IN the Mile End Road, opposite to the London Hospital, there was (and possibly still is) a line of small shops. Among them was a vacant greengrocer’s which was to let. The whole of the front of the shop, with the exception of the door, was hidden by a hanging sheet of canvas on which was the announcement that the Elephant Man was to be seen within and that the price of admission was twopence. Painted on the canvas in primitive2 colours was a life-size portrait of the Elephant Man. This very crude production depicted3 a frightful4 creature that could only have been possible in a nightmare. It was the figure of a man with the characteristics of an elephant. The transfiguration was not far advanced. There was still more of the man than of the beast. This fact—that it was still human—was the most 2 repellent attribute of the creature. There was nothing about it of the pitiableness of the misshapened or the deformed5, nothing of the grotesqueness6 of the freak, but merely the loathsome9 insinuation of a man being changed into an animal. Some palm trees in the background of the picture suggested a jungle and might have led the imaginative to assume that it was in this wild that the perverted10 object had roamed.
When I first became aware of this phenomenon the exhibition was closed, but a well-informed boy sought the proprietor11 in a public house and I was granted a private view on payment of a shilling. The shop was empty and grey with dust. Some old tins and a few shrivelled potatoes occupied a shelf and some vague vegetable refuse the window. The light in the place was dim, being obscured by the painted placard outside. The far end of the shop—where I expect the late proprietor sat at a desk—was cut off by a curtain or rather by a red tablecloth12 suspended from a cord by a few rings. The room was cold and dank, for it was the month of November. The year, I might say, was 1884.
The showman pulled back the curtain and revealed a bent13 figure crouching14 on a stool and covered by a brown blanket. In front of it, on3 a tripod, was a large brick heated by a Bunsen burner. Over this the creature was huddled16 to warm itself. It never moved when the curtain was drawn17 back. Locked up in an empty shop and lit by the faint blue light of the gas jet, this hunched-up figure was the embodiment of loneliness. It might have been a captive in a cavern19 or a wizard watching for unholy manifestations20 in the ghostly flame. Outside the sun was shining and one could hear the footsteps of the passers-by, a tune22 whistled by a boy and the companionable hum of traffic in the road.
The showman—speaking as if to a dog—called out harshly: “Stand up!” The thing arose slowly and let the blanket that covered its head and back fall to the ground. There stood revealed the most disgusting specimen23 of humanity that I have ever seen. In the course of my profession I had come upon lamentable24 deformities of the face due to injury or disease, as well as mutilations and contortions25 of the body depending upon like causes; but at no time had I met with such a degraded or perverted version of a human being as this lone18 figure displayed. He was naked to the waist, his feet were bare, he wore a pair of threadbare trousers that had4 once belonged to some fat gentleman’s dress suit.
From the intensified26 painting in the street I had imagined the Elephant Man to be of gigantic size. This, however, was a little man below the average height and made to look shorter by the bowing of his back. The most striking feature about him was his enormous and misshapened head. From the brow there projected a huge bony mass like a loaf, while from the back of the head hung a bag of spongy, fungous-looking skin, the surface of which was comparable to brown cauliflower. On the top of the skull27 were a few long lank15 hairs. The osseous growth on the forehead almost occluded28 one eye. The circumference29 of the head was no less than that of the man’s waist. From the upper jaw30 there projected another mass of bone. It protruded31 from the mouth like a pink stump32, turning the upper lip inside out and making of the mouth a mere7 slobbering aperture33. This growth from the jaw had been so exaggerated in the painting as to appear to be a rudimentary trunk or tusk34. The nose was merely a lump of flesh, only recognizable as a nose from its position. The face was no more capable of expression than a block of gnarled wood. The back was horrible, because5 from it hung, as far down as the middle of the thigh35, huge, sack-like masses of flesh covered by the same loathsome cauliflower skin.
The right arm was of enormous size and shapeless. It suggested the limb of the subject of elephantiasis. It was overgrown also with pendent masses of the same cauliflower-like skin. The hand was large and clumsy—a fin36 or paddle rather than a hand. There was no distinction between the palm and the back. The thumb had the appearance of a radish, while the fingers might have been thick, tuberous roots. As a limb it was almost useless. The other arm was remarkable37 by contrast. It was not only normal but was, moreover, a delicately shaped limb covered with fine skin and provided with a beautiful hand which any woman might have envied. From the chest hung a bag of the same repulsive38 flesh. It was like a dewlap suspended from the neck of a lizard39. The lower limbs had the characters of the deformed arm. They were unwieldy, dropsical looking and grossly misshapened.
To add a further burden to his trouble the wretched man, when a boy, developed hip41 disease, which had left him permanently42 lame21, so that he could only walk with a stick. He was thus denied all means of escape from his tormentors.6 As he told me later, he could never run away. One other feature must be mentioned to emphasize his isolation43 from his kind. Although he was already repellent enough, there arose from the fungous skin-growth with which he was almost covered a very sickening stench which was hard to tolerate. From the showman I learnt nothing about the Elephant Man, except that he was English, that his name was John Merrick and that he was twenty-one years of age.
