Lester originated in the yonder part of Indiana, but when he returned from Oxford he made up his mind to live in New York. He felt it appropriate that he should be connected in some way with the production of literature, and after hiring a bedroom on the fourth floor of an old house on Madison Avenue, where two friends of his were living, he set out to visit the publishers.
There is a third-rate club in London called the Litterateurs' Club. A few years ago it was in urgent need of funds, and a brilliant idea struck the managing committee. Every writer listed in the American “Who's Who” was circularized and received a very flattering letter saying that, owing to the distinction of his contributions to contemporary letters, the Litterateurs' Club of London would be very much pleased to welcome him as a member, upon a nominal12 payment of five guineas. About seven hundred guileless persons complied, and transatlantic travel became appreciably13 denser14 on account of these men of letters crossing to England to revel15 in their importance as members of a club of which no one in London has ever heard. And by some fluke the managing committee had got hold of the name of Lester Valiant, then at Oxford—perhaps because he had once published a story in the Cantharides Magazine. Probably they bought a mailing list from some firm in Tottenham Court Road.
LESTER G. P. VALIANT
The Litterateurs' Club, London
The use of these pasteboards brought him ready entrée in the offices of New York publishers. If he had not been so eager to impress the gentlemen he interviewed with his literary connoisseurship17, undoubtedly18 he would have landed a job much sooner. But publishers are justly suspicious of anything that savours of literature, and Lester's innocent allusions19 to George Moore and Chelsea did much to alarm them. At length, however, Mr. Arundel, the president of the Arundel Company, took pity on the young man and gave him a desk in his editorial department and fifteen dollars a week. Mr. Arundel had once walked through the quadrangle of Balliol, and he was not disposed to be too severe toward Lester's na?ve mannerisms.
To his amazement20 and dismay, Lester found his occupation not even faintly flavoured with literature. He was set to work writing press notes about authors of whom he had never heard at Oxford and whose books he soon discovered to be amateurish21 or worse. He had been nourishing himself upon the English conception of a publisher's office: a quaint22, dingy23 rookery somewhere in Clifford's Inn, where gentlemen in spats24 and monocles discuss, over cups of tea and platters of anchovy25 toast, realism and the latest freak of the Spasmodists.
The Arundel office was a wilderness27 of light walnut28 desks and filing cases, throbbing29 with typewriters, adding machines, and hoarse30 cries from the shipping31 room at the rear. Here sat Lester, gloomily writing blurbs32 for literary editors, and wondering how long it would be before he would earn forty dollars a week. He reckoned that was what one ought to get before incurring33 matrimony.
Like all young men of twenty-three, Lester thought a good deal about marriage, although he had not yet chosen his quarry34. The feeling that he could marry almost anybody was delicious to him. But this heavenly eclecticism35 endures such a short time! For youth abhors36 generalities and seeks the concrete instance. Also, much reading of George Moore sets the mind brooding on these things. Lester used to stroll in Madison Square at dusk before going back to his room, and his visions were often of a dark-panelled apartment in the Gramercy Park neighbourhood where an open fire would be burning and someone sitting in silk stockings to endear him as he returned from the office.
His arrival caused something of an upheaval37 in the placid38 breasts of the two old college friends whose sitting room he shared on Madison Avenue. They were sturdy and steady creatures, more familiar with Edward Earle Purinton and Orison Swett Marden than with Swinburne and Crackanthorpe and Mallarmé. To his secret annoyance39, Lester learned that both Jack6 Hulbert and Harry40 Hanover were earning more than thirty dollars a week, and he even had an uneasy suspicion that they were saving some of it. When he spoke41 about Beardsley or Will Rothenstein or the Grafton Galleries they were apt to turn the talk upon Ty Cobb and Tris Speaker. When he showed them his greatest treasure, a plaster life mask of himself that a sculpturing friend in Chelsea had made, they were frankly42 ribald. Jack was in the circulation department of a popular magazine, and Harry performed some unexplained tasks in the office of a tea importer. Lester was fond of them both, but it seemed to him a bitter travesty43 that these simple-minded Philistines44 should possess so much higher earning power than he. So he thought of taking a garret in Greenwich Village, but in the Madison Avenue house he was sharing a big sitting room at little expense. So he spread his books about, hung up his framed letter from Przybyszewski, put his hammered brass46 tea caddy on the reading table, and made the best of the situation.
