Mrs. Devon's mansion1 was thrown open early on the eventful evening, but few would come until midnight. It was the fashion to attend the Opera first, and previous to that half a dozen people would give big dinners. He was a fortunate person who did not hear from his liver after this occasion; for at one o'clock came Mrs. Devon's massive supper, and then again at four o'clock another supper. To prepare these repasts a dozen extra chefs had been imported into the Devon establishment for a week—for it was part of the great lady's pride to permit no outside caterer2 to prepare anything for her guests.
Montague had never been able to get over his wonder at the social phenomenon known as Mrs. Devon. He came and took his chances in the jostling throngs3; and except that he got into casual conversation with one of the numerous detectives whom he took for a guest he came off fairly well. But all the time that he was being passed about and introduced and danced with, he was looking about him and wondering. The grand staircase and the hall and parlours had been turned into tropical gardens, with palms and trailing vines, and azaleas and roses, and great vases of scarlet5 poinsettia, with hundreds of lights glowing through them. (It was said that this ball had exhausted7 the flower supply of the country as far south as Atlanta.) And then in the reception room one came upon the little old lady, standing8' beneath a bower9 of orchids10. She was clad in a robe of royal purple trimmed with silver, and girdled about with an armour-plate of gems11. If one might credit the papers, the diamonds that were worn at one of these balls were valued at twenty million dollars.
The stranger was quite overwhelmed by all the splendour. There was a cotillion danced by two hundred gorgeously clad women and their partners—a scene so gay that one could only think of it as happening in a fairy legend, or some old romance of knighthood. Four sets of favours were given during this function, and jewels and objects of art were showered forth12 as if from a magician's wand. Mrs. Devon herself soon disappeared, but the riot of music and merry-making went on until near morning, and during all this time the halls and rooms of the great mansion were so crowded that one could scarcely move about.
Then one went home, and realized that all this splendour, and the human effort which it represented, had been for nothing but a memory! Nor would he get the full meaning of it if he failed to realize that it was simply one of thousands—a pattern which every one there would strive to follow in some function of his own. It was a signal bell, which told the world that the "season" was open. It loosed the floodgates of extravagance, and the torrent13 of dissipation poured forth. From then on there would be a continuous round of gaieties; one might have three banquets every single night—for a dinner and two suppers was now the custom, at entertainments! And filling the rest of one's day were receptions and teas and musicales—a person might take his choice among a score of opportunities, and never leave the circle he met at Mrs. Devon's. Nor was this counting the tens of thousands of aspirants14 and imitators all over the city; nor in a host of other cities, each with thousands of women who had nothing to do save to ape the ways of the Metropolis15. The mind could not realize the volume of this deluge16 of destruction—it was a thing which stunned17 the senses, and thundered in one's ears like Niagara.
The meaning of it all did not stop with the people who poured it forth; its effects were to be traced through the whole country. There were hordes18 of tradesmen and manufacturers who supplied what Society bought, and whose study it was to induce people to buy as much as possible. And so they devised what were called "fashions"—little eccentricities19 of cut and material, which made everything go out of date quickly. There had once been two seasons, but now there were four; and through window displays and millions of advertisements the public was lured20 into the trap. The "yellow" journals would give whole pages to describing "What the 400 are wearing"; there were magazines with many millions of readers, which existed for nothing save to propagate these ideas. And everywhere, in all classes of Society, men and women were starving their minds and hearts, and straining their energies to follow this phantom21 of fashion; the masses were kept poor because of it, and the youth and hope of the world was betrayed by it. In country villages poor farmers' wives were trimming their bonnets22 over to be "stylish"; and servant-girls in the cities were wearing imitation sealskins, and shop-clerks and sempstresses selling themselves into brothels for the sake of ribbons and gilt23 jewellery.