As at the time of my discovery of the Elephant Man I was the Lecturer on Anatomy44 at the Medical College opposite, I was anxious to examine him in detail and to prepare an account of his abnormalities. I therefore arranged with the showman that I should interview his strange exhibit in my room at the college. I became at once conscious of a difficulty. The Elephant Man could not show himself in the streets. He would have been mobbed by the crowd and seized by the police. He was, in fact, as secluded45 from the world as the Man with the Iron Mask. He had, however, a disguise, although it was almost as startling as he was himself. It consisted of a long black cloak which reached to the ground. Whence the cloak had been obtained I cannot imagine. I had only seen such a garment on7 the stage wrapped about the figure of a Venetian bravo. The recluse46 was provided with a pair of bag-like slippers47 in which to hide his deformed feet. On his head was a cap of a kind that never before was seen. It was black like the cloak, had a wide peak, and the general outline of a yachting cap. As the circumference of Merrick’s head was that of a man’s waist, the size of this headgear may be imagined. From the attachment48 of the peak a grey flannel49 curtain hung in front of the face. In this mask was cut a wide horizontal slit50 through which the wearer could look out. This costume, worn by a bent man hobbling along with a stick, is probably the most remarkable and the most uncanny that has as yet been designed. I arranged that Merrick should cross the road in a cab, and to insure his immediate51 admission to the college I gave him my card. This card was destined52 to play a critical part in Merrick’s life.
I made a careful examination of my visitor the result of which I embodied53 in a paper.[1] I made little of the man himself. He was shy, confused, not a little frightened and evidently much cowed. Moreover, his speech was almost unintelligible54. The great bony mass that projected8 from his mouth blurred55 his utterance56 and made the articulation57 of certain words impossible. He returned in a cab to the place of exhibition, and I assumed that I had seen the last of him, especially as I found next day that the show had been forbidden by the police and that the shop was empty.
I supposed that Merrick was imbecile and had been imbecile from birth. The fact that his face was incapable58 of expression, that his speech was a mere spluttering and his attitude that of one whose mind was void of all emotions and concerns gave grounds for this belief. The conviction was no doubt encouraged by the hope that his intellect was the blank I imagined it to be. That he could appreciate his position was unthinkable. Here was a man in the heyday59 of youth who was so vilely60 deformed that everyone he met confronted him with a look of horror and disgust. He was taken about the country to be exhibited as a monstrosity and an object of loathing61. He was shunned62 like a leper, housed like a wild beast, and got his only view of the world from a peephole in a showman’s cart. He was, moreover, lame, had but one available arm, and could hardly make his utterances63 understood. It was not until I came to know that Merrick was highly9 intelligent, that he possessed64 an acute sensibility and—worse than all—a romantic imagination that I realized the overwhelming tragedy of his life.
The episode of the Elephant Man was, I imagined, closed; but I was fated to meet him again—two years later—under more dramatic conditions. In England the showman and Merrick had been moved on from place to place by the police, who considered the exhibition degrading and among the things that could not be allowed. It was hoped that in the uncritical retreats of Mile End a more abiding65 peace would be found. But it was not to be. The official mind there, as elsewhere, very properly decreed that the public exposure of Merrick and his deformities transgressed66 the limits of decency67. The show must close.
The showman, in despair, fled with his charge to the Continent. Whither he roamed at first I do not know; but he came finally to Brussels. His reception was discouraging. Brussels was firm; the exhibition was banned; it was brutal68, indecent and immoral69, and could not be permitted within the confines of Belgium. Merrick was thus no longer of value. He was no longer a source of profitable entertainment. He was a burden. He10 must be got rid of. The elimination70 of Merrick was a simple matter. He could offer no resistance. He was as docile71 as a sick sheep. The impresario72, having robbed Merrick of his paltry73 savings74, gave him a ticket to London, saw him into the train and no doubt in parting condemned75 him to perdition.
His destination was Liverpool Street. The journey may be imagined. Merrick was in his alarming outdoor garb76. He would be harried77 by an eager mob as he hobbled along the quay78. They would run ahead to get a look at him. They would lift the hem1 of his cloak to peep at his body. He would try to hide in the train or in some dark corner of the boat, but never could he be free from that ring of curious eyes or from those whispers of fright and aversion. He had but a few shillings in his pocket and nothing either to eat or drink on the way. A panic-dazed dog with a label on his collar would have received some sympathy and possibly some kindness. Merrick received none.
What was he to do when he reached London? He had not a friend in the world. He knew no more of London than he knew of Pekin. How could he find a lodging79, or what lodging-house keeper would dream of taking him in? All he11 wanted was to hide. What most he dreaded80 were the open street and the gaze of his fellow-men. If even he crept into a cellar the horrid82 eyes and the still more dreaded whispers would follow him to its depths. Was there ever such a homecoming!
At Liverpool Street he was rescued from the crowd by the police and taken into the third-class waiting-room. Here he sank on the floor in the darkest corner. The police were at a loss what to do with him. They had dealt with strange and mouldy tramps, but never with such an object as this. He could not explain himself. His speech was so maimed that he might as well have spoken in Arabic. He had, however, something with him which he produced with a ray of hope. It was my card.
