“How strange it was!” she whispered. “Have we kept the faith?”
“Who knows?” he answered; and in a low voice he read—
“And long the way appears, which seem’d so short
And high the mountain-tops, in cloudy air,
The mountain-tops where is the throne of Truth,
Tops in life’s morning-sun so bright and bare!”
Section 1. This was a golden hour in Thyrsis’ life. The gates of wonder were flung open, and all things were touched with a new and mystic glow. He scarcely realized it at the time; for once he was too much moved to think about his own emotions, the artist was altogether lost in the man. Even the room in which he lodged5 was relieved of its sordidness6; it was a thing that men had made, and so a part of the mystery of becoming. He yearned8 for some one to whom he could impart his great emotion; but because of the loneliness of his life he could find no one but the keeper of his lodging-house. Even she became a human thing to him, because of her interest in the great tidings. If all the world loved a lover, it loved yet more one through whom the supreme10 purpose of love had been accomplished11.
Thyrsis went each day to the hospital, to watch the new miracle unfolding itself; to see the Child asserting its existence as a being with a life of its own. He could never tire of watching it; he watched it asleep, with the faint heaving of its body, and the soft, warm odor that clung to it; he watched its awakenings—the opening of its eyes, and the sucking movements that it made perpetually with its lips. They had dressed it up now, and hid some of its strangeness; but each morning the nurse would undress it, and give it a bath; and then he marvelled14 at the short crooked15 legs, and the tiny red hands that clutched incessantly16 at the air, and the strange prehensile17 feet, that carried one back to distant ages, hinting at the secrets of Nature’s workshop. Sometimes they would permit him to hold this mystic creature in his arms—after much exhortation18, and assurance that his left arm was properly placed at the back of its head. One found out in this way what a serious business life really was.
Corydon lay back among her pillows and smiled at these things. Most wonderful it was to him to see how swiftly she recovered from her ordeal19, how hourly the flush of health seemed to steal back into her cheeks. He became ashamed of the memory of his convulsive anguish21 and his blind rebellions. He saw now that her pain had not been as other pain; it was a constructive22 pain, a part of the task of her life. It was a battle in which she had fought and conquered; and now she sat, throned in her triumphal chariot, acclaimed23 by the plaudits of a multitude of hopes and joys unseen.
There came the miracle of the milk. Incessantly the Child’s lips moved, and its hands groped out; it was an embodied24 demand for new experience—for life, it knew not what. But Nature knew, and had timed the event to this hour. And Thyrsis watched the phenomenon, marvelling—as one marvels26 at the feat27 of engineers, who tunnel from opposite sides of a mountain, and meet in the centre without the error of an inch.
It was in accordance with the impression which Corydon made upon him, as a dispenser of abundance, a goddess of fruitfulness, that there should have been more milk than the Child needed. The balance had to be drawn28 off with a little vacuum-pump; and Thyrsis would watch the tiny jets as they sprayed upon the glass bulb. The milk was rich and golden-hued; he tasted it, with mingled29 wonder and shuddering31.
These procedures filled the room with a warm, luscious32 odor, as of a dairy; they were eminently33 domestic procedures, such as in fancy he had been wont35 to tease her about. But he had few jests at present—he was in the inner chambers36 of the temple of life, and hushed and stilled with awe37. The things that he had witnessed in that room were never to be forgotten; each hour he pledged himself anew, to the uttermost limits of his life. The voice of skeptic38 reason was altogether silent in him now. And also he was interested to observe that all protest was ended in Corydon; the impulses of motherhood had now undisputed sway in her.
Section 2. BUT even in such an hour of consecration39, the sordid7 world outside would not leave him unmolested. It was as if the black clouds had parted for a moment, while the sunlight poured through; and now again they rolled together. The great surgeon, who had told Thyrsis that he would wait for his money, professed40 now to have forgotten his agreement. Perhaps he had really forgotten it—who could tell, with the many things he had upon his mind? At any rate, Corydon found herself suddenly confronted with a bill, which she was powerless to pay; with white cheeks and trembling lips she told Thyrsis about it—and so came more worry and humiliation41. The very food that she ate became tasteless to her, because she felt she had no right to it; and in a few days she was begging Thyrsis to take her away.
So he helped to carry her downstairs, and back to her parents’ home; and then he returned to his own lonely room, and sat for hours in the bitter cold, with his teeth set tightly, and the nails dug into the palms of his hands. It so happened that just then the editor was beginning to change his mind about “The Hearer of Truth”; and so he had new agonies of anxiety and disappointment.
Again he might not come to see Corydon; and this led to a great misfortune. For she could not do without him now, her craving42 for him was an obsession43; and so she left her bed too soon, and climbed the stairs to his room. Again and again she did this, in spite of his protests; and when, a little later, the doctors found that she had what they called “womb-trouble”, they attributed it to this. Perhaps it was not really so, but Corydon believed it, and through all the years she laid upon it the blame for innumerable headaches and backaches. Thus an episode that might have been soon forgotten, stayed with her, as the symbol of all the agonies of which her life was made.
She would come, bringing the baby with her; and they would lay it upon the bed, and then sit and talk, for hours upon hours, wrestling with their problems. Later on, when Corydon was able, they would go to the park, craving the fresh air. But in midwinter there were few days when they could sit upon a bench for long; and so they would walk and walk, until Corydon was exhausted44, and he would have to help her back to the room.
Thyrsis in these days was like a wild animal in a cage; pacing back and forth45 and testing every corner of his prison. But they never thought of giving up; never in all their lives did that possibility come into their discourse46. And doggedly47, blindly, they kept on with their studies. Corydon mastered new lists of German words, and they read Freitag’s “Verlorene Handscrift” together, and von Scheffel’s “Ekkehard”, and even attempted “Iphigenie auf Tauris”—though in truth they found it difficult to detach themselves to quite that extent from the world of every-day. It is not an easy matter to experience the pure katharsis of tragedy, with a baby in the room who has to be nursed every hour or two, and who is liable to awaken12 at any moment and make some demand.
He was such an intricate and complicated baby, with so many things to be understood—belly-bands and diapers and irrational50 length of skirts. Sometimes, when Corydon was quite exhausted, the attending to these matters fell to Thyrsis, who became for the time a most domestic poet. He once sent an editorial-room into roars of merriment by offering to review a book upon the feeding of infants. But he told himself that even the hilarious51 editors had been infants once upon a time; and he had divined that there were secrets about life to be learned, and great art-works to be dreamed, even amid belly-bands and diapers. Also, Thyrsis would brave a great deal of ridicule52 in order to be paid a dollar for the reading of a book that he really wanted to read. For books that one wanted to read came so seldom; and dollars were so difficult to earn!