Even on fifteen dollars a week a young man may have a very amusing time in New York. For his room and breakfast Lester paid six dollars a week; for his other meals he used to hunt out the little table-d'h?te restaurants of which there are so many in the crosstown streets between the Avenue and Broadway. To come in from the snowy street on a winter evening, sit down to a tureen of Moretti's hot minestrone, open a new packet of ten-cent cigarettes, and prop11 up a copy of the Oblique47 Review against the cruet stand, seemed to Lester the prismatic fringe of all that was je ne sais quoi and ne plus ultra. The dandruffians in the little orchestra under the stairs would hammer out some braying48 operatic strains, and Lester would lean back in a swirl49 of acrid50 tobacco smoke and survey his surroundings with great content.
It was while he was conjugating51 the verb to live in this manner, and sowing (as someone has said) a notable crop of wild table d'h?tes, that he first realized the importance of Pearl Denver. Miss Pearl was Mr. Arundel's personal stenographer52, a young woman remarkable53 in her profession by the fact that she never exposed the details of her camisole to the public gaze; also when the boss dictated54 she was able to rescue his subordinate clauses from the airy vacancy55 in which they hung suspended, and hook them up into new sentences capable of grammatical analysis. As a stenog she was distinctly above par10, but not above parsing56.
Lester, of course, had a speaking acquaintance with Miss Denver, but her existence had never really penetrated57 the warm aura of egocentric thoughts that enhaloed him. He knew her simply as one of the contingents58 of the office; and the office had proved a great disappointment to him. Not one of the “firm” (he called them “directors”) wore spats; not one of them had shown the faintest interest in his suggestion that they publish a volume of Clara Tice's drawings. Lester must be pardoned for having dismissed Miss Denver, if he had thought of her at all, as not generis.
We now proceed more rapidly. Entering the hallway of Moretti's on Thirty-fifth Street, about half past one cocktail59 of a winter evening, he found the cramped60 vestibule crowded by several persons taking off their wraps. A copy of the Oblique Review, unmistakable in its garlic-green cover, fell at his feet. Thinking it his own, he picked it up and was about to pocket it when a red tarn61 o'shan-ter in front of him turned round. He saw the bobbed brown hair and gray eyes of Miss Denver. “Well, Mr. Valiant, what are you doing with my magazine?”
“Oh—why—I beg your pardon! I thought it was mine! I'm awfully62 sorry!” He was keenly embarrassed, and pulled his own copy out of his overcoat pocket as an evidence of good faith.
She laughed. “I don't wonder you made the mistake,” she said. “Probably you thought you were the only person in New York reading the Oblique!”
He felt the alarm that every shy or cautious youth experiences in the presence of beauty, and, with a mumbled63 apology, fled hastily to a little table in a corner. There, pretending to read some preposterous64 farrago of free verse, he watched Miss Denver meet another girl who was evidently waiting for her. The two chattered65 with such abandon, smoked so many cigarettes, and seemed so thoroughly66 at home that Lester envied them their savoir. Manoeuvring his spaghetti and parmesan, his gaze passed as direct as the cartoonist's dotted line to the charming contour of the stenographer's cheek and neck. His equanimity67 was quite overset. Never before had he gazed with seeing eye upon the demure68 creature sorting out Mr. Arundel's mind into paragraphs. Human nature is what it is; let Lester's first thought be confessed: “I wonder if she knows what my salary is?”