The card simplified matters. It made it evident that this curious creature had an acquaintance and that the individual must be sent for. A messenger was dispatched to the London Hospital which is comparatively near at hand. Fortunately I was in the building and returned at once with the messenger to the station. In the waiting-room I had some difficulty in making a way through the crowd, but there, on the floor in the corner, was Merrick. He looked a mere heap.12 It seemed as if he had been thrown there like a bundle. He was so huddled up and so helpless looking that he might have had both his arms and his legs broken. He seemed pleased to see me, but he was nearly done. The journey and want of food had reduced him to the last stage of exhaustion84. The police kindly85 helped him into a cab, and I drove him at once to the hospital. He appeared to be content, for he fell asleep almost as soon as he was seated and slept to the journey’s end. He never said a word, but seemed to be satisfied that all was well.
In the attics87 of the hospital was an isolation ward88 with a single bed. It was used for emergency purposes—for a case of delirium89 tremens, for a man who had become suddenly insane or for a patient with an undetermined fever. Here the Elephant Man was deposited on a bed, was made comfortable and was supplied with food. I had been guilty of an irregularity in admitting such a case, for the hospital was neither a refuge nor a home for incurables90. Chronic91 cases were not accepted, but only those requiring active treatment, and Merrick was not in need of such treatment. I applied92 to the sympathetic chairman of the committee, Mr. Carr Gomm, who not only was good enough to approve my action but who13 agreed with me that Merrick must not again be turned out into the world.
Mr. Carr Gomm wrote a letter to the Times detailing the circumstances of the refugee and asking for money for his support. So generous is the English public that in a few days—I think in a week—enough money was forthcoming to maintain Merrick for life without any charge upon the hospital funds. There chanced to be two empty rooms at the back of the hospital which were little used. They were on the ground floor, were out of the way, and opened upon a large courtyard called Bedstead Square, because here the iron beds were marshalled for cleaning and painting. The front room was converted into a bed-sitting room and the smaller chamber93 into a bathroom. The condition of Merrick’s skin rendered a bath at least once a day a necessity, and I might here mention that with the use of the bath the unpleasant odour to which I have referred ceased to be noticeable. Merrick took up his abode94 in the hospital in December, 1886.
Merrick had now something he had never dreamed of, never supposed to be possible—a home of his own for life. I at once began to make myself acquainted with him and to endeavour to understand his mentality95. It was a study of14 much interest. I very soon learnt his speech so that I could talk freely with him. This afforded him great satisfaction, for, curiously96 enough, he had a passion for conversation, yet all his life had had no one to talk to. I—having then much leisure—saw him almost every day, and made a point of spending some two hours with him every Sunday morning when he would chatter97 almost without ceasing. It was unreasonable98 to expect one nurse to attend to him continuously, but there was no lack of temporary volunteers. As they did not all acquire his speech it came about that I had occasionally to act as an interpreter.
I found Merrick, as I have said, remarkably99 intelligent. He had learnt to read and had become a most voracious100 reader. I think he had been taught when he was in hospital with his diseased hip. His range of books was limited. The Bible and Prayer Book he knew intimately, but he had subsisted102 for the most part upon newspapers, or rather upon such fragments of old journals as he had chanced to pick up. He had read a few stories and some elementary lesson books, but the delight of his life was a romance, especially a love romance. These tales were very real to him, as real as any narrative103 in the Bible, so that he would tell them to me as incidents in the lives of15 people who had lived. In his outlook upon the world he was a child, yet a child with some of the tempestuous104 feelings of a man. He was an elemental being, so primitive that he might have spent the twenty-three years of his life immured105 in a cave.
Of his early days I could learn but little. He was very loath8 to talk about the past. It was a nightmare, the shudder106 of which was still upon him. He was born, he believed, in or about Leicester. Of his father he knew absolutely nothing. Of his mother he had some memory. It was very faint and had, I think, been elaborated in his mind into something definite. Mothers figured in the tales he had read, and he wanted his mother to be one of those comfortable lullaby-singing persons who are so lovable. In his subconscious107 mind there was apparently108 a germ of recollection in which someone figured who had been kind to him. He clung to this conception and made it more real by invention, for since the day when he could toddle109 no one had been kind to him. As an infant he must have been repellent, although his deformities did not become gross until he had attained110 his full stature111.
It was a favourite belief of his that his mother was beautiful. The fiction was, I am aware, one16 of his own making, but it was a great joy to him. His mother, lovely as she may have been, basely deserted112 him when he was very small, so small that his earliest clear memories were of the workhouse to which he had been taken. Worthless and inhuman113 as this mother was, he spoke83 of her with pride and even with reverence114. Once, when referring to his own appearance, he said: “It is very strange, for, you see, mother was so beautiful.”