It seemed as if the task grew harder every week. He went without cuffs53, and wore old and frayed54 collars, and washed his solitary55 necktie until it was threadbare, and lived upon prunes56 and crackers57, and gave up the gas-stove in his room—and still he could scarcely manage to get together the weekly rent. He studied the magazines in the libraries, and racked his wits for new ideas to interest their editors. He haunted editorial-rooms until his presence became a burden, and he brought new agonies and humiliations upon himself. He would part from Corydon in the afternoon, and shut himself in his room; and sitting in bed to keep warm, he would work until midnight at some new variety of pot-boiler. After which he would go out to walk and clear his brain—and even then, exhausted as he was, his vision would come to him again, wonderful and soul-shaking. So he would walk on, and go back to write until nearly dawn at something he really loved.
Section 3. It was so that he wrote his poem, “Caradrion”. It was out of thoughts of Corydon, and of the tears which they shed in each other’s presence, that this poem was made. Thyrsis had a fondness for burrowing58 into strange old books, in which one found the primitive59 wonder of the soul of man, first awakening13 to the mystery of life. Such a book was Physiologus, with his tales of strange beasts and magic jewels. “There is a bird called Caradrion”, Thyrsis had read.... “And if the sick man can be healed, Caradrion goes to him, and touches him upon the mouth, and takes his sickness from him; and so the man is made well.” And out of this hint he had fashioned the legend of the two children who had grown up together in “the little cot, fringed round with tender green”; one of them Cedric, and one Eileen—for he had given the names that Corydon preferred.
They grew “unto the days of love”, so the story ran—
To press a kiss upon her tender cheek.
And said, ‘Eileen, I love thee; yea I love,
And loved thee ever, thou my soul’s delight.’
So time sped on, until there came
“To Cedric once a strange unlovely thought,
That haunted him and would not let him be.
‘Eileen,’ he said, ‘there is a thing called death,
Of which men speak with trembling at the lips;
And I have thought how it would be with me
If I should never gaze upon thee more.’”
So Cedric went to find out about these matters; he sought a witch—“the haggard woman, held in awe.”
Then Cedric said, ‘I seek the fate to know’.
And the witch laughed, and gazed on him and sang:
‘Fashioned in the shadow-land,
Trusted to the Storm-wind’s hand,
By the Passion-tempest whirled!
Ever straining,
Never gaining,
Never keeping,
Young or old!
Whither going
Never knowing,
Wherefore weeping,
Never told!
Rising, falling, disappearing,
Seeking, calling, hating, fearing;
Blasted by the lightning shock,
Were I man I would not plead
In the roll of fate to read!’
‘I seek the fate,’ and the witch waved her hand;
Shattered the seamy crags and heaving floor.”
And so in a vision of terror Cedric saw the little vale, and the cot “fringed round with tender green”; and upon the lawn he saw Eileen, lying as one dead.
“And Cedric sprang, and cried, ‘My love! Eileen!’
And on the instant came a thunder-crash
Like to the sound of old primeval days,
Of mountain-heaving shock and earthquake roar,
Of whirling planets shattered in the dark.”
And so, half wild with grief and despair, Cedric wandered forth into the world; and after great suffering, the birds took pity upon him, and gave him advice—that he should seek Caradrion.
“‘Caradrion?’ cried Cedric, starting up,
‘Speak swiftly, ere too late, where dwelleth he?’
‘Ah, that I know not,’ spake the little voice,
The ancient stork that saw from earliest days,
Sphinx-like, seraphic, and oracular,
Watching the strange procession of men’s dreams.’”
But the stork was cruel and would not heed74 him, and led Cedric a weary chase through the marshes75 and the brakes. But Cedric pursued, and finally seized the bird by the throat, and forced the secret from him—
“‘Fare southward still,
Unto the land where daylight burns as fire;
So shalt thou come upon a seamèd rock,
Towering to meet the sun’s fierce-flashing might,
There on its summit, in a cavern deep,
Dwells what thou seekest, half a bird, half man,
Caradrion, the consecrate81 to pain.’”
Then came the long journey and the search for the seamèd rock.
But Cedric mounted up to find the cave,
Crying aloud: ‘I seek Caradrion.’
And so, till from the cavern depth a voice:
‘Come not, except to sorrow thou be born.’
And Cedric, panting, stretched his shrunken arms:
‘Another’s sorrow would I change to joy,
And mine own joy to sorrow; help thou me.’
To which the voice, sunk low, replied: ‘Come thou.’
And Cedric came, unfearing, in the dark,
And saw in gloomy night a form in pain,
With wings stretched wide, and beating faint and fast.
‘Art thou Caradrion?’ he murmured swift,
And echo gave reply, ‘Caradrion’.”
So Cedric told of his errand, and pleaded for help; he heard the answer of the voice:
“‘Yea, I can save her, if thou be a soul
That can dare pain and face the rage of fate;
A soul that feareth not to look on death.’
‘This is my law, that am Caradrion,
Whose way is sorrow and whose end is death;
Some joy unto another I can give.
And when it sleeps, I stoop on silent wing,
And with a kiss take all its woe away—
Take it for mine, and then into this cave
Return alone, the blessing’s price to pay.’
Ere life be gone!’ But once more spake the voice:
‘Nay, boy, my race is run, my power is spent;
Whoso stands by and sees my heart-throb cease,
Who tastes its blood, my power and form are his,
And forth he fares in solitary flight,
Caradrion, the consecrate to pain.
And so my word is said; now hide thee far
But Cedric said, ‘My prayer is done; I wait.’
So in the cave the hours of night sped by,
And sounds came forth as when a woman fights
Then in the dawn a dark shadow flew from the cave, and sped across the blue, and came to the little vale, where Eileen lay dying, as he had seen her in the vision in the “haggard woman’s” cavern.
“Then Cedric sprang, and cried, ‘My love! Eileen!’
And Eileen heard him not; nor knew he wept.—
And flooded all his being, and he sunk,
And moaned: ‘Eileen, I love thee! Yea, I love,
And loved thee ever; and I can not think
That I shall never gaze upon thee more.
Meant not the gift to see thee nevermore!
Never to hear thy voice. Nay, nay, Eileen,
Gaze on me, speak to me, give me but one word,
And I will go and never more return.’
But Eileen answered not; he touched her hand,
And she felt nothing. Then he whispered, low,
‘Oh, may God keep thee—for it must be done—
Guard thee, and bless thee, thou my soul’s delight!
And when thou waken’st, wilt thou think of me,
Of Cedric, him that loved thee, oh so true?
Nay, for they said thou shouldst no sorrow know,
And that would be a sorrow, yea, it would.
And must thou then forget me, thou my love?
And canst not give me but one single word,
To tell me that I do not die in vain?