At last, after smoking many cigarettes and skimming over the Oblique Review, Lester felt it was his move. He walked down the room, looking at his wrist watch with a slight frown as he passed her table. At the door he saw by the reflection in a mirror that she had not even looked up. He hurried back to Madison Avenue, pausing to sniff69 the crystal frosty air. At the corner of Fifth he stood for a moment, inhaling70 the miraculous71 clearness of the night and pondering on the relative values of free verse and ordered rhythms as modes of self-expression.
In spite of a certain bumptiousness72 among males, Lester was painfully shy with nubile73 women, and it was several days before he had opportunity for further speech with Miss Denver. Moretti's is a fifty-cent table d'h?te, and his regimen was calculated on a forty-cent limit for dinner; but after this meeting with the Oblique Review's fairest abonnée he haunted the place for some evenings. Then one day, taking in some copy for a book jacket to be approved by the sales manager, he encountered Miss Denver in the sample room. During working hours she was “strictly business,” and he admired the trim white blouse, the satin-smooth neck, and the small, capable hands jotting76 pothooks in her notebook as she took a long telephone call. She put down the receiver, and smiled pleasantly at him.
“Don't you go to Moretti's any more?” he asked, and then regretted the brusqueness of the question.
“Sometimes,” she said. “Usually when I buy the Oblique I go to a Hartford Lunch. I can sit there as long as I want and read, with doughnuts and coffee.”
Lester had a curious feeling of oscillation somewhere to the left of his middle waistcoat button. As the little girl said on the Coney Island switchback, he felt as though he had freckles77 on his stomach.
“Will you come to Moretti's with me some night?” he asked.
“I'd love to,” she said. “I must hurry now. Mr. Arundel's waiting for this phone call.”
A little later in the day, after a good deal of heartburning, Lester called her up from his desk. “How about to-morrow night?” he said, and she accepted.
Coursing back to his chamber78 the next evening, Lester was a little worried about the ceremonial demanded by the occasion. Should he put on white linen79 and a dinner jacket, becoming the conquering male of the upper classes? But the recollection of the Oblique Review suggested that a touch of négligée would be more appropriate. A clean, soft collar and a bow tie of lavender silk were his concessions80 to unconvention. He was about to scrub out a minute soup stain on the breast of his coat, but concluded that as a badge of graceful81 carelessness this might remain. At a tobacconist's he bought a package of cheap Russian cigarettes, such as he imagined a Bolshevik might smoke.
There she came, tripping along the street, with something of the quick, alcaic motion of an Undersmith on high. He waved gayly. She depressed82 her shift key and reversed the ribbon. He double-spaced, and they entered the restaurant together.
Lester felt an intellectual tremor83 as they sat down at a corner table. Never had his mind seemed so relentlessly84 clear, so keen to leap upon the problems of life and tessellate them. It was as though all his past experience had cumulated and led up to this peak of existence. “Now for a close analysis of Female Mind,” was his secret thought as he settled in his chair. He felt almost sorry for this gay, defenceless little shred85 of humanity who had cast herself under his domineering gaze. A masculine awareness86 of size and power filled him. And yet—she seemed quite unterrified.
As they began on the antipasto he thought to himself: “I must start very gently. Women like men to veil their power.” So he said:
“That was funny, my picking up your magazine the other night, wasn't it? You know I thought it was my copy.”
“Oh, the dear old Oblique! Isn't it a scream? I read myself to sleep with it every night. We'll have to make the most of it while we can, because Mr. Arundel says it can't pay its paper bill much longer.”
This irreverence87 rather startled Lester, who was writing an article “On the Art of Clara Tice” which he had been hoping the Oblique would buy. In fact, he was startled quite out of the careful conversational88 paradigm89 he had planned. He found himself getting a little ahead of his barrage90. “Does Mr. Arundel read it?” he asked. “Heavens, no!” cried Miss Denver, and effervesced91 with laughter. “He would rather face a firing squad92 than read that kind of stuff. But he has an interest in the concern that supplies their paper.” The matter of paper had never occurred to Lester before. Of course he knew a magazine had to have something to print on, but he had never thought of the editors of a radical93 review being embarrassed by such a paltry94 consideration.