It was the instinct of decoration, perverted24 by the money-lust. In the Metropolis the sole test of excellence25 was money, and the possession of money was the proof of power; and every natural desire of men and women had been tainted26 by this influence. The love of beauty, the impulse to hospitality, the joys of music and dancing and love—all these things had become simply means to the demonstration27 of money-power! The men were busy making more money—but their idle women had nothing in life save this mad race in display. So it had come about that the woman who could consume wealth most conspicuously—who was the most effective instrument for the destroying of the labour and the lives of other people—this was the woman who was most applauded and most noticed.
The most appalling29 fact about Society was this utter blind materialism30. Such expectations as Montague had brought with him had been derived31 from the literature of Europe; in a grand monde such as this, he expected to meet diplomats32 and statesmen, scientists and explorers, philosophers and poets and painters. But one never heard anything about such people in Society. It was a mark of eccentricity33 to be interested in intellectual affairs, and one might go about for weeks and not meet a person with an idea. When these people read, it was a sugar-candy novel, and when they went to the play, it was a musical comedy. The one single intellectual product which it could point to as its own, was a rancid scandal-sheet, used mainly as a means of blackmail34. Now and then some aspiring35 young matron of the "elite36" would try to set up a salon37 after the fashion of the continent, and would gather a few feeble wits about her for a time. But for the most part the intellectual workers of the city held themselves severely38 aloof39; and Society was left a little clique40 of people whose fortunes had become historic in a decade or two, and who got together in each other's palaces and gorged41 themselves, and gambled and gossiped about each other, and wove about their personalities42 a veil of awful and exclusive majesty43.
Montague found himself thinking that perhaps it was not they who were to blame. It was not they who had set up wealth as the end and goal of things—it was the whole community, of which they were a part. It was not their fault that they had been left with power and nothing to use it for; it was not their fault that their sons and daughters found themselves stranded44 in the world, deprived of all necessity, and of the possibility of doing anything useful.
The most pitiful aspect of the whole thing to Montague was this "second generation" who were coming upon the scene, with their lives all poisoned in advance. No wrong which they could do to the world would ever equal the wrong which the world had done them, in permitting them to have money which they had not earned. They were cut off for ever from reality, and from the possibility of understanding life; they had big, healthy bodies, and they craved45 experience—and they had absolutely nothing to do. That was the real meaning of all this orgy of dissipation—this "social whirl" as it was called; it was the frantic46 chase of some new thrill, some excitement that would stir the senses of people who had nothing in the world to interest them. That was why they were building palaces, and flinging largesses of banquets and balls, and tearing about the country in automobiles48, and travelling over the earth in steam yachts and private trains.
And first and last, the lesson of their efforts was, that the chase was futile49; the jaded50 nerves would not thrill. The most conspicuous28 fact about Society was its unutterable and agonizing51 boredom52; of its great solemn functions the shop-girl would read with greedy envy, but the women who attended them would be half asleep behind their jewelled fans. It was typified to Montague by Mrs. Billy Alden's yachting party on the Nile; yawning in the face of the Sphinx, and playing bridge beneath the shadow of the pyramids—and counting the crocodiles and proposing to jump in by way of "changing the pain"!
People attended these ceaseless rounds of entertainments, simply because they dreaded53 to be left alone. They wandered from place to place, following like a herd54 of sheep whatever leader would inaugurate a new diversion. One could have filled a volume with the list of their "fads55." There were new ones every week—if Society did not invent them, the yellow journals invented them. There was a woman who had her teeth filled with diamonds; and another who was driving a pair of zebras. One heard of monkey dinners and pyjama dinners at Newport, of horseback dinners and vegetable dances in New York. One heard of fashion-albums and autograph-fans and talking crows and rare orchids and reindeer57 meat; of bracelets58 for men and ankle rings for women; of "vanity-boxes" at ten and twenty thousand dollars each; of weird59 and repulsive60 pets, chameleons61 and lizards62 and king-snakes—there was one young woman who wore a cat-snake as a necklace. One would take to slumming and another to sniffing63 brandy through the nose; one had a table-cover made of woven roses, and another was wearing perfumed flannel64 at sixteen dollars a yard; one had inaugurated ice-skating in August, and another had started a class for the study of Plato. Some were giving tennis tournaments in bathing-suits, and playing leap-frog after dinner; others had got dispensations from the Pope, so that they might have private chapels66 and confessors; and yet others were giving "progressive dinners," moving from one restaurant to another—a cocktail67 and blue-points at Sherry's, a soup and Madeira at Delmonico's, some terrapin68 with amontillado at the Waldorf—and so on.