Gaze at me, Eileen, see, thy love is here,
Here as of old, above thee stooping light,
To press a kiss upon thy tender lips.—
Ah, I can kiss thee—kiss thee, my Eileen,
Kiss as of yore, with all my passion’s woe!’
And as he spoke he pressed her to his heart,
His eyes shot fire, and anguish racked his limbs,
And he fell back, and reeled, and clutched his brow.
An instant only gazed he on her face,
And saw new life within her gray cheek leap,
And fearful struggle, swift he fled away,
And then, reminded of his gift of flight,
He started from the earth, and beat aloft,
Each sweep of his great wings a torture-stroke
Upon his fainting heart. And thus away,
With languid flight he moved, and Eileen, raised
In new-born joy from off her couch of pain,
Saw a strange bird into the distance fade.”
And so Cedric went back to the seamèd rock, and there he heard a voice calling, “I seek Caradrion!” And as before he answered,
“Come not, except to sorrow thou be born!”
And again, in the cave—
“The hours of night sped by.
And sounds came forth as when a woman fights
In savage pain, a life from hers to free.
But Eileen dwelt within the happy vale,
Thinking no thought of him that went away.”
Section 4. This had come so very easily to Thyrsis that he could not believe that it was good. “Just a little story,” he said to Corydon, when he read it to her, and he was surprised to see how it affected99 her—how the tears welled into her eyes, and she clung to him sobbing100. It meant more to her than any other thing that he had written; it was the very voice of their tenderness and their grief.
Then Thyrsis took it to the one editor he knew who was a lover of poetry, and was surprised again, at this man’s delight. But he smiled sadly as he realized that the editor did not use poetry—they did not praise so recklessly when it was a question of something to be purchased!
“The poem is too long for any magazine,” was the verdict, “and it’s not long enough for a book. And besides, poetry doesn’t sell.” But none the less Thyrsis, who would never take a defeat, began to offer it about; and so “Caradrion” was added to the list of stamp-consuming manuscripts, and set out to see the world at the expense of its creator’s stomach.
So there was one more wasted vision, one more futile101 effort—and one more grapple with despair, in the hours when he and his wife sat wrapped in a blanket in the tenement-room. Corydon was growing more nervous and unhappy every day, it seemed to him. There were, apparently102, endless humiliations to be experienced by a woman “whose husband did not support her”. Some zealous103 relative had suggested to her the idea that the “hall-boys” might think she was not really married; and so now she was impelled104 to speculate upon the psychology105 of these Ethiopian functionaries106, and look for slights and disapproval107 from them!
Thyrsis, from much work and little sleep, was haggard and wild of aspect; the cry of the world, “Take a position!” rang in his ears day and night. The springs of book-reviews had dried up entirely108, and by sheer starvation he was forced to a stage lower yet. A former college friend was editing a work of “contemporary biography”, and offered Thyrsis some hack-writing. It meant the carrying home of huge bundles of correspondence from the world’s most brightly-shining lights, and the making up of biographical sketches109 from their eulogies110 of themselves. With every light there came a portrait, showing what manner of light it was. As for Thyrsis, he did his writing with the feeling that he would like to explore with a poniard the interiors of each one of these people.
For nearly three months now an eminent34 editor had been trying to summon up the courage to accept “The Hearer of Truth”. He had written several letters to tell the author how good a work it was; and now that it was to be definitely rejected, he soothed111 his conscience by inviting112 the author to lunch. The function came off at one of the most august and stately of the city’s clubs, a marble building near Fifth Avenue, where Thyrsis, with a new clean collar, and his worn shoes newly shined, passed under the suspicious eyes of the liveried menials, and was ushered113 before the eminent editor. About the vast room were portraits of bygone dignitaries; and there were great leather-upholstered arm-chairs in which one might see the dignitaries of the present—some of them with little tables at their sides, and decanters and soda114 and cracked ice. They went into the dining-room, where everyone spoke and ate in whispers, and the waiters flitted about like black and white ghosts; and while Thyrsis consumed a cupful of cold bouillon, and a squab en casserole, and a plate of what might be described as an honorific salad, he listened to the soft-voiced editor discussing the problem of his future career.
The editor’s theme was what the public wanted. The world had existed for a long time, it seemed, and was not easily to be changed; it was necessary for an author to take its prejudices into consideration—especially if he was young, and unknown, and—er—dependent upon his own resources. It seemed to Thyrsis, as he listened, that the great man must have arranged this luncheon115 as a stage-setting for his remarks—planning it on purpose to light a blaze of bitterness in the soul of the hungry poet. “Look at me,” he seemed to say—“this is the way the job is done. Once I was poor and unknown like you—actually, though you might not credit it, a raw boy from the country. But I had taste and talent, and I was judicious116; and so now for thirty years I have been at the head of one of the country’s leading magazines. And see—by my mere117 word I am able to bring you here into the very citadel118 of power! For these men about you are the masters of the metropolis119. There is a rich publisher—his name is a household word—and you saw how he touched me on the shoulder. There is an ex-mayor of the city—you saw how he nodded to me! Yonder is the head of one of the oldest and most exclusive of the city’s landed families—even with him I am acquainted! And this is power! You may know it by all these signs of mahogany furniture, and leather upholstery, and waiters of reverential deportment. You may know it by the signs of respectability and awesomeness120 and chaste121 abundance. Make haste to pay homage122 to it, and enroll123 yourself in its service!”
Thyrsis held himself in, and parted from the editor with all courtesy; but then, as he walked down Fifth Avenue, his fury burst into flame. Here, too, was power—here, too, the signs of it! Palaces of granite and marble, arid124 towering apartment-hotels; an endless vista125 of carriages and automobiles126, with rich women lolling in them, or descending127 into shops whose windows blazed with jewels and silver and gold. Here were the masters of the metropolis, the masters of life; the dispensers of patronage—that “public” which he had to please. He would bring his vision and lay it at their feet, and they would give him or deny him opportunity! And what was it that they wanted? Was it worship and consecration and love? One could read the answer in their purse-proud glances; in the barriers of steel and bronze with which they protected the gates of their palaces; in the aspects of their flunkeys, whose casual glances were like blows in the face. One could read the answer in the pitiful features of the little errand-girl who went past, carrying some bit of their splendor128 to them; or of the ragged129 beggar, who hovered130 in the shelter of a side-street, fearing their displeasure. No, they were not lovers of life, and protectors; they were parasites131 and destroyers, devourers of the hopes of humanity! Their splendors133 were the distilled134 essence of the tears and agonies of millions of defeated people—their jewels were drops of blood from the heart of the human race!
Section 5. So, with rage and bitterness, Thyrsis was gnawing135 out his soul in the night-time; distilling136 those fierce poisons which he was to pour into the next of his works—the most terrible of them all, and the one which the world would never forgive him.