“Is Mr. Arundel literary?” he asked.
Miss Denver found this very whimsical. “Say, are you kidding me?” she said, with tilted95 eyebrows96. “The chief says literature is the curse of the publishing business. Every time somebody puts over some highbrow stuff on him we lose money on it. The only kind of literature that gets under his ribs97 is reports from the sales department.”
“That's very Philistine45, isn't it?”
“Sure it is, but it puts the frogs in the pay envelopes, so what of it?”
“Well, I should expect the head of a big publishing house to be at least interested in some form of literary expression.”
“You should worry! That's what we hires for. Besides he has a literary passion, too—Walt Mason. He thinks Walt is the greatest poet in the world.”
“Walter Mason?” murmured Lester. “I don't think I know his work.”
“Hasn't Walt made Oxford yet?” asked Miss Denver. “He writes the prose poems in the evening papers, syndicate stuff, you know. Printed to look like prose, just the opposite of the free-verse gag.” She smiled reminiscently, and quoted:
When I am as dry as a fish up a tree, then I to the hydrant repair, and fill myself up, without ticket or fee, with the water that's eddying98 there. I drink all I want—half a gallon or more—and then I lie down on my couch; when I rise in the morning my head isn't sore and I don't wear a dark brindle grouch——”
“Is there any free-verse stuff that can cover that?” she asked.
Lester was somewhat disconcerted. His assessment99 of Female Mind did not seem to be proceeding100 methodically. He played for time.
“I thought you enjoyed the Oblique?”
“As a joke, yes: I laugh myself giddy over it. But I know darn well that kind of junk won't last. By and by the ghost'll quit putting up and the editors will get jobs as ticket choppers. I guess I'm a Philistine!”
With this deliciously impudent101 creature beaming at him, Lester felt himself cursedly at a disadvantage. Neither Harvard nor Balliol had informed him about this Walter Mason, and though he had seven hundred quips and anecdotes102 indexed in a scrapbook marked Jocoseria, none of them seemed to bubble up just now. Darn the girl, her mind wouldn't stand still long enough for him to take its temperature. It was like trying to write captions103 for the movies while the film was running. He blew a cloud of blue Russian vapour across the board, and smiled at her in a tolerant, veni-vidi-Bolsheviki kind of way. Behind his forehead he was fighting desperately104 to catch up.
As they wrestled105 with the spaghetti he remembered that someone had told him that publishers usually depend on the literary judgment106 of their wives. Perhaps that was the case with Mr. Arundel? But Miss Denver laughed aloud at the suggestion.
“Wrong again!” she said. “He's not married. Petunia107 Veal108, the author of 'Sveltschmerz,' has been angling for him for years, and lots of other lady authors, too. He's so sentimental109, he's escaped 'em all so far.”
She bubbled and chuckled110 and gurgled her way through the rest of Moretti's menu, amazing him more and more by the spontaneity, sophistication, and charm of her wit. He escorted her home, and then stood under a lamp-post for three minutes removing the soup stain with a handkerchief. “She's immense!” he said to himself. “Why she's—she's a poem by William Butler Yeats!” As an afterthought, he made a mental memorandum111 to visit the library and look up the work of Walter Mason.
A few days later Mr. Arundel sent for Lester, who hurried to the private office with visions of a raise in salary. The president was sitting at his desk turning over some papers; he motioned Lester to a chair and seemed curiously112 loath113 to begin conversation. At last he turned, saying:
“Mr. Valiant, your life at Oxford did a great deal to mitigate114 your literary sensibilities?” Lester hardly knew what to say, and murmured some meaningless syllables115.
“I think that your abilities can be of very great service to us,” continued Mr. Arundel, “and as an evidence of that I am asking the cashier to raise your salary five dollars a week.”
Lester bowed gently; he was not capable of articulate speech.