One of the consequences of the furious pace was that people's health broke down very quickly; and there were all sorts of bizarre ways of restoring it. One person would be eating nothing but spinach69, and another would be living on grass. One would chew a mouthful of soup thirty-two times; another would eat every two hours, and another only once a week. Some went out in the early morning and walked bare-footed in the grass, and others went hopping70 about the floor on their hands and knees to take off fat. There were "rest cures" and "water cures," "new thought" and "metaphysical healing" and "Christian71 Science"; there was an automatic horse, which one might ride indoors, with a register showing the distance travelled. Montague met one man who had an electric machine, which cost thirty thousand dollars, and which took hold of his arms and feet and exercised him while he waited. He met a woman who told him she was riding an electric camel!
Everywhere one went there were new people, spending their money in new and incredible ways. Here was a man who had bought a chapel65 and turned it into a theatre, and hired professional actors, and persuaded his friends to come and see him act Shakespeare. Here was a woman who costumed herself after figures in famous paintings, with arrangements of roses and cherry leaves, and wreaths of ivy72 and laurel—and with costumes for her pet dogs to match! Here was a man who paid six dollars a day for a carnation73 four inches across; and a girl who wore a hat trimmed with fresh morning-glories, and a ball costume with swarms74 of real butterflies tied with silk threads; and another with a hat made of woven silver, with ostrich75 plumes76 forty inches long made entirely77 of silver films. Here was a man who hired a military company to drill all day long to prepare a floor for dancing; and another who put up a building at a cost of thirty thousand dollars to give a débutante dance for his daughter, and then had it torn down the day after. Here was a man who bred rattlesnakes and turned them loose by thousands, and had driven everybody away from the North Carolina estate of one of the Wallings. Here was a man who was building himself a yacht with a model dairy and bakery on board, and a French laundry and a brass78 band. Here was a million-dollar racing-yacht with auto-boats on it and a platoon of marksmen, and some Chinese laundrymen, and two physicians for its half-insane occupant. Here was a man who had bought a Rhine castle for three-quarters of a million, and spent as much in restoring it, and filled it with servants dressed in fourteenth-century costumes. Here was a five-million-dollar art collection hidden away where nobody ever saw it!
One saw the meaning of this madness most clearly in the young men of Society. Some were killing79 themselves and other people in automobile47 races at a hundred and twenty miles an hour. Some went in for auto-boats, mere80 shells of things, shaped like a knife-blade, that tore through the water at forty miles an hour. Some would hire professional pugilists to knock them out; others would get up dog-fights and bear-fights, and boxing matches with kangaroos. Montague was taken to the home of one young man who had given his life to hunting wild game in every corner of the globe, and would travel round the world for a new species to add to his museum of trophies81. He had heard that Baron82 Rothschild had offered a thousand pounds for a "bongo," a huge grass-eating animal, which no white man had ever seen; and he had taken a year's trip into the interior, with a train of a hundred and thirty natives, and had brought out the heads of forty different species, including a bongo—which the Baron did not get! He met another who had helped to organize a balloon club, and two twenty-four-hour trips in the clouds. (This, by the way, was the latest sport—at Tuxedo83 they had races between balloons and automobiles; and Montague met one young lady who boasted that she had been up five times.) There was another young millionaire who sat and patiently taught Sunday School, in the presence of a host of reporters; there was another who set up a chain of newspapers all over the country and made war upon his class. There were others who went in for settlement work and Russian revolutionists—there were even some who called themselves Socialists84! Montague thought that this was the strangest fad56 of all; and when he met one of these young men at an afternoon tea, he gazed at him with wonder and perplexity—thinking of the man he had heard ranting85 on the street-corner.