There came another episode, to bring matters to a crisis. In the far Northwest lived another branch of Thyrsis’ family, the head of which had become what the papers called a “lumber-king”. One of this great man’s radiant daughters was to be married, and the family made the selecting of her trousseau the occasion for a flying visit to the metropolis. So there were family reunions, and Thyrsis was invited to bring his wife and call.
Corydon voiced her perplexity.
“What do they want to see us for?” she asked.
“I belong to their line,” he said.
“But—you are poor!” she exclaimed.
“But—why do they ask me?”
Thyrsis pondered. “They know we have published a book,” he said. “It must be their tribute to literature.”
“Are they people of culture?” she asked.
“Not unless they’ve tried very hard,” he answered. “But they have old traditions—and they want to be aristocratic.”
“I won’t go,” said Corydon. “I couldn’t stand them.”
And so Thyrsis went alone—to that same temple of luxury where he had called upon the college-professor. And there he met the lumber-king, who was tall and imposing138 of aspect; and the lumber-queen, who was verging139 on stoutness140; and the three lumber-princesses, who were disturbing creatures for a poet to gaze upon. It seemed to Thyrsis that he had been dwelling141 in the slums all his life—so sharp was the shock which came to him at the meeting with these young girls. They were exquisite142 beyond telling: the graceful143 lines of their figures, the perfect features, the radiant complexions144; the soft, filmy gowns they wore, the faint, intoxicating145 perfumes that clung to them, the atmosphere of serenity146 which they radiated. There was that in Thyrsis which thrilled at their presence—he had been born into such a world, and might have had such a woman for his mate.
But he put such thoughts from him—he had made his choice long ago, and it was not the primrose-path. Perhaps he was over-sensitive, acutely aware of himself as a strange creature with no cuffs, and with hardly any soles to his shoes. And all the time of these women was taken up by the arrival of packages of gowns and millinery; their conversation was of diamonds and automobiles, and the forthcoming honeymoon147 upon the Riviera. So it was hard for him not to feel bitterness; hard for him to keep his thoughts from going back to the lonely child-wife wandering about in the park—to all her deprivations148, her blasted hopes and dying glories of soul.
The family was going to the matinée; as there was room in their car, they asked Thyrsis to go with them. So he watched the lumber-king (who had refused to lend him money, but had offered him a “position”) draw out a bank-note from a large roll, and pay for a box in one of Broadway’s great palaces of art. And now—having been advised so often to study what the public wanted—now Thyrsis had a chance to recline at his ease and follow the advice.
“The Princess of Prague”, it was called; it was a “musical comedy”; and evidently exactly what the public wanted, for the house was crowded to the doors. The leading comedian149 was said by the papers to be receiving a salary of a thousand dollars a week. He held the center of the stage, clad in the costume of a lieutenant150 of marines, and winked151 and grinned, and performed antics, and sang songs of no doubtful significance, and emitted a fusillade of cynical152 jests. He was supposed to be half-drunk, and making love to a run-away princess—who would at one moment accept his caresses153, and then spurn154 him coquettishly, and then execute an unlovely dance with him. In between these diverting procedures a chorus would come on, a score or so of highly-painted women, hopping155 and gliding156 about, each time clad in new costumes more cunningly indecent than the last.
From beginning to end of this piece there was not a single line of real humor, a spark of human sentiment, a gleam of intelligence; it was a kind of delirium157 tremens of the drama. To Thyrsis it seemed as if a whole civilization, with all its resources of science and art—its music and painting and costumes, its poets and composers, its actors, singers, orchestra, and audience—had all at once fallen victims to an attack of St. Vitus’ dance. He sat and listened, while the theatre full of people roared and howled its applause; while the family beside him—mother and father and daughters—laughed over jokes that made him ashamed to turn and look at them. In the end the realization158 of what this scene meant—not only the break-down of a civilization, but the trap in which his own spirit was caught—made him sick and faint all over. He had to ask to be excused, and went out and sat in the lobby until the “show” was done.
The family found him there, and the bride-to-be inquired if he “felt better”; then, looking at his pale face, an idea occurred to her, and after a bit of hesitation159, she asked him if he would not stay to dinner. In her mind was the conflict between pity for this poor boy, and doubt as to the fitness of his costume; and Thyrsis, having read her mind in a flash, was divided between his humiliation, and his desire for some food. In the end the baser motive160 won; he buried his pride, and went to dinner.—And so, as the fates had planned it, the impulse to his next book was born.
Section 6. There came another guest to the meal—the rector of the fashionable church which the family attended at home. He was a young man, renowned161 for the charm of his oratory162; smooth-shaven, pink-and-white-cheeked, exquisite in his manners, gracious and insinuating163. His ideas and his language and his morals were all as perfectly164 polished as his finger-nails; and never before in his life had Thyrsis had such a red rag waved in his face. But he had come there for the dinner, and he attended to that, and let Dr. Holland provide the flow of soul; until at the very end, when the doctor was sipping165 his demi-tasse.
The conversation had come, by some devious166 route, to Vegetarianism168; and the clergyman was disapproving169 of it. That made no difference to Thyrsis, who was not a vegetarian167, and knew nothing about it; but how he hated the arguments the man advanced! For that which made the doctor an anti-vegetarian was an attitude to life, which had also made him a Republican and an Imperialist, a graduate of Harvard and a beneficiary of the Apostolic Succession. Because life was a survival of the fittest, and because God had intended the less fit to take the doctor’s word as their sentence of extermination170.
The duty of animals, as the clergyman set it forth to them, was to convert plant-tissue into a more concentrated and perfect form of nutriment. “The protein of animal flesh,” he was saying, “is more nearly allied171 to human tissue; and so it is clearly more fitted for our food.”
Here Thyrsis entered the conversation. “Doctor Holland,” he said, mildly, “I should think it would occur to you to follow your argument to its conclusion.”
The other turned to look at him. “What conclusion?” he asked.
“I should think you would become a cannibal,” Thyrsis replied.
And then there was silence at the table. When Dr. Holland spoke again it was to hurry the conversation elsewhere; and from time to time thereafter he would steal a puzzled glance at Thyrsis.
But this the boy did not see. His thoughts had gone whirling on; here, in this elegant dining-room, the throes of creation seized hold of him. For this was the image he had been seeking, the phrase that would embrace it all and express it all—the concentrated bitterness of his poisoned life! Yes, he had them! He had them, with all their glory and their power! They were Cannibals. Cannibals!
So, when he set out from the hotel, he did not go home, but walked instead for uncounted hours in the park. And in those hours he lived through the whole of his new book, the unspeakable book—“The Higher Cannibalism”!
In the morning he told Corydon about it. She cried in terror, “But, Thyrsis, nobody would publish it!”
“Of course not,” said he.
