunted the bay, with the sea-birds, looking for a living. Such was Stevenson’s manner in the isles77 of Samoa, where, notwithstanding the wildness and the proximity80 to primitive81 life, many of the emigrant82 citizens still did things, or did not do things, because of the standard set by a majority.
It does not matter where you go, or how remote from civilisation your dwelling-place may be, you are sure to have some living illustration before you to tell you that the chains of conventionality are forged from the natures of men. I believe that if we could come back to this world a myriad83 years hence, when the sun has cooled down to a ghostly moon, when the seas are frozen and swinging to the tideless desolation that precedes the final crashing of the planetary system, and the human race has dwindled84 to a camp of twelve shivering mortals wrapped in bearskins, we should find them sitting over the last log fire without wood, with gloomy faces, anxiously awaiting Monday—because it is Sunday!
Mrs Stevenson was as much a Bohemian as her husband. She accompanied him on his short visits to Apia town, and on those occasions she was generally to be seen hurriedly rushing back to get, or inquire for, that which had been left behind. The novelist walked ahead and, as he went on dreaming, forgot that his wife was out with him till the domestic voice came again. Mrs Stevenson was very pleasant to talk to; she invited me to Vailima, but I was not able to go. Indeed, I was only a lad and, not being a lady’s man, would have run twenty miles to escape Vailima fashion.
I recall many men who were acquaintances of Robert Louis Stevenson, and whom I have never heard of since. I remember one old man in particular whom Stevenson was always glad to meet. Indeed, the novelist’s face lit up directly he saw him. His name was Callard, and he was a bit of a scallawag, was a character and had plenty of spare cash. He was never silent, but talked all day long and nearly all night, and always had some new trouble to relate. I slept in his room one night with two other men and he kept on and on about some friend who had swindled him out of five dollars in San Francisco, for that was his native place. “Yes, he did me, by heaven he did”; and saying this he would start reckoning up on a bit of paper, and sit on the side of the bed swearing till my friend and I said: “If you won’t worry any more about it we’ll give you the five dollars.” About a week after he took a passage on the ’Frisco mail-boat. I really believe that he hurried home and spent five hundred dollars to ease his mind about that five dollars, and would have spent a thousand dollars sooner than be done. I am rather like that myself, but I do not let such losses prey85 on my mind, for if I did, and tried to get even with the culprit, I should be incessantly86 travelling off somewhere or other.
Well, Stevenson often met Callard, and the old chap treated him as though he was a boy, told the novelist jokes, spun87 yarns88 and repeatedly nudged him in the ribs89; and the two would finally end up by retiring to the bar and standing79 each other treat.
Callard’s great ambition at that time was to see King Malietoa Laupepa at Mulinuu. I went off with him, and with the assistance of some Malietoans got him an introduction at the royal court. Callard behaved with great propriety90, indeed, bowed to almost all the native servants of the court retinue91! I played the violin to the King, who was a most agreeable gentleman, and carried himself with a deal more importance than Mataafa did. Callard spoke92 day and night of the King’s handshake, and chuckled93 in his very sleep at the thought of what his friends in America would think when they heard of Callard and the King of Samoa together. He went especially to Vailima to tell Stevenson about King Malietoa, and kept the novelist amused the whole evening.
Callard’s eyebrows94 were about half-an-inch long and they stuck straight out, and as he spoke his eyelids95 kept closing as though he was in deep thought; and what with that and his high, bald head, he was a cheerful-looking man. He always drank whisky, and Stevenson tucked him up to sleep on his couch at Vailima when he was too full of it to walk back to his lodgings96! I am quite sure if Stevenson had lived the world would have heard of Callard.
Wanganui River, N.Z.
Stevenson had a sneaking97 regard for vagabonds, and his eyes twinkled with delight in their company. He was very credulous98 and believed a deal that he heard. I think he would have gone off exploring for some new country, or a treasure island, in five minutes, if he had been encouraged by some of the fearless adventurers whom he mixed with through his love of vagabondage and adventure. The questions he used to ask men of the seafaring class revealed how implicitly99 he believed that which they were telling him, yet at other times he seemed alert with suspicion and in a mood to disbelieve actual facts.