The rest of Merrick’s life up to the time that I met him at Liverpool Street Station was one dull record of degradation115 and squalor. He was dragged from town to town and from fair to fair as if he were a strange beast in a cage. A dozen times a day he would have to expose his nakedness and his piteous deformities before a gaping116 crowd who greeted him with such mutterings as “Oh! what a horror! What a beast!” He had had no childhood. He had had no boyhood. He had never experienced pleasure. He knew nothing of the joy of living nor of the fun of things. His sole idea of happiness was to creep into the dark and hide. Shut up alone in a booth, awaiting the next exhibition, how mocking must have sounded the laughter and merriment of the boys and girls outside who were enjoying the “fun of the fair”!17 He had no past to look back upon and no future to look forward to. At the age of twenty he was a creature without hope. There was nothing in front of him but a vista117 of caravans119 creeping along a road, of rows of glaring show tents and of circles of staring eyes with, at the end, the spectacle of a broken man in a poor law infirmary.
Those who are interested in the evolution of character might speculate as to the effect of this brutish life upon a sensitive and intelligent man. It would be reasonable to surmise120 that he would become a spiteful and malignant121 misanthrope122, swollen123 with venom124 and filled with hatred125 of his fellow-men, or, on the other hand, that he would degenerate126 into a despairing melancholic127 on the verge128 of idiocy129. Merrick, however, was no such being. He had passed through the fire and had come out unscathed. His troubles had ennobled him. He showed himself to be a gentle, affectionate and lovable creature, as amiable130 as a happy woman, free from any trace of cynicism or resentment131, without a grievance132 and without an unkind word for anyone. I have never heard him complain. I have never heard him deplore133 his ruined life or resent the treatment he had received at the hands of callous134 keepers. His journey through life had been indeed along a via18 dolorosa, the road had been uphill all the way, and now, when the night was at its blackest and the way most steep, he had suddenly found himself, as it were, in a friendly inn, bright with light and warm with welcome. His gratitude135 to those about him was pathetic in its sincerity136 and eloquent137 in the childlike simplicity138 with which it was expressed.
As I learnt more of this primitive creature I found that there were two anxieties which were prominent in his mind and which he revealed to me with diffidence. He was in the occupation of the rooms assigned to him and had been assured that he would be cared for to the end of his days. This, however, he found hard to realize, for he often asked me timidly to what place he would next be moved. To understand his attitude it is necessary to remember that he had been moving on and moving on all his life. He knew no other state of existence. To him it was normal. He had passed from the workhouse to the hospital, from the hospital back to the workhouse, then from this town to that town or from one showman’s caravan118 to another. He had never known a home nor any semblance139 of one. He had no possessions. His sole belongings140, besides his clothes and some books, were the monstrous142 cap and the cloak. He19 was a wanderer, a pariah143 and an outcast. That his quarters at the hospital were his for life he could not understand. He could not rid his mind of the anxiety which had pursued him for so many years—where am I to be taken next?
Another trouble was his dread81 of his fellow-men, his fear of people’s eyes, the dread of being always stared at, the lash144 of the cruel mutterings of the crowd. In his home in Bedstead Square he was secluded; but now and then a thoughtless porter or a wardmaid would open his door to let curious friends have a peep at the Elephant Man. It therefore seemed to him as if the gaze of the world followed him still.
Influenced by these two obsessions145 he became, during his first few weeks at the hospital, curiously uneasy. At last, with much hesitation146, he said to me one day: “When I am next moved can I go to a blind asylum147 or to a lighthouse?” He had read about blind asylums148 in the newspapers and was attracted by the thought of being among people who could not see. The lighthouse had another charm. It meant seclusion149 from the curious. There at least no one could open a door and peep in at him. There he would forget that he had once been the Elephant Man. There he would escape the vampire150 showman. He had never20 seen a lighthouse, but he had come upon a picture of the Eddystone, and it appeared to him that this lonely column of stone in the waste of the sea was such a home as he had longed for.
I had no great difficulty in ridding Merrick’s mind of these ideas. I wanted him to get accustomed to his fellow-men, to become a human being himself and to be admitted to the communion of his kind. He appeared day by day less frightened, less haunted looking, less anxious to hide, less alarmed when he saw his door being opened. He got to know most of the people about the place, to be accustomed to their comings and goings, and to realize that they took no more than a friendly notice of him. He could only go out after dark, and on fine nights ventured to take a walk in Bedstead Square clad in his black cloak and his cap. His greatest adventure was on one moonless evening when he walked alone as far as the hospital garden and back again.
To secure Merrick’s recovery and to bring him, as it were, to life once more, it was necessary that he should make the acquaintance of men and women who would treat him as a normal and intelligent young man and not as a monster of deformity. Women I felt to be more important than men in bringing about his transformation151.21 Women were the more frightened of him, the more disgusted at his appearance and the more apt to give way to irrepressible expressions of aversion when they came into his presence. Moreover, Merrick had an admiration152 of women of such a kind that it attained almost to adoration153. This was not the outcome of his personal experience. They were not real women but the products of his imagination. Among them was the beautiful mother surrounded, at a respectful distance, by heroines from the many romances he had read.
His first entry to the hospital was attended by a regrettable incident. He had been placed on the bed in the little attic86, and a nurse had been instructed to bring him some food. Unfortunately she had not been fully154 informed of Merrick’s unusual appearance. As she entered the room she saw on the bed, propped155 up by white pillows, a monstrous figure as hideous156 as an Indian idol157. She at once dropped the tray she was carrying and fled, with a shriek158, through the door. Merrick was too weak to notice much, but the experience, I am afraid, was not new to him.