“But then,” she asked, “how can you write it?”
“I shall write it,” he said, “if I have to die when I get through”. So he shut himself up in his room once more.
Section 7. A famous scientist began the story—reasoning along the lines of Dr. Holland’s argument. The grass took the inorganic172 matter, and made it into food; the steer173 ate the grass, and carried it to the next stage; and beyond that was one stage more. So the scientist began making experiments—in a quiet way, of course. He reported the results before a learned scientific body, but his colleagues were so scandalized that the matter was hushed up.
The seed had been sown, however. A younger man took up the idea, and made researches in the South Seas—substantiating the claim that those races which took to anthropophagy had invariably supplanted174 the others. The new investigator175 printed his findings in a book which was circulated privately176; and pretty soon he was called into consultation177 by the master-mind of the country’s finance—the richest man in the world. This man was old and bald and feeble; and now suddenly there came to him a new lease of life—new health and new enthusiasm. It was given out that he had got it by wandering about bare-footed in the grass, and playing golf all day—an explanation which the public accepted without question. No one remarked the fact that the old man began devoting his wealth to the establishing of foundling asylums178; nor did any one think it suspicious that the younger generation of this multi-millionaire should rise so suddenly to power and fame.
But there began to be strange rumors179 and suspicions. There were young writers, who had developed a new technique, and had carried poetic180 utterance181 to undreamed of heights; and in this poetry were cryptic182 allusions183, hints of diabolic things. A Socialist184 paper printed the ménu of a banquet given by these “Neo-Nietzscheans”, and demanded to know what one was to understand by filet185 de mouton blanc, and wherein lay the subtle humor of paté de petit bête. And at last the storm broke—a youth scarcely in his teens published a book of poems in which the dread186 secret was blazoned187 forth to the world with mocking defiance188. There were frantic189 attempts to suppress this book, but they failed; and then a prosecuting190 officer, eager for notoriety, placed the youth upon trial for his life. And so the issue was drawn.
The public at large awakened191 to a dazed realization of the head-way which the new idea had made. It had become a cult49 of the ruling-class, the esoteric religion of the state; everywhere its defenders192 sprang up—it seemed as if all the intellectual as well as the material power of the community was under its spell. To oppose it was not merely bad form—it was to incur193 a stigma194 of moral inferiority, to be the victim of a “slave-ethic”.
With the scientific world, of course, its victory was speedy; the new doctrine195 was in line with recognized evolutionary196 teaching. The great names of Darwin and Spencer were invoked197 in its support; and, of course, when it came to economic science, there could be no two opinions. Had laissez-faire ever meant anything, if laissez-faire did not mean this?
At the very outset, the country was startled by the publication of a book by a college professor, famed as a leading sociologist198, in which the case was presented without any attempt at sophistication. It was a fact, needing no attestation199, that the mass of mankind had always lived in a state of slavery. At the present hour, under the forms of democracy, there were a quarter of a million men killed every year in industry, and half a million women living by prostitution, and two million children earning wages, and ten million people in want; and in comparison with these things, how humane200 was the new cult, how honest and above-board, how clean and economical! For the first time there could be offered to the submerged tenth a real social function to be performed. Once let the new teaching be applied201 upon a world-wide scale, and the proletariat might follow its natural impulse to multiply without limit; there would be no more “race-suicide” to trouble the souls of eminent statesmen.
And this at the time when the attention of the community was focussed upon the new cause célèbre! When the public prints were filled with an acrimonious202 discussion as to the meaning of the instructions given to the jury. If anyone chose to will his body to a purchaser, said the judge, and then go and commit suicide, there was no law to prevent him; and, of course, the subsequent purposes of the purchaser had nothing to do with the point at issue. This was a matter of taste—here the learned justice rapped for order—a matter of prejudice, largely, and the question at issue was one of law. There was no law controlling a man’s dietetic idiosyncrasies, and it was to be doubted if constitutionally any such law would stand—certainly not in a federal court, unless it chanced to be a matter of interstate commerce.
In their bewilderment and dismay, the people turned to the Church. Surely the doctrines203 of Christianity would stand like a barricade204 against this monstrous205 cult. But already within the Church there had been rumors and disturbances206; and now suddenly a bishop207 arose and voiced his protest against this attempt “to drag the Church into the mire208 of political controversy209.” It must be made perfectly clear, said the bishop, that Christianity was a religion, and not a dietetic dogma. Its purpose was to save the souls of men, and not to concern itself with their bodies. It had been stated that we should have the poor always with us; which made clear the futility210 of attempting to change the facts of Nature. Also it was certain that the founder211 of Christianity had been a meat-eater; and though there might be more than one interpretation212 placed upon his command concerning little children—-
There we might leave Thyrsis with the established Church. He had it just where he wanted it, and he shook it until its smoothly-shaven pink and white cheeks turned purple, and the demi-tasse went flying out of its beautifully manicured fingers! And while he did it he laughed aloud in hideous213 glee, and in his soul was a cry like the hunting-call of the lone9 gray wolf, that he had heard at midnight in his wilderness214 camp. So far a journey had come the little boy who had been dressed up in scarlet215 and purple robes, and had carried the bishop’s train at the confirmation216 service! And so heavy a penalty did the church pay for its alliance with “good society”!
Section 8. Thyrsis paid a week’s living expenses to have this manuscript copied; and then he took it about to the publishers. First came his friend Mr. Ardsley, who had become his chief adviser217. When Thyrsis went to see him, Mr. Ardsley drew out an envelope from his desk, and took from it the opinion of his reader. “‘What in the world is the matter with this boy?’” he read. “That’s the opening sentence.”
Thyrsis sat silent; there was no reply he could make. He was strongly tempted48 to say to the man, “The matter is that I am not getting enough to eat!”
But already Thyrsis himself had judged “The Higher Cannibalism” and repudiated219 it. It was born of his pain and weakness, and it was not the work he had come into the world to do. So at the end he had placed a poem, which told of a visit from his muse220, after the fashion of Musset’s “Nuits”; the muse had been sad and silent, and in the end the poet had torn up the product of his hours of despair, and had renewed his faith with the gracious one.
Meantime the long winter months dragged by, and still there was no gleam of hope. For Corydon it was even harder than for her husband. He at least was expressing his feelings, while she could only pine and chafe221, without any sort of vent25. Her life was a matter of colorless routine, in which each day was like the last, except in increased monotony. She tried hard not to let him see how she suffered; but sometimes the tears would come. And her unhappiness was bad for the child, which in the beginning had been robust222 and magnificent, but now was not growing properly. Thyrsis would have ridiculed223 the idea that nervousness could affect her milk; but the time came when, in later life, he saw the poisons of fatigue224 and fear in test-tubes, and so he understood why the child had not been able to lift its head until it was a year old, and had then been well on the way to having “rickets.”