This was the "second generation." Appalling as it was to think of, there was a third growing up, and getting ready to take the stage. And with wealth accumulating faster than ever, who could guess what they might do? There were still in Society a few men and women who had earned their money, and had some idea of the toil86 and suffering that it stood for; but when the third generation had taken possession, these would all be dead or forgotten, and there would no longer be any link to connect them with reality!
In the light of this thought one was moved to watch the children of the rich. Some of these had inherited scores of millions of dollars while they were still in the cradle; now and then one of them would be presented with a million-dollar house for a birthday gift. When such a baby was born, the newspapers would give pages to describing its layette, with baby dresses at a hundred dollars each, and lace handkerchiefs at five dollars, and dressing-sets with tiny gold brushes and powder-boxes; one might see a picture of the precious object in a "Moses basket," covered with rare and wonderful Valenciennes lace.
This child would grow up in an atmosphere of luxury and self-indulgence; it would be bullying87 the servants at the age of six, and talking scandal and smoking cigarettes at twelve. It would be petted and admired and stared at, and paraded about in state, dressed up like a French doll; it would drink in snobbery88 and hatefulness with the very air it breathed. One might meet in these great houses little tots not yet in their teens whose talk was all of the cost of things, and of the inferiority of their neighbours. There was nothing in the world too good for them.—They had little miniature automobiles to ride about the country in, and blooded Arabian ponies89, and doll-houses in real Louis Seize, with jewelled rugs and miniature electric lights. At Mrs. Caroline Smythe's, Montague was introduced to a pale and anaemic-looking youth of thirteen, who dined in solemn state alone when the rest of the family was away, and insisted upon having all the footmen in attendance; and his unfortunate aunt brought a storm about her ears by forbidding the butler to take champagne90 upstairs into the nursery before lunch.
A little remark stayed in Montague's mind as expressing the attitude of Society toward such matters. Major Venable had chanced to remark jestingly that children were coming to understand so much nowadays that it was necessary for the ladies to be careful. To which Mrs. Vivie Patton answered, with a sudden access of seriousness: "I don't know—do you find that children have any morals? Mine haven't."
And then the fascinating Mrs. Vivie went on to tell the truth about her own children. They were natural-born savages91, and that was all there was to it. They did as they pleased, and no one could stop them. The Major replied that nowadays all the world was doing as it pleased, and no one seemed to be able to stop it; and with that jest the conversation was turned to other matters. But Montague sat in silence, thinking about it—wondering what would happen to the world when it had fallen under the sway of this generation of spoiled children, and had adopted altogether the religion of doing as one pleased.
In the beginning people had simply done as they pleased spontaneously, and without thinking about it; but now, Montague discovered, the custom had spread to such an extent that it was developing a philosophy. There was springing up a new cult92, whose devotees were planning to make over the world upon the plan of doing as one pleased. Because its members were wealthy, and able to command the talent of the world, the cult was developing an art, with a highly perfected technique, and a literature which was subtle and exquisite93 and alluring94. Europe had had such a literature for a century, and England for a generation or two. And now America was having it, too!
Montague had an amusing insight into this one day, when Mrs. Vivie invited him to one of her "artistic95 evenings." Mrs. Vivie was in touch with a special set which went in for intellectual things, and included some amateur Bohemians and men of "genius." "Don't you come if you'll be shocked," she had said to him—"for Strathcona will be there."
Montague deemed himself able to stand a good deal by this time. He went, and found Mrs. Vivie and her Count (Mr. Vivie had apparently96 not been invited) and also the young poet of Diabolism, whose work was just then the talk of the town. He was a tall, slender youth with a white face and melancholy97 black eyes, and black locks falling in cascades98 about his ears; he sat in an Oriental corner, with a manuscript copied in tiny handwriting upon delicately scented99 "art paper," and tied with passionate100 purple ribbons. A young girl clad in white sat by his side and held a candle, while he read from this manuscript his unprinted (because unprintable) verses.