He was looked after by volunteer nurses whose ministrations were somewhat formal and constrained159. Merrick, no doubt, was conscious that their service was purely160 official, that they were22 merely doing what they were told to do and that they were acting161 rather as automata than as women. They did not help him to feel that he was of their kind. On the contrary they, without knowing it, made him aware that the gulf162 of separation was immeasurable.
Feeling this, I asked a friend of mine, a young and pretty widow, if she thought she could enter Merrick’s room with a smile, wish him good morning and shake him by the hand. She said she could and she did. The effect upon poor Merrick was not quite what I had expected. As he let go her hand he bent his head on his knees and sobbed163 until I thought he would never cease. The interview was over. He told me afterwards that this was the first woman who had ever smiled at him, and the first woman, in the whole of his life, who had shaken hands with him. From this day the transformation of Merrick commenced and he began to change, little by little, from a hunted thing into a man. It was a wonderful change to witness and one that never ceased to fascinate me.
Merrick’s case attracted much attention in the papers, with the result that he had a constant succession of visitors. Everybody wanted to see him. He must have been visited by almost every lady of note in the social world. They were all23 good enough to welcome him with a smile and to shake hands with him. The Merrick whom I had found shivering behind a rag of a curtain in an empty shop was now conversant164 with duchesses and countesses and other ladies of high degree. They brought him presents, made his room bright with ornaments165 and pictures, and, what pleased him more than all, supplied him with books. He soon had a large library and most of his day was spent in reading. He was not the least spoiled; not the least puffed166 up; he never asked for anything; never presumed upon the kindness meted167 out to him, and was always humbly168 and profoundly grateful. Above all he lost his shyness. He liked to see his door pushed open and people to look in. He became acquainted with most of the frequenters of Bedstead Square, would chat with them at his window and show them some of his choicest presents. He improved in his speech, although to the end his utterances were not easy for strangers to understand. He was beginning, moreover, to be less conscious of his unsightliness, a little disposed to think it was, after all, not so very extreme. Possibly this was aided by the circumstance that I would not allow a mirror of any kind in his room.
The height of his social development was24 reached on an eventful day when Queen Alexandra—then Princess of Wales—came to the hospital to pay him a special visit. With that kindness which has marked every act of her life, the Queen entered Merrick’s room smiling and shook him warmly by the hand. Merrick was transported with delight. This was beyond even his most extravagant169 dream. The Queen has made many people happy, but I think no gracious act of hers has ever caused such happiness as she brought into Merrick’s room when she sat by his chair and talked to him as to a person she was glad to see.
Merrick, I may say, was now one of the most contented170 creatures I have chanced to meet. More than once he said to me: “I am happy every hour of the day.” This was good to think upon when I recalled the half-dead heap of miserable171 humanity I had seen in the corner of the waiting-room at Liverpool Street. Most men of Merrick’s age would have expressed their joy and sense of contentment by singing or whistling when they were alone. Unfortunately poor Merrick’s mouth was so deformed that he could neither whistle nor sing. He was satisfied to express himself by beating time upon the pillow to some tune that was ringing in his head. I have many times found him so occupied when I have entered his room25 unexpectedly. One thing that always struck me as sad about Merrick was the fact that he could not smile. Whatever his delight might be, his face remained expressionless. He could weep but he could not smile.
The Queen paid Merrick many visits and sent him every year a Christmas card with a message in her own handwriting. On one occasion she sent him a signed photograph of herself. Merrick, quite overcome, regarded it as a sacred object and would hardly allow me to touch it. He cried over it, and after it was framed had it put up in his room as a kind of ikon. I told him that he must write to Her Royal Highness to thank her for her goodness. This he was pleased to do, as he was very fond of writing letters, never before in his life having had anyone to write to. I allowed the letter to be dispatched unedited. It began “My dear Princess” and ended “Yours very sincerely.” Unorthodox as it was it was expressed in terms any courtier would have envied.
Other ladies followed the Queen’s gracious example and sent their photographs to this delighted creature who had been all his life despised and rejected of men. His mantelpiece and table became so covered with photographs of handsome ladies, with dainty knicknacks and pretty trifles26 that they may almost have befitted the apartment of an Adonis-like actor or of a famous tenor172.
Through all these bewildering incidents and through the glamour173 of this great change Merrick still remained in many ways a mere child. He had all the invention of an imaginative boy or girl, the same love of “make-believe,” the same instinct of “dressing up” and of personating heroic and impressive characters. This attitude of mind was illustrated174 by the following incident. Benevolent175 visitors had given me, from time to time, sums of money to be expended176 for the comfort of the ci-devant Elephant Man. When one Christmas was approaching I asked Merrick what he would like me to purchase as a Christmas present. He rather startled me by saying shyly that he would like a dressing-bag with silver fittings. He had seen a picture of such an article in an advertisement which he had furtively177 preserved.