Though I heard Stevenson make several attempts to play the violin, and also heard him pedalling at the harmonium, I cannot recall that he accomplished100 anything that struck me as showing musical talent—that is, talent revealing a quick ear to distinguish the scales and intervals101 of mechanical music. Indeed the pedals made more noise and sounded more rhythmical102 than the time he played; and he looked like some careworn103 priest toiling104 away on the treadmill105 of penance106 to save his soul. But still I can say that Stevenson had a gift that was something much greater than an ear for light melody. He was a great tone poet! His mind was a shell that caught echoes from the vastness of creation, and the murmurs107 of humanity in all its joy, passion and sorrow. Otherwise he could never have even noticed, let alone described as he did, for not in all literature will you find another who describes sound so perfectly108 at one stroke as Stevenson did. You can hear Nature’s moods, in all her wild grandeur109 of seas and the winds in the mountain forests, as you read his books. The seas beating over the barrier reefs, the vast silence of the tropical night, the starlit coco-palms and the coughing derelict beachcomber sleeping beneath them, become realities that haunt your mind, because they are made and played by a great musician who was an artist in Nature’s great orchestra.
I think if Stevenson had been able to cast aside all thought of the critical inspection110 of lovers of polite literature, and the mechanical niceties of phrase and thought, and had written his reminiscences down in a book, the characters therein would have walked, talked and laughed with cinema realism. Down in the magical world of words, before the mind’s eye and ear, we should have seen the vast tropical Pacific, and the stars over it reflected in the lagoons111 of the far-scattered isles clad with coco-palms as if painted by the magical silver oils of moonlight. We should have heard the cry of the traders and seen the beachcombers’ ragged112 clothes fluttering by tossing waters, and paddled canoes filled with the swarthy faces of wild men, on the waves that were breaking over the shores of his wonderful pages.
But, unfortunately, it was not to be, because of the great truth that we cannot do differently from that which we do. We are born in the chains of grim conventionality that become inevitably113 a part of us. Indeed he who professes114 to be utterly115 free from it, and to have no regard for it in his work, has his published book as strong evidence against his sincerity116.
I’ve met far greater geniuses than Robert Louis Stevenson in the Southern Seas—geniuses so intense with pathos117, wit, insight and heroic courage that though they had never even read a book, or learnt to write, their minds were gold mines of truth and experience and all that men have ever attempted to tell in polite phrase. Could they, by some magical means, have turned a handle and so written down in a book their reminiscences, and their thoughts on human affairs, modern literature would not have to bewail the loss of its Golden Age, but would be absorbed with delight, filled with ecstatic charm over the pathos and the wonderful touches of truth, in what would be the great classic, the new Odyssey118 of modern times.
But to return to Stevenson. I once heard him arguing violently on board a ship, when he was at dinner in the saloon. At the time I was busily cleaning the brass door handle. It grieves me to have to confess to this humble119 occupation while I was seeking fame and fortune in far countries, but it was the execution of this little detail of one of my many professions that gave me the opportunity of hearing the celebrated120 author’s opinion on Socialism.
One of the diners, who sat opposite Robert Louis Stevenson, was a big red-faced man, weighing about sixteen stone, a quantity of heavy jewellery which adorned121 his clothing being included. He breathed violently as he ate and kept insisting on the wonderful virtues122 of Socialism. Stevenson combated with him in fine style, winning every point. All I can remember of the conversation was that the author said: “Socialism is based on ideas of equality and the freedom of the individual; yet its principal aim in practice would be to destroy individuality and freedom, and the equality would be a system producing nothing else but a nation of slaves.”
I think Stevenson was right, for I have noticed that socialists123 are not continually busy in giving away anything. Indeed, socialists have so developed the instinct of commercial grab that they can always perceive, “by the cut of your jib” (a socialistic phrase), how much you are worth and whether you would part with it without the use of muscular force. I am not well read in the ethics124 of Socialism, because I cannot waste my time. If a burglar broke into my house, and I caught him stealing my goods as his fair share, I should not want to read his private correspondence and hear his views on human affairs, or wish to know if he had a clean shirt on ere I threw him out of the window or fetched the police. Socialists do not like sharing their property with others any more than I do.