And between the readings the young poet talked. He talked about himself and his work—apparently that was what he had come to talk about. His words flowed like a swift stream, limpid101, sparkling, incessant102; leaping from place to place—here, there, quick as the play of light upon the water. Montague laboured to follow the speaker's ideas, until he found his mind in a whirl and gave it up. Afterward103, when he thought it over, he laughed at himself; for Strathcona's ideas were not serious things, having relationship to truth—they were epigrams put together to dazzle the hearer, studies in paradox104, with as much relation to life as fireworks. He took the sum-total of the moral experience of the human race, and turned it upside down and jumbled105 it about, and used it as bits of glass in a kaleidoscope. And the hearers would gasp106, and whisper, "Diabolical107!"
The motto of this "school" of poets was that there was neither good nor evil, but that all things were "interesting." After listening to Strathcona for half an hour, one felt like hiding his head, and denying that he had ever thought of having any virtue108; in a world where all things were uncertain, it was presumptuous109 even to pretend to know what virtue was. One could only be what one was; and did not that mean that one must do as one pleased?
You could feel a shudder110 run through the company at his audacity111. And the worst of it was that you could not dismiss it with a laugh; for the boy was really a poet—he had fire and passion, the gift of melodious112 ecstacy. He was only twenty, and in his brief meteor flight he had run the gamut113 of all experience; he had familiarized himself with all human achievement—past, present, and future. There was nothing any one could mention that he did not perfectly114 comprehend: the raptures115 of the saints, the consecration116 of the martyrs—yes, he had known them; likewise he had touched the depths of depravity, he had been lost in the innermost passages of the caverns118 of hell. And all this had been interesting—in its time; now he was sighing for new worlds of experience—say for unrequited love, which should drive him to madness.
It was at this point that Montague dropped out of the race, and took to studying from the outside the mechanism119 of this young poet's conversation. Strathcona flouted120 the idea of a moral sense; but in reality he was quite dependent upon it—his recipe for making epigrams was to take what other people's moral sense made them respect, and identify it with something which their moral sense made them abhor121. Thus, for instance, the tale which he told about one of the members of his set, who was a relative of a bishop122. The great man had occasion to rebuke123 him for his profligate124 ways, declaring in the course of his lecture that he was living off the reputation of his father; to which the boy made the crushing rejoinder: "It may be bad to live off the reputation of one's father, but it's better than living off the reputation of God."—This was very subtle and it was necessary to ponder it. God was dead; and the worthy125 bishop did not know it! But let him take a new God, who had no reputation, and go out into the world and make a living out of him!
Then Strathcona discussed literature. He paid his tribute to the "Fleurs de Mal" and the "Songs before Sunrise"; but most, he said, he owed to "the divine Oscar." This English poet of many poses and some vices126 the law had seized and flung into jail; and since the law is a thing so brutal128 and wicked that whoever is touched by it is made thereby129 a martyr117 and a hero, there had grown up quite a cult about the memory of "Oscar." All up-to-date poets imitated his style and his attitude to life; and so the most revolting of vices had the cloak of romance flung about them—were given long Greek and Latin names, and discussed with parade of learning as revivals130 of Hellenic ideals. The young men in Strathcona's set referred to each other as their "lovers"; and if one showed any perplexity over this, he was regarded, not with contempt—for it was not aesthetic131 to feel contempt—but with a slight lifting of the eyebrows132, intended to annihilate133.
One must not forget, of course, that these young people were poets, and to that extent were protected from their own doctrines134. They were interested, not in life, but in making pretty verses about life; there were some among them who lived as cheerful ascetics135 in garret rooms, and gave melodious expression to devilish emotions. But, on the other hand, for every poet, there were thousands who were not poets, but people to whom life was real. And these lived out the creed136, and wrecked137 their lives; and with the aid of the poet's magic, the glamour138 of melody and the fire divine, they wrecked the lives with which they came into contact. The new generation of boys and girls were deriving139 their spiritual sustenance140 from the poetry of Baudelaire and Wilde; and rushing with the hot impulsiveness141 of youth into the dreadful traps which the traders in vice127 prepared for them. One's heart bled to see them, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, pursuing the hem6 of the Muse's robe in brothels and dens4 of infamy142!