All their life was so different from the way they had dreamed it! The dream still lured225 them; but its voice grew fainter and more remote. How were they to keep it real to themselves, how were they to hold it? Their existence was made up of endless sordidness, of dreary227 commonplace, that opposed them with its passive inertia228 where it did not actively229 attack them. “Ah, Thyrsis!” Corydon would cry to him, “this will kill us if it lasts too long!”
For one thing, they no longer heard any music at all—She was not strong enough to practice the piano; and his violin was gone. Here in the great city an endless stream of concerts and operas and recitals230 flowed past; and here were they, like starving children who press their faces against a pastry-cook’s window and devour132 the sweets with their eyes. Thyrsis kept up with musical and dramatic progress by reading the accounts in the papers and magazines; but this was a good deal like slaking231 one’s thirst with a mirage232. He used to wonder sometimes if he were to write to these great artists—would they invite him to hear them, or would they too despise him? He never had the courage to try.
Once in the course of the long winter some one presented Corydon with two tickets to the opera, and they went together, in a state of utter bliss233. It was an unusual experience for Thyrsis, for their seats were in the orchestra, and hitherto he had always heard his operas from the upper rows in the fifth balcony, where the air was hot and stifling234, and the singers appeared as a pair of tiny arms that waved, and a head (frequently a bald head) that emitted a thin, far-distant voice. This had become to him one of the conventions of the opera; and now to discover the singers as full-sized human beings, with faces and legs and loud voices, was very disturbing to his sense of illusion.
Also, alas235, they had not been free to select the opera. It was “La Traviata”; and there was not much food for their hungry souls in this farrago of artificiality and sham20 sentiment. They shut their eyes and tried to enjoy the music, forgetting the gallant236 young men of fashion and their fascinating mistresses. But even the music, it seemed, was tainted237; or could it be, Thyrsis wondered, that he could no longer lose himself in the pure joy of melody? Many kinds of corruption238 he had by this time learned about; the corruption of men, and of women, and of children; the corruption of painting and sculpture, of poetry and the drama. But the corruption of music was something which even yet he could not face; for music was the very voice of the soul—the well-spring from which life itself was derived239. Thyrsis thought, as he and Corydon wandered about in the foyers of this palatial240 opera-house, was there anywhere on earth a place in which heaven and hell came so close together. A place where the lust241 and pride of the flesh displayed themselves in all their glory; and in contrast with the purest ecstasies242 the human spirit had attained243! He pointed244 out one rich dowager who swept past them; her breasts all but jostling out of her corsage as she walked, her stomach squeezed into a sort of armor-plate of jewels, her cheeks powdered and painted, her head weighted with false hair and a tiara of diamonds, her face like a mask of pride and scorn. And then, in juxtaposition245 with that, the Waldweben and the Feuerzauber, or the grim and awful tragedy of the Siegfried funeral-march! There were people in this opera-house who knew what such music meant; Thyrsis had read it in their faces, in that suffocating246 top-gallery. He wondered if some day the demons247 that were evoked248 by the music might not call to them and lead them in revolt, to drive the money-changers from the temple once again!
Section 9. Another editor was reading “The Hearer of Truth,” and a publisher was hovering249 on the brink250 of venturing “The Higher Cannibalism”; and so the two had new hopes to lure226 them on. When the spring-time had come, they would once more escape from the city, and would put up their tent on the lake-shore! They spent long afternoons picturing just how they would live—what they would eat, and what they would wear, and what they would study. As for Cedric—so they had called the baby—they saw him playing beneath the big tree in front of the tent. And what fun they would have giving him his bath on the little beach inside the point!
“I’ll fix up a clothes-basket for him to sleep in!” declared Thyrsis.
“Nonsense, dear!” said Corydon. “I’ve told you many times before—we’ll have to have a crib for him!”
“But why?” cried he; and there would follow an argument which gave pain to his economical soul.
Corydon declared herself willing to do her share in the matter of saving money; but it seemed to him that whenever he suggested a concrete idea, there would be objections. “We can get up at dawn,” he would say, “and save the cost of oil.”
“Yes,” she would answer.
“And we can do our own laundry,” he would continue. But immediately another argument would begin; it was impossible to persuade Corydon that diapers could be washed in cold water, even when one had the whole of the Great Lakes for a washtub.
They would go on to contemplate251 the glorious time when they would have money enough to build a home of their own, that could be inhabited in winter as well as in summer; Corydon always referred to it with the line from “Caradrion”—“the little cot, fringed round with tender green.” It would be fine for the baby, they agreed—he should never have to go back to the city again. Thyrsis had a vision of him as he would be in that home: a brown and freckled252 country boy, with what were known, in the dialect of “dam-fool talk”, as “yagged panties and bare feets”.
But Corydon would protest at that picture. “It’s all right,” she said, “to put up with ugliness if you have to. But what’s the use of making a fetish of it?”
“It wouldn’t be ugliness,” replied he. “It would be Nature! ‘Blessings on thee, little man!’”
“That’s all very well. But I want Cedric to have curls—”
“Curls!” he cried. “And then a Fauntleroy suit, I suppose!”
“No—at least not while we’re poor. But I want him to look decent——”
“If you have curls, then you’ll want a nurse-maid to brush them!”
“Nonsense, Thyrsis! Can’t a mother take care of her child’s own hair?”
“Some mothers can—they have nothing better to do. But if you were going in for the hair-dresser’s art, why did you cut off your own?”
And so would come yet new discussions. “You’ll be wanting me to maintain an establishment!” Thyrsis would cry, whenever these aesthetic253 impulses manifested themselves. He seemed to be haunted by that image of an establishment. All married men came to it in the end—there seemed to be something in matrimony that predisposed to it; and far better adopt at once the ideals and habits of the gypsies, than to settle into respectability with a nurse-maid and a cook!
Thyrsis was under the necessity of sweeping254 clean his soul, because of all the luxury and wantonness he saw in this metropolis, and the madness to which it goaded255 his soul. Some day fame would come to him, he knew—wealth also, perhaps; and oh, there must be one man in all the city who was not corrupted256, who did not learn extravagance and self-indulgence, who practiced as well as preached the life of faith! And so, again and again, he and Corydon would renew the pledges of their courtship-days—pledges to a discipline of Spartan257 sternness.
Poor as he was, Thyrsis still found time to figure over the things he meant to do when he got money: the publishing-house that was to bring out his books at cost, and the free reading-rooms and the circulating libraries. Also, he wanted to edit a magazine; for there was a great truth which he wished to teach the world. “We must make these things that we have suffered count for something!” he would say to Corydon, again and again. “We must use them to open people’s eyes!” He was thinking how, when at last he had escaped from the pit, he would be in a position to speak for those others who were left behind. Men would heed him then, and he could show them how impossible it was for the creative artist to do his work, and at the same time carry on the struggle for bread. He would induce some rich man to set aside a fund for the endowment of young writers; and so the man who had a real message might no longer have to starve.