I have striven to tell in the brief foregoing details my impressions and experiences of Robert Louis Stevenson. I hope they may be interesting. In the books that deal with his life in the South Seas it is little short of marvellous how tamely his life there is painted, especially when one thinks that his island home was overrun by semi-civilised natives and a white population of the most mixed and adventurous125 people the world could well place together; and certainly Stevenson was not the kind of man to travel to the South Seas and seek no other excitement beyond an afternoon walk or a fashionable dance in an Apia ballroom126.
It was somewhere about the period which I am dealing127 with that a discussion was going on concerning Father Damien, the celebrated Catholic priest who had sacrificed his life for the sake of the lepers at the dread128 lazaretto on the Isle78 of Molokai. In my first book of reminiscences in the South Seas I touched briefly129 on the few incidents which I heard from a native friend of mine, Raeltoa the Samoan. And before I proceed with my later reminiscences of Samoa and elsewhere I will tell you all I heard about Father Damien whilst I was in Honolulu.
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schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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vouch
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| v.担保；断定；n.被担保者 | |
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refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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yarned
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| vi.讲故事（yarn的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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lugging
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| 超载运转能力 | |
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jabbered
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| v.急切而含混不清地说( jabber的过去式和过去分词 )；急促兴奋地说话 | |
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gash
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| v.深切，划开；n.(深长的)切(伤)口；裂缝 | |
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kindly
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caper
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| v.雀跃，欢蹦；n.雀跃，跳跃；续随子，刺山柑花蕾；嬉戏 | |
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helping
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catching
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pegs
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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savage
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civilisation
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plucky
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overhauled
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| v.彻底检查( overhaul的过去式和过去分词 )；大修；赶上；超越 | |
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tangle
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galley
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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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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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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31
plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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32
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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34
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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35
reiterating
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的现在分词 ) | |
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36
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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37
punctuating
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的现在分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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38
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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39
convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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40
equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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41
insidiously
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| 潜在地，隐伏地，阴险地 | |
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42
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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43
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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45
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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47
maritime
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| adj.海的，海事的，航海的，近海的，沿海的 | |
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48
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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49
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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50
toddled
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| v.（幼儿等）东倒西歪地走( toddle的过去式和过去分词 )；蹒跚行走；溜达；散步 | |
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51
grimaces
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| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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52
coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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53
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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54
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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55
spanking
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| adj.强烈的，疾行的；n.打屁股 | |
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56
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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57
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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58
chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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59
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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61
dummies
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| n.仿制品( dummy的名词复数 )；橡皮奶头；笨蛋；假传球 | |
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62
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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63
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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64
dummy
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| n.假的东西；(哄婴儿的)橡皮奶头 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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66
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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67
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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68
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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70
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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71
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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72
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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73
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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74
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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75
bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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76
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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77
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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78
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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79
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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80
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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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
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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83
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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84
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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86
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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87
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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88
yarns
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| n.纱( yarn的名词复数 )；纱线；奇闻漫谈；旅行轶事 | |
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89
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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90
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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91
retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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92
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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93
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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95
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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96
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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97
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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98
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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99
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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100
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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101
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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102
rhythmical
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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103
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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104
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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105
treadmill
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| n.踏车；单调的工作 | |
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106
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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107
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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108
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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109
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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110
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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111
lagoons
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| n.污水池( lagoon的名词复数 )；潟湖；（大湖或江河附近的）小而浅的淡水湖；温泉形成的池塘 | |
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112
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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113
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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114
professes
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| 声称( profess的第三人称单数 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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115
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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116
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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117
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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118
odyssey
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| n.长途冒险旅行；一连串的冒险 | |
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119
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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120
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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121
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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122
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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123
socialists
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| 社会主义者( socialist的名词复数 ) | |
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124
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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125
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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126
ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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127
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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128
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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129
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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