“I want to ask you a rather delicate question,” pursued the president, who seemed as much embarrassed as his visitor. “Do you ever write poetry?”
Lester's voice was amazingly hoarse and choky, but in a spasm26 of puzzlement and gratification he ejaculated: “Sometimes!”
“What I really mean,” said Mr. Arundel, “is this: do you ever write verses of a sentimental nature—hum—what might be called endearments116?”
The young man sat speechless in surprise and embarrassment117. As a matter of fact, he had been trolling some amatory staves in secret, in honour of Miss Denver; and he imagined they had come in some way under his employer's eye.
“Please do not be alarmed,” said Mr. Arundel, seeing his discomfiture118. “This is purely119 a matter of business. As it happens, I have a need for some poems of an intimately sentimental character, and, being totally unfitted to produce them myself, I wondered if you would sell me some? I would be glad to pay market rates for them.”
Still Lester could do no more than bow.
“I shall have to be frank,” said Mr. Arundel, “and I must beg you to keep this matter absolutely confidential120. I have your word of honour in that regard?”
“Absolutely,” said Lester, quite vanquished121 by amazement.
The president's sense of humour seemed to have mastered his diffidence. A quaint smile lurked122 behind the furrows123 that years of royalties124 had carved on his face.
“I want to do some wooing in rhyme; and I want you to turn out some verses for me of a superlatively lyric125 sort, it being understood that I purchase all rights in these poems, including that of authorship. Would you be willing to do me half a dozen, at say ten dollars each?”
Lester, although staggered by the proposal, was still able to multiply six by ten, and his answer was affirmative and speedy.
“I do not wish to give you any specifications126 as to the object of your vicarious amour,” said the president. “It is a lady, of course; young and fair. How soon can you despoil127 the English language of half a dozen songs of passion worthy128 of the best Oxford traditions?”
Jack and Harry found Lester good company that evening. When they got back to the sitting room on Madison Avenue he was lying on a couch, nursing a large calabash and contemplating129 the ceiling with dreamy brow. As they entered, stripping off their overcoats and chucking the night extras across the room at him, he smiled the rich, tolerant smile of Alexander at the Macedon polo grounds.
“Well, Lester,” said Jack, “why the Cheshire-cat grin?”
“My God!” said Harry. “Think how many starving cubists you could endow on that! There'll be a riot in Greenwich Village.”
“Pity the poor bartenders on a night like this!” cried Jack. Then they went to Browne's chop-house for dinner. After a three-finger steak and several beakers of dog's nose, Lester was readily persuaded to enounce the first number of his sonnet131 sequence, which had accreted132 or (as its author expressed it) nucleolated, while he was walking home from the office.
“Sonnet, in the Petrarchan mode, item No. 1,” he proclaimed:
Upon a trellis, bending toward the south,
It pullulates and blooms in sultry rhyme,
And seeking for that sweeter rose, your mouth,
And with its sweetness all the night endow'th.
For this my life was manifestly born,
To climb toward thy lips, and never tire!
Lean out, and smile, and pluck thy heart's desire.
“Seems strange,” said Harry, “that a man can buy a good meal with a thing like that!”
“What is a petrarch, anyway?” said Jack. “Gee, you'll have to brush your hair to keep it out of your eyebrows,” said Harry. “Herod was petrarch of Galilee, don't you remember? It's a kind of comptroller or efficiency expert.”
“Nonsense,” said Harry. “Herod was patriarch of Galilee, not petrarch.”
At this moment Lester was busy multiplying twenty by fifty-two, and adding sixty, and he did not attempt to put Laura's friend right in the eyes of his companions.
The next morning, at the office, Lester took occasion to stroll over to the corner where Miss Denver was tickling143 the keys. Her delicious, able fingers flashed like the boreal aurora144; the incomparable smoothness of her neck and throat fascinated him; her clear, blue-washed gray eyes startled him with their merry archness. Wambling inwardly, he met her gaze as coolly as he might.