The association of a silver-fitted dressing-bag with the poor wretch40 wrapped up in a dirty blanket in an empty shop was hard to comprehend. I fathomed178 the mystery in time, for Merrick made little secret of the fancies that haunted his boyish brain. Just as a small girl with a tinsel coronet and a window curtain for a train will realize the conception of a countess on her way to court, so27 Merrick loved to imagine himself a dandy and a young man about town. Mentally, no doubt, he had frequently “dressed up” for the part. He could “make-believe” with great effect, but he wanted something to render his fancied character more realistic. Hence the jaunty179 bag which was to assume the function of the toy coronet and the window curtain that could transform a mite101 with a pigtail into a countess.
As a theatrical180 “property” the dressing-bag was ingenious, since there was little else to give substance to the transformation. Merrick could not wear the silk hat of the dandy nor, indeed, any kind of hat. He could not adapt his body to the trimly cut coat. His deformity was such that he could wear neither collar nor tie, while in association with his bulbous feet the young blood’s patent leather shoe was unthinkable. What was there left to make up the character? A lady had given him a ring to wear on his undeformed hand, and a noble lord had presented him with a very stylish181 walking-stick. But these things, helpful as they were, were hardly sufficing.
The dressing-bag, however, was distinctive182, was explanatory and entirely183 characteristic. So the bag was obtained and Merrick the Elephant Man became, in the seclusion of his chamber, the28 Piccadilly exquisite184, the young spark, the gallant185, the “nut.” When I purchased the article I realized that as Merrick could never travel he could hardly want a dressing-bag. He could not use the silver-backed brushes and the comb because he had no hair to brush. The ivory-handled razors were useless because he could not shave. The deformity of his mouth rendered an ordinary toothbrush of no avail, and as his monstrous lips could not hold a cigarette the cigarette-case was a mockery. The silver shoe-horn would be of no service in the putting on of his ungainly slippers, while the hat-brush was quite unsuited to the peaked cap with its visor.
Still the bag was an emblem186 of the real swell187 and of the knockabout Don Juan of whom he had read. So every day Merrick laid out upon his table, with proud precision, the silver brushes, the razors, the shoe-horn and the silver cigarette-case which I had taken care to fill with cigarettes. The contemplation of these gave him great pleasure, and such is the power of self-deception that they convinced him he was the “real thing.”
I think there was just one shadow in Merrick’s life. As I have already said, he had a lively imagination; he was romantic; he cherished an emotional regard for women and his favourite29 pursuit was the reading of love stories. He fell in love—in a humble188 and devotional way—with, I think, every attractive lady he saw. He, no doubt, pictured himself the hero of many a passionate189 incident. His bodily deformity had left unmarred the instincts and feelings of his years. He was amorous190. He would like to have been a lover, to have walked with the beloved object in the languorous191 shades of some beautiful garden and to have poured into her ear all the glowing utterances that he had rehearsed in his heart. And yet—the pity of it!—imagine the feelings of such a youth when he saw nothing but a look of horror creep over the face of every girl whose eyes met his. I fancy when he talked of life among the blind there was a half-formed idea in his mind that he might be able to win the affection of a woman if only she were without eyes to see.
As Merrick developed he began to display certain modest ambitions in the direction of improving his mind and enlarging his knowledge of the world. He was as curious as a child and as eager to learn. There were so many things he wanted to know and to see. In the first place he was anxious to view the interior of what he called “a real house,” such a house as figured in many of the tales he knew, a house with a hall, a drawing-room30 where guests were received and a dining-room with plate on the sideboard and with easy chairs into which the hero could “fling himself.” The workhouse, the common lodging-house and a variety of mean garrets were all the residences he knew. To satisfy this wish I drove him up to my small house in Wimpole Street. He was absurdly interested, and examined everything in detail and with untiring curiosity. I could not show him the pampered192 menials and the powdered footmen of whom he had read, nor could I produce the white marble staircase of the mansion193 of romance nor the gilded194 mirrors and the brocaded divans195 which belong to that style of residence. I explained that the house was a modest dwelling196 of the Jane Austen type, and as he had read “Emma” he was content.
A more burning ambition of his was to go to the theatre. It was a project very difficult to satisfy. A popular pantomime was then in progress at Drury Lane Theatre, but the problem was how so conspicuous197 a being as the Elephant Man could be got there, and how he was to see the performance without attracting the notice of the audience and causing a panic or, at least, an unpleasant diversion. The whole matter was most ingeniously carried through by that kindest of31 women and most able of actresses—Mrs. Kendal. She made the necessary arrangements with the lessee198 of the theatre. A box was obtained. Merrick was brought up in a carriage with drawn blinds and was allowed to make use of the royal entrance so as to reach the box by a private stair. I had begged three of the hospital sisters to don evening dress and to sit in the front row in order to “dress” the box, on the one hand, and to form a screen for Merrick on the other. Merrick and I occupied the back of the box which was kept in shadow. All went well, and no one saw a figure, more monstrous than any on the stage, mount the staircase or cross the corridor.