Thyrsis had by this time tried all the world, and he knew that there was no one to understand. Just about now he was utterly stranded258, and had to borrow money for even his next day’s food. And oh, the humiliations and insults that came with these loans! And worse yet, the humiliations and insults that came without any loans! There was one rich man who advanced him ten dollars; Thyrsis, when he returned it, sent a check he had received from some out-of-town magazine—and in return was rebuked259 by the rich man for failing to include the “exchange” on the check. Thyrsis wrote humbly260 to inquire what manner of thing the “exchange” on a check might be; and learned that he was still in the rich man’s debt to the sum of ten cents!
His case was the more hopeless, he found, because he was a married man. The world might have pardoned a young free-lance who was willing to “rough it” and take his chances for a while; but a man who had a wife and child—and was still prating261 about poetry! To the world the possession of a wife and child meant self-indulgence; and when a man had fallen into that trap, he simply had to settle down and take the consequence. How could Thyrsis explain that his marriage had not been as other men’s? How could he hint at such a thing, without proving himself a cad?
Section 10. The work of “contemporary biography” had come to an end; there followed weeks of seeking, and then another opening appeared—Mr. Ardsley offered him a chance to do some manuscript-reading. This was really a splendid opportunity, for the work would not be difficult, and the payment would be five dollars for each manuscript. Thyrsis accepted joyfully262, and forthwith carried off a couple of embryo263 books to his room.
It was a new and curious occupation, which opened up to him whole worlds whose existence he had not previously264 suspected. Through his review-writing he had become acquainted with the books that had seen the light of day; now he made the startling discovery that for every one that was born, there were hundreds, perhaps thousands, that died in the womb. He could see how it went—the hordes265 of half-educated people who read books and were moved to write something like them. Each manuscript was a separate tragedy; and often there would be a letter or a preface to make certain that one did not miss the sense of it. Here would be a settlement-worker, burning with a message, but unable to draw a character or to write dialogue; here would be a business-man, who had studied up the dialect of the region where he spent his summer vacations, and whose style was so crude that one winced266 as he turned the pages; here would be a poor bookkeeper, or a type-writer, or other cog in the business machine, who had read of the fortunes made by writers of fiction, and had spent all his hours of leisure for a year in composing a tale of the grand monde, or some feeble imitation of the sugar-coated “historical romance” of the hour.
Sometimes as he read these manuscripts, a shudder30 would come over Thyrsis; how they made him realize the odds267 in the game of life! These thousands and tens of thousands panting and striving for success; and he lost in the throng268 of them! What madness it seemed to imagine that he might climb over their heads—that he had been chosen to scale the heights of fame! Their letters and prefaces sounded like a satire269 upon his own attitude, a reductio ad absurdum of his claims to “genius”. Here, for instance, was a man who wrote to introduce himself as America’s first epic270 poet—stating incidentally that he was an inspector271 of gas-meters, and had a wife and six children. His poem occupied some six hundred foolscap sheets, finely bound up by hand; it set forth the soul-states of a Byron from Alabama—an aristocratic hero who was refused by the lady of his heart, and voiced his anger and perplexity in a long speech, two lines of which stamped themselves forever upon the mind of the reader—-
“But I! he cried. My limbs are straight,
My purse well-filled, my veins all F. F. V.!”
As a method of earning one’s living, this was almost too good to be true. The worse the manuscripts were the easier was his task; in fact, when he came upon one which showed traces of real power and interest he cursed his fate, for then it might take several days to earn his five dollars. But for the most part the manuscripts were bad enough, and he could have earned a year’s income in a week, if only there had been enough of them. So he made a great effort to succeed at the work, and filled his reports with epigrams and keen observations, carefully adapted to what he knew was Mr. Ardsley’s point of view. He allowed time for these devices to be effective, and then paid a visit to find out about the prospects272.
“Mr. Ardsley,” he began, “I am going to try to meet you half way with a book.”
“Ah!” said the other.
“I want to write a novel that you can publish. I believe that I can do it.”
Mr. Ardsley warmed immediately. “I have always been certain that you could,” said he. He went on to expound273 to Thyrsis the ethics274 of opportunism—how it would not be necessary to be false to his convictions, to write anything that he did not believe—but simply to put his convictions into a popular form, and to impart no more than the public could swallow at the first mouthful.
Thyrsis told him the outline of a plot. He would write a story of the struggles of a young author in the metropolis—not such a young author as himself, a rebel and a frenzied275 egotist, but a plain, everyday young author whom other people could care about. He had the “local color” for such a tale, and he could do it without too much waste of time. Mr. Ardsley thought it an excellent idea.
After which Thyrsis came, very cautiously, to the meat of the matter. “I want to get away into the country to write it,” he said; “and so I wanted to ask you about the manuscripts you are sending me. Have you found my work satisfactory?”
“Why, yes,” said the other.
“And do you think you can send them through the summer?”
“I presume so. It depends upon how many come to us.”
“You—you couldn’t arrange to let me have any more of them?”
“Not at present,” said Mr. Ardsley. “You see, I have regular readers, whose work I know. I’ll send you what I have to spare.”
“Thank you,” said Thyrsis. “I’ll be glad to have all you can give me.”
So he went away; and in the little room he and Corydon had an anxious consultation. He had been getting about twenty dollars a month; which was not enough for the family to exist upon. “Our only hope is a new book,” he declared; and Corydon saw that was the truth. “Each week that I stay here is a loss,” he added. “I have to pay room-rent.”
“But can you stand tenting out in April?” asked she.
“I’ll chance it,” he replied—“if you’ll say the word.”
She saw that her duty was before her; she must nerve herself and face it, though it tore her heartstrings. She must stay and take care of the baby, while he went away to work!
He sat and held her hands, and saw her bite her lips and fight to keep back the tears in her eyes. Their hearts had grown together, so that it was like tearing their flesh to separate them. They had never imagined that such a thing could come into their lives.
“Thyrsis,” she whispered—“you’ll forget me!”
He pressed her hands more tightly. “No, dear! No!” he said.
“But you’ll get used to living without me!” she cried. “And it’s the time in my life when I need you most!”
“I will stay, dearest, if you say so.”
She exclaimed, “No, no! I must stand it!”