“Come to Moretti's to-night?” he asked.
“I'm sorry; I've got a date to-night.”
He ached in spirit. “To-morrow night?”
She hesitated a moment, tapping the desk with a rosy145 finger nail. Then her face brightened. “I'd love to.”
As he returned to his desk and the dull routine of writing press notes for Petunia Veal's latest novel, he uttered a phrase that he had caught from Harry Hanover. It was the first sign of his emancipation146 from Mallarmé and the Oxford Movement, for certainly that phrase had never been heard on the quilted lawns of Balliol: “She's a prize package, all right, all right!”
Ten days elapsed. All six sonnets147 had been delivered and paid for, and Mr. Arundel had bargained for a few extra rondeaux, at five dollars each.
Antipasto, minestrone, breadsticks, force-meat balls, and here we are again at the spaghetti and Hackensack Chianti. Lester had mailed his MS. on “Clara Tice and the Pleinaerists of Greenwich Village” to the Oblique Review that afternoon, and had calculated that the editors could not in any decency148 offer him less than fifty—or perhaps forty—dollars for it. This, added to 20 by 52 plus 60 plus the rondeaux and other probable increments149, would certainly support two in a garret for some time. He also had hopes of selling some obscenarios for the movies. Pearl would probably want to go on with her work, for a while at any rate. She was so independent! But those clear eyes of hers, like a March sky with teasings of April in it, how tender and laughing they were! A few nights ago they had taken a long bus ride together, and she had forgotten her muff. She let him warm her hands instead. He went home that night feeling strong enough to bite lamp-posts in two, and had waked up Jack and Harry to put them right about Petrarch.
Pearl was teaching Lester to twirl up his spaghetti with fork and spoon, instead of draping it out of his mouth like Spanish moss150. Suddenly she laughed.
“What did I tell you!” she said. “The dear old Oblique has gone blooie! Mr. Arundel called up the editor to-day and told him the Barmecide Company won't supply him with any more paper until he pays his bills. Of course that means he'll have to quit.”
Lester was touched in two vital spots: his own private hopes, and his zeal151 for fly-specked literature. “Shades of Frank Harris!” he cried. “If that isn't just like Arundel! Why, that man is pure and simple bourgeois152! I never heard of such a thing. Has he no feeling at all for art?” Pearl laughed—the pure, musical laugh of careless girlishness, but the recording153 angel caught in the nimble chords a faint overtone of something else—like the tinkle154 of ice in a misty155 tumbler. “Oh, he has his own ideas about art,” she said. “He's taken to writing poetry himself. You never heard such stuff—I've been meaning to tell you. What does 'pullulate' mean?”
Lester's valiant heart, Lester's manly156 hands that had acted as a muff on a Riverside Drive bus, trembled and stiffened157. “It 'pullulates and blooms in sultry rhyme,” she quoted gayly. “Now what do you make of that, as referring to Mr. Arundel's heart? Sultry is right, too!” Lion-hearted Harvard, oak-bosomed Balliol, and all the mature essences of manhood were needed to keep Lester calm. How had she seen these secret strains? She must have been peeping into the chief's private correspondence. He hesitated during six inches of spaghetti. “Search me!” he said. “Is it in Walter Mason?”
“No, it's his own stuff, I tell you. O beauteous rose! O shrub without a thorn!” she chanted, and her laughter popped like a champagne158 cork159. The horrid160 truth burst upon him. The boss was courting the angel of the office with the very ammunition161 that Lester himself had furnished, and his vow162 of secrecy163 forbade him to disclose the truth. Oh, the paltry meanness of fate, the villainy of circumstance! It is impossible to describe the pangs164 it cost him to dissemble, cloak, disguise, and conceal165 the anguish166 he felt. But dissemble, cloak, disguise, and conceal he did, and though his heart glowed like an angry cigar stub, he reached home at last.