One has often witnessed the unconstrained delight of a child at its first pantomime, but Merrick’s rapture199 was much more intense as well as much more solemn. Here was a being with the brain of a man, the fancies of a youth and the imagination of a child. His attitude was not so much that of delight as of wonder and amazement200. He was awed201. He was enthralled202. The spectacle left him speechless, so that if he were spoken to he took no heed203. He often seemed to be panting for breath. I could not help comparing him with a man of his own age in the stalls. This satiated32 individual was bored to distraction204, would look wearily at the stage from time to time and then yawn as if he had not slept for nights; while at the same time Merrick was thrilled by a vision that was almost beyond his comprehension. Merrick talked of this pantomime for weeks and weeks. To him, as to a child with the faculty205 of make-believe, everything was real; the palace was the home of kings, the princess was of royal blood, the fairies were as undoubted as the children in the street, while the dishes at the banquet were of unquestionable gold. He did not like to discuss it as a play but rather as a vision of some actual world. When this mood possessed him he would say: “I wonder what the prince did after we left,” or “Do you think that poor man is still in the dungeon206?” and so on and so on.
The splendour and display impressed him, but, I think, the ladies of the ballet took a still greater hold upon his fancy. He did not like the ogres and the giants, while the funny men impressed him as irreverent. Having no experience as a boy of romping207 and ragging, of practical jokes or of “larks,” he had little sympathy with the doings of the clown, but, I think (moved by some mischievous208 instinct in his subconscious mind), he was pleased when the policeman was smacked209 in33 the face, knocked down and generally rendered undignified.
Later on another longing141 stirred the depths of Merrick’s mind. It was a desire to see the country, a desire to live in some green secluded spot and there learn something about flowers and the ways of animals and birds. The country as viewed from a wagon210 on a dusty high road was all the country he knew. He had never wandered among the fields nor followed the windings211 of a wood. He had never climbed to the brow of a breezy down. He had never gathered flowers in a meadow. Since so much of his reading dealt with country life he was possessed by the wish to see the wonders of that life himself.
This involved a difficulty greater than that presented by a visit to the theatre. The project was, however, made possible on this occasion also by the kindness and generosity212 of a lady—Lady Knightley—who offered Merrick a holiday home in a cottage on her estate. Merrick was conveyed to the railway station in the usual way, but as he could hardly venture to appear on the platform the railway authorities were good enough to run a second-class carriage into a distant siding. To this point Merrick was driven and was placed in the carriage unobserved. The carriage, with the34 curtains drawn, was then attached to the mainline train.
He duly arrived at the cottage, but the housewife (like the nurse at the hospital) had not been made clearly aware of the unfortunate man’s appearance. Thus it happened that when Merrick presented himself his hostess, throwing her apron213 over her head, fled, gasping214, to the fields. She affirmed that such a guest was beyond her powers of endurance, for, when she saw him, she was “that took” as to be in danger of being permanently “all of a tremble.”
Merrick was then conveyed to a gamekeeper’s cottage which was hidden from view and was close to the margin215 of a wood. The man and his wife were able to tolerate his presence. They treated him with the greatest kindness, and with them he spent the one supreme216 holiday of his life. He could roam where he pleased. He met no one on his wanderings, for the wood was preserved and denied to all but the gamekeeper and the forester.
There is no doubt that Merrick passed in this retreat the happiest time he had as yet experienced. He was alone in a land of wonders. The breath of the country passed over him like a healing wind. Into the silence of the wood the fearsome voice of the showman could never penetrate217. No35 cruel eyes could peep at him through the friendly undergrowth. It seemed as if in this place of peace all stain had been wiped away from his sullied past. The Merrick who had once crouched218 terrified in the filthy219 shadows of a Mile End shop was now sitting in the sun, in a clearing among the trees, arranging a bunch of violets he had gathered.
His letters to me were the letters of a delighted and enthusiastic child. He gave an account of his trivial adventures, of the amazing things he had seen, and of the beautiful sounds he had heard. He had met with strange birds, had startled a hare from her form, had made friends with a fierce dog, and had watched the trout220 darting221 in a stream. He sent me some of the wild flowers he had picked. They were of the commonest and most familiar kind, but they were evidently regarded by him as rare and precious specimens222.
He came back to London, to his quarters in Bedstead Square, much improved in health, pleased to be “home” again and to be once more among his books, his treasures and his many friends.
Some six months after Merrick’s return from the country he was found dead in bed. This was in April, 1890. He was lying on his back as if asleep, and had evidently died suddenly and without36 a struggle, since not even the coverlet of the bed was disturbed. The method of his death was peculiar223. So large and so heavy was his head that he could not sleep lying down. When he assumed the recumbent position the massive skull was inclined to drop backwards224, with the result that he experienced no little distress225. The attitude he was compelled to assume when he slept was very strange. He sat up in bed with his back supported by pillows, his knees were drawn up, and his arms clasped round his legs, while his head rested on the points of his bent knees.
He often said to me that he wished he could lie down to sleep “like other people.” I think on this last night he must, with some determination, have made the experiment. The pillow was soft, and the head, when placed on it, must have fallen backwards and caused a dislocation of the neck. Thus it came about that his death was due to the desire that had dominated his life—the pathetic but hopeless desire to be “like other people.”