And seeing her grief, his heart breaking with pity, a strange impulse came to Thyrsis. He took her hands in his, and knelt down before her, and began to pray. It had been years since he had thought of prayer, and Corydon had never thought of it in her life. It came from the deeps of him—a few stammering276 words, simple, almost childish, yet exquisite as music. He prayed that they might have courage to keep up the fight, that they might be able to hold their love before them, that nothing might ever dim their vision of each other. It was a prayer without theology or metaphysics—a prayer to the unknown gods; but it set free the well-spring of tenderness and pity within them; and when he finished Corydon was sobbing upon his shoulder.
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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sordidness
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| n.肮脏；污秽；卑鄙；可耻 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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incessantly
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prehensile
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exhortation
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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sham
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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constructive
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acclaimed
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embodied
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vent
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marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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36
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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skeptic
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| n.怀疑者，怀疑论者，无神论者 | |
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39
consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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40
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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41
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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42
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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43
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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44
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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45
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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46
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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47
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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48
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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49
cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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50
irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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51
hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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52
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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53
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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54
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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56
prunes
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| n.西梅脯，西梅干( prune的名词复数 )v.修剪（树木等）( prune的第三人称单数 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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57
crackers
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| adj.精神错乱的，癫狂的n.爆竹( cracker的名词复数 )；薄脆饼干；（认为）十分愉快的事；迷人的姑娘 | |
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58
burrowing
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的现在分词 )；翻寻 | |
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59
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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60
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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61
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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62
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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63
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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65
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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66
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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67
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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68
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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69
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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70
boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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71
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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72
stork
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| n.鹳 | |
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73
primal
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| adj.原始的；最重要的 | |
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74
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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75
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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76
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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77
vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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78
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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79
reeks
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| n.恶臭( reek的名词复数 )v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的第三人称单数 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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80
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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81
consecrate
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| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
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82
vapors
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| n.水汽，水蒸气，无实质之物( vapor的名词复数 )；自夸者；幻想 [药]吸入剂 [古]忧郁（症）v.自夸，（使）蒸发( vapor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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83
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
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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85
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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86
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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87
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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88
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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89
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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90
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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91
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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92
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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93
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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94
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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95
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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96
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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97
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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98
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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99
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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100
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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101
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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102
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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103
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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104
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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106
functionaries
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| n.公职人员，官员( functionary的名词复数 ) | |
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107
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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108
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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109
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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110
eulogies
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| n.颂词，颂文( eulogy的名词复数 ) | |
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111
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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112
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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113
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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115
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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116
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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117
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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118
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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119
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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120
awesomeness
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| 可怕的 | |
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121
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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122
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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123
enroll
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| v.招收；登记；入学；参军；成为会员（英)enrol | |
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124
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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125
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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126
automobiles
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| n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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127
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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128
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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129
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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130
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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131
parasites
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| 寄生物( parasite的名词复数 )； 靠他人为生的人； 诸虫 | |
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132
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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133
splendors
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| n.华丽( splendor的名词复数 )；壮丽；光辉；显赫 | |
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134
distilled
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| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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135
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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136
distilling
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| n.蒸馏（作用）v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )( distilled的过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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137
snobbish
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| adj.势利的，谄上欺下的 | |
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138
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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139
verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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140
stoutness
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| 坚固，刚毅 | |
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141
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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142
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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143
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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144
complexions
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| 肤色( complexion的名词复数 )； 面色； 局面； 性质 | |
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145
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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146
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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147
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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148
deprivations
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| 剥夺( deprivation的名词复数 )； 被夺去； 缺乏； 匮乏 | |
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149
comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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150
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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151
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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152
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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153
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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154
spurn
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| v.拒绝，摈弃；n.轻视的拒绝；踢开 | |
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155
hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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156
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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157
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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158
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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159
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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160
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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161
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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162
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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163
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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164
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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165
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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166
devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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167
vegetarian
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| n.素食者；adj.素食的 | |
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168
vegetarianism
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| n.素食，素食主义 | |
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169
disapproving
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| adj.不满的，反对的v.不赞成( disapprove的现在分词 ) | |
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170
extermination
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| n.消灭，根绝 | |
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171
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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172
inorganic
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| adj.无生物的；无机的 | |
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173
steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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174
supplanted
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| 把…排挤掉，取代( supplant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
investigator
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| n.研究者，调查者，审查者 | |
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176
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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177
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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178
asylums
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| n.避难所( asylum的名词复数 )；庇护；政治避难；精神病院 | |
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179
rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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180
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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181
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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182
cryptic
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| adj.秘密的，神秘的，含义模糊的 | |
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183
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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184
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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185
filet
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| n.肉片；鱼片 | |
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186
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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187
blazoned
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| v.广布( blazon的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布；夸示；装饰 | |
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188
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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189
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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190
prosecuting
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| 检举、告发某人( prosecute的现在分词 )； 对某人提起公诉； 继续从事（某事物）； 担任控方律师 | |
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191
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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192
defenders
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| n.防御者( defender的名词复数 )；守卫者；保护者；辩护者 | |
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193
incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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194
stigma
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| n.耻辱，污名；(花的)柱头 | |
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195
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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196
evolutionary
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| adj.进化的；演化的，演变的；[生]进化论的 | |
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197
invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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198
sociologist
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| n.研究社会学的人，社会学家 | |
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199
attestation
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| n.证词 | |
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200
humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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201
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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202
acrimonious
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| adj.严厉的，辛辣的，刻毒的 | |
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203
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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204
barricade
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| n.路障，栅栏，障碍；vt.设路障挡住 | |
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205
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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206
disturbances
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| n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 )；打扰；困扰；障碍 | |
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207
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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208
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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209
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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210
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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211
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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212
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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213
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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214
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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215
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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216
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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217
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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218
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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219
repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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220
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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221
chafe
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| v.擦伤；冲洗；惹怒 | |
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222
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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223
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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224
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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225
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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226
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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227
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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228
inertia
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| adj.惰性，惯性，懒惰，迟钝 | |
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229
actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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230
recitals
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| n.独唱会( recital的名词复数 )；独奏会；小型音乐会、舞蹈表演会等；一系列事件等的详述 | |
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231
slaking
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| n.熟化v.满足( slake的现在分词 ) | |
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232
mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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233
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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234
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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235
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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236
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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237
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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238
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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239
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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240
palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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241
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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242
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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243
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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244
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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245
juxtaposition
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| n.毗邻，并置，并列 | |
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246
suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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247
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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248
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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249
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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250
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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251
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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252
freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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253
aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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254
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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255
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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256
corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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257
spartan
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| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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258
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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259
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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260
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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261
prating
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| v.（古时用语）唠叨，啰唆( prate的现在分词 ) | |
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262
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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263
embryo
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| n.胚胎，萌芽的事物 | |
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264
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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265
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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266
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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267
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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268
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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269
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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270
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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271
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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272
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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273
expound
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| v.详述；解释；阐述 | |
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274
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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275
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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276
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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