There he sat down at his table, and amid the healthy snores of his roommates he concocted167 a fine piece of literary ordnance168. Late and grimly he toiled169 and contrived170. At length he had fashioned a sonnet which would be the golden sum and substance of the previous sequence; a cry of the heart so splendidly forensic171 that Mr. Arundel would pounce172 upon it, yielding his crisp steel engraving173 in return. But see, the asp concealed174 in the basket of fruit, the adder175 in the woodpile! Read Lester's sonnet as an acrostic:
Over that trellis where the moon distills
My heart is climbing like a rambler rose:
You lean and listen to the whippoorwills,
O beauteous rose! O shrub without a thorn!
I touch the windowsill with heart forlorn,
Hoping the guerdon of thy bounteous youth.
After the grief and teen of bitter days,
Ever at eventide I seek thy praise,
Over the rotten fruit of buried years
Unbar the bolt—have pity on my tears!
The discerning reader will spot the glittering falchion of malice180 lurking181 in the initial letters. Read them downward, they convey: o my how I hate you! Lester had but to convey this poisoned comfit to his chief: then, playing upon the artless Pearl, persuade her to show it to him—point out the murderous duplicity of the love token; and she would recoil182 into his arms. Greenwich Village would sound the timbrel of joy, and even the Oblique might find a softer-hearted papyrus183 vendor184. Vos plaudite! With such thoughts, amid the wailing185 matin song of boarding-house steam pipes, our hero fell into a brief slumber186.
That morning Lester hastened to the office. He waited feverishly187 until the hour when the chief usually arrived, then visited the private office. There he found the vice-president going over the morning mail. “Is—is Mr. Arundel in?” he stammered188.
“Mr. Arundel isn't here to-day,” said the vicepresident. “He will be away two weeks.”
Lester retired189 queasily190, and hurried to the corner sacred to Miss Denver. Here he found one of the other stenographers using Pearl's machine.
“Where's Miss Denver?” he asked.
The young lady, of humorous turn, looked at her wrist watch. “Getting ready to go over the top,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Haven't you heard? She marries the boss this morning.”
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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unpaid
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| adj.未付款的，无报酬的 | |
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bounteous
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| adj.丰富的 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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nominal
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| adj.名义上的；(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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appreciably
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denser
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| adj. 不易看透的, 密集的, 浓厚的, 愚钝的 | |
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revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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connoisseurship
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| n.鉴赏家（或鉴定家、行家）身份，鉴赏（或鉴定）力 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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19
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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20
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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21
amateurish
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| n.业余爱好的，不熟练的 | |
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22
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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23
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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24
spats
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| n.口角( spat的名词复数 )；小争吵；鞋罩；鞋套v.spit的过去式和过去分词( spat的第三人称单数 )；口角；小争吵；鞋罩 | |
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25
anchovy
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| n.凤尾鱼 | |
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26
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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27
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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28
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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29
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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30
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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31
shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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32
blurbs
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| n.（尤指印在书籍等护封上的）简介，推荐广告( blurb的名词复数 ) | |
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33
incurring
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| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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34
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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35
eclecticism
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| n.折衷主义 | |
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36
abhors
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| v.憎恶( abhor的第三人称单数 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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37
upheaval
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| n.胀起，(地壳)的隆起；剧变，动乱 | |
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38
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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39
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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40
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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41
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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42
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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43
travesty
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| n.歪曲，嘲弄，滑稽化 | |
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44
philistines
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| n.市侩，庸人( philistine的名词复数 )；庸夫俗子 | |
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45
philistine
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| n.庸俗的人；adj.市侩的，庸俗的 | |
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46
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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47
oblique
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| adj.斜的，倾斜的，无诚意的，不坦率的 | |
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48
braying
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| v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的现在分词 )；发嘟嘟声；粗声粗气地讲话（或大笑）；猛击 | |
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49
swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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50
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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51
conjugating
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| vt.使结合（conjugate的现在分词形式） | |
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52
stenographer
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| n.速记员 | |
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53
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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54
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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55
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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56
parsing
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| n.分[剖]析，分解v.从语法上描述或分析（词句等）( parse的现在分词 ) | |
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57
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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58
contingents
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| （志趣相投、尤指来自同一地方的）一组与会者( contingent的名词复数 )； 代表团； （军队的）分遣队； 小分队 | |
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59
cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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60
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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61
tarn
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| n.山中的小湖或小潭 | |
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62
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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63
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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65
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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66
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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67
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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68
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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69
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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70
inhaling
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| v.吸入( inhale的现在分词 ) | |
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71
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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72
bumptiousness
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73
nubile
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| adj.结婚期的 | |
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74
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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75
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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76
jotting
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| n.简短的笔记，略记v.匆忙记下( jot的现在分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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77
freckles
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| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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78
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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79
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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80
concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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81
graceful
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|
| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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82
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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83
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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84
relentlessly
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| adv.不屈不挠地；残酷地；不间断 | |
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85
shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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86
awareness
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| n.意识，觉悟，懂事，明智 | |
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87
irreverence
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| n.不尊敬 | |
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88