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1
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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caterer
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| n. 备办食物者，备办宴席者 | |
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throngs
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| n.人群( throng的名词复数 )v.成群，挤满( throng的第三人称单数 ) | |
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dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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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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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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orchids
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| n.兰花( orchid的名词复数 ) | |
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gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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aspirants
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| n.有志向或渴望获得…的人( aspirant的名词复数 )v.渴望的，有抱负的，追求名誉或地位的( aspirant的第三人称单数 )；有志向或渴望获得…的人 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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hordes
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| n.移动着的一大群( horde的名词复数 )；部落 | |
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eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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diplomats
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| n.外交官( diplomat的名词复数 )；有手腕的人，善于交际的人 | |
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eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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blackmail
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| n.讹诈，敲诈，勒索，胁迫，恫吓 | |
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aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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36
elite
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| n.精英阶层；实力集团；adj.杰出的，卓越的 | |
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37
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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38
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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39
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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40
clique
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| n.朋党派系，小集团 | |
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41
gorged
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的过去式和过去分词 )；作呕 | |
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42
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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43
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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44
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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45
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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46
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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47
automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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48
automobiles
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| n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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49
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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50
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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51
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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52
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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53
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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54
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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55
fads
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| n.一时的流行，一时的风尚( fad的名词复数 ) | |
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56
fad
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| n.时尚；一时流行的狂热；一时的爱好 | |
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57
reindeer
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| n.驯鹿 | |
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58
bracelets
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| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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59
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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60
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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61
chameleons
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| n.变色蜥蜴，变色龙( chameleon的名词复数 ) | |
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62
lizards
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| n.蜥蜴( lizard的名词复数 ) | |
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63
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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64
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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65
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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66
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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67
cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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68
terrapin
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| n.泥龟；鳖 | |
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69
spinach
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| n.菠菜 | |
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70
hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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71
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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72
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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73
carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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74
swarms
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| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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75
ostrich
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| n.鸵鸟 | |
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76
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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77
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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78
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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79
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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80
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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81
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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82
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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83
tuxedo
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| n.礼服，无尾礼服 | |
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84
socialists
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| 社会主义者( socialist的名词复数 ) | |
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85
ranting
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的现在分词 )；大叫大嚷地以…说教；气愤地)大叫大嚷；不停地大声抱怨 | |
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86
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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87
bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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88
snobbery
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| n. 充绅士气派, 俗不可耐的性格 | |
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89
ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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90
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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91
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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92
cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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93
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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94
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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95
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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96
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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97
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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98
cascades
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| 倾泻( cascade的名词复数 )； 小瀑布（尤指一连串瀑布中的一支）； 瀑布状物； 倾泻（或涌出）的东西 | |
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99
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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100
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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101
limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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102
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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103
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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104
paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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105
jumbled
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| adj.混乱的；杂乱的 | |
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106
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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107
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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108
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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109
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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110
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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111
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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112
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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113
gamut
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| n.全音阶，(一领域的)全部知识 | |
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114
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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115
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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116
consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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117
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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118
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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119
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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120
flouted
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
abhor
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| v.憎恶；痛恨 | |
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122
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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123
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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124
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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125
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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126
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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127
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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128
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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129
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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130
revivals
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| n.复活( revival的名词复数 )；再生；复兴；（老戏多年后）重新上演 | |
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131
aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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132
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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133
annihilate
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| v.使无效；毁灭；取消 | |
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134
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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135
ascetics
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| n.苦行者，禁欲者，禁欲主义者( ascetic的名词复数 ) | |
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136
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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137
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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138
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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139
deriving
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| v.得到( derive的现在分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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140
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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141
impulsiveness
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| n.冲动 | |
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142
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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