As a specimen of humanity, Merrick was ignoble226 and repulsive; but the spirit of Merrick, if it could be seen in the form of the living, would assume the figure of an upstanding and heroic man,37 smooth browed and clean of limb, and with eyes that flashed undaunted courage.
His tortured journey had come to an end. All the way he, like another, had borne on his back a burden almost too grievous to bear. He had been plunged227 into the Slough228 of Despond, but with manly229 steps had gained the farther shore. He had been made “a spectacle to all men” in the heartless streets of Vanity Fair. He had been ill-treated and reviled230 and bespattered with the mud of Disdain231. He had escaped the clutches of the Giant Despair, and at last had reached the “Place of Deliverance,” where “his burden loosed from off his shoulders and fell from off his back, so that he saw it no more.”
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1
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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2
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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grotesqueness
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7
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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8
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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10
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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11
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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13
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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14
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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15
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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16
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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18
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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19
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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21
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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contortions
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| n.扭歪，弯曲；扭曲，弄歪，歪曲( contortion的名词复数 ) | |
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26
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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occluded
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| v.堵塞( occlude的过去式和过去分词 )；阻隔；吸收（气体） | |
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circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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30
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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31
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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34
tusk
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| n.獠牙，长牙，象牙 | |
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thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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fin
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| n.鳍；(飞机的)安定翼 | |
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37
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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lizard
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| n.蜥蜴，壁虎 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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41
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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42
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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43
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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44
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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45
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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46
recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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47
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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48
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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49
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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50
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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51
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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52
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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53
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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54
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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55
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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56
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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articulation
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| n.（清楚的）发音；清晰度，咬合 | |
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58
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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59
heyday
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| n.全盛时期，青春期 | |
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60
vilely
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| adv.讨厌地，卑劣地 | |
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61
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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62
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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64
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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65
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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66
transgressed
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| v.超越( transgress的过去式和过去分词 )；越过；违反；违背 | |
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67
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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68
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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69
immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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70
elimination
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| n.排除，消除，消灭 | |
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71
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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72
impresario
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| n.歌剧团的经理人；乐团指挥 | |
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73
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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74
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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75
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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76
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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77
harried
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| v.使苦恼( harry的过去式和过去分词 )；不断烦扰；一再袭击；侵扰 | |
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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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79
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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80
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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81
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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82
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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83
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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84
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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85
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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86
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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87
attics
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| n. 阁楼 | |
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88
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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89
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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90
incurables
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| 无法治愈，不可救药( incurable的名词复数 ) | |
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91
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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92
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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93
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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94
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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95
mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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96
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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97
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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98
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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99
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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100
voracious
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| adj.狼吞虎咽的，贪婪的 | |
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101
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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102
subsisted
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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104
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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105
immured
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| v.禁闭，监禁( immure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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107
subconscious
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| n./adj.潜意识(的)，下意识(的) | |
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108
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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109
toddle
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| v.（如小孩）蹒跚学步 | |
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110
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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111
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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112
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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113
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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114
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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115
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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116
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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117
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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118
caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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119
caravans
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| （可供居住的）拖车（通常由机动车拖行）( caravan的名词复数 )； 篷车； （穿过沙漠地带的）旅行队（如商队） | |
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120
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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121
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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122
misanthrope
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| n.恨人类的人；厌世者 | |
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123
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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124
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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125
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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126
degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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127
melancholic
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| 忧郁症患者 | |
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128
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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129
idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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130
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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131
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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132
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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133
deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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134
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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135
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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136
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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137
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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138
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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139
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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140
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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141
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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142
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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143
pariah
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| n.被社会抛弃者 | |
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144
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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145
obsessions
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| n.使人痴迷的人（或物）( obsession的名词复数 )；着魔；困扰 | |
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146
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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147
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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148
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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149
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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150
vampire
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| n.吸血鬼 | |
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151
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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152
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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153
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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154
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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155
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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157
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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158
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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159
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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160
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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161
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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162
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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163
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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164
conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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165
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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166
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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167
meted
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| v.（对某人）施以，给予（处罚等）( mete的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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168
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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169
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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170
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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171
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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172
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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173
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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174
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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175
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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176
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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177
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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178
fathomed
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| 理解…的真意( fathom的过去式和过去分词 )； 彻底了解； 弄清真相 | |
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179
jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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180
theatrical
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|
| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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181
stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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182
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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183
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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184
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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185
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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186
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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187
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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188
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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189
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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190
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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191
languorous
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| adj.怠惰的，没精打采的 | |
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192
pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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193
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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194
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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195
divans
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| n.（可作床用的）矮沙发( divan的名词复数 )；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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196
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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197
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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198
lessee
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| n.（房地产的）租户 | |
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199
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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200
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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201
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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202
enthralled
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| 迷住，吸引住( enthrall的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到非常愉快 | |
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203
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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204
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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205
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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206
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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207
romping
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| adj.嬉戏喧闹的，乱蹦乱闹的v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的现在分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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208
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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209
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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210
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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211
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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212
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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213
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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214
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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215
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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216
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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218
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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221
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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222
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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223
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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224
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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225
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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226
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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227
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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228
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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229
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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230
reviled
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| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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