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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89
paradigm
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| n.例子，模范，词形变化表 | |
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90
barrage
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| n.火力网，弹幕 | |
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91
effervesced
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| v.冒气泡，起泡沫( effervesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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93
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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94
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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95
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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96
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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97
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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98
eddying
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| 涡流，涡流的形成 | |
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99
assessment
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| n.评价；评估；对财产的估价，被估定的金额 | |
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100
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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101
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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102
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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103
captions
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| n.标题，说明文字，字幕( caption的名词复数 )v.给（图片、照片等）加说明文字( caption的第三人称单数 ) | |
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104
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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105
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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106
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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107
petunia
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| n.矮牵牛花 | |
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108
veal
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| n.小牛肉 | |
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109
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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110
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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112
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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113
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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114
mitigate
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| vt.（使）减轻，（使）缓和 | |
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115
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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116
endearments
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| n.表示爱慕的话语，亲热的表示( endearment的名词复数 ) | |
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117
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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118
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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119
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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120
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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121
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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122
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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123
furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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124
royalties
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| 特许权使用费 | |
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125
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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126
specifications
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| n.规格；载明；详述；（产品等的）说明书；说明书( specification的名词复数 )；详细的计划书；载明；详述 | |
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127
despoil
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| v.夺取，抢夺 | |
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128
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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129
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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130
benignly
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| adv.仁慈地，亲切地 | |
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131
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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132
accreted
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| v.共生( accrete的过去式和过去分词 )；合生；使依附；使连接 | |
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133
yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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134
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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135
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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136
beckons
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的第三人称单数 ) | |
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137
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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138
heeds
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| n.留心，注意，听从( heed的名词复数 )v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的第三人称单数 ) | |
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139
shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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140
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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141
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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142
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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143
tickling
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| 反馈，回授，自旋挠痒法 | |
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144
aurora
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| n.极光 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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146
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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147
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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148
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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149
increments
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| n.增长( increment的名词复数 )；增量；增额；定期的加薪 | |
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150
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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151
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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152
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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153
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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154
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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155
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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156
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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157
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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158
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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159
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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160
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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161
ammunition
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| n.军火，弹药 | |
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162
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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163
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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164
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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165
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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166
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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167
concocted
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的过去式和过去分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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168
ordnance
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| n.大炮，军械 | |
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169
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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170
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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171
forensic
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| adj.法庭的，雄辩的 | |
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172
pounce
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| n.猛扑；v.猛扑，突然袭击，欣然同意 | |
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173
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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174
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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175
adder
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| n.蝰蛇；小毒蛇 | |
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176
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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177
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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178
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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179
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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180
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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181
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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182
recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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183
papyrus
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| n.古以纸草制成之纸 | |
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184
vendor
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| n.卖主；小贩 | |
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185
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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186
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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187
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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188
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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189
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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190
queasily
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| adv.令人恶心地 | |
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