The Café Royal may have been built to astound19, but nowadays it is just the comfortable background of people who like to drink a little, to pay moderately, and to talk enormously. The conversations at the Café Royal are not, probably, such as would make a good book of memoirs20, but its mixed public has, at one time or another, numbered everybody who did something (whatever that may mean), so that many good things and many spiteful ones are spoken every day under its golden roof. Before the war, the violent young men and the much more violent young women seemed to meet there every night, with an almost sacramental air, to discuss, that is to scarify, reputations. That was good, for Renan was right when he said that if a young man, aged22 twenty, had not always ready a mouthful of insults for his predecessors23, he would pronounce no judgments24 fit to be heard when he attained25 the age of forty.
THE CAFé ROYAL
This does not mean that the Café Royal is a literary café, or an artistic26 café. The literary, dramatic, and pictorial27 elements are certainly stronger there than in any other London resort, but at any time you may see there the strangest assembly: foreigners, a great many; smart people who are seeing life; and very dull, ordinary, fat men who stop on their way from business or shop to have a drink before dinner. At dinner time the room is not itself, for half of it sees its marble tables covered with cloths, which means that eating proceeds, and eating does not, so well as123 drinking, favour turbulent debate. It is just before dinner, and especially after dinner, that the Café Royal enters upon its true function: to provide a pleasant, cheap place, fairly noisy, fairly smoky, and fairly comfortable, where the young arts may meet and joust28. During the war it did not quite do this, for many of the young men had joined the army, and it was strange suddenly to recognise over a tunic29, in a well-kept, well-brushed head, the outlines of somebody whom once one knew with endless locks, whiskers, or a beard. Even in khaki they did what they could. Military discipline did not completely dominate those rebellious beings; their moustaches were either a little more luxuriant or very much more hogged30 than usual. The Café Royal platoon was still faintly noticeable.
Some, however, were not in khaki, for theirs was not a very fit generation, and even now many a table throws back a memory to 1914. In those days the frequent visitor to the Café Royal soon knew many people by sight, and if he was of that world, or had somebody to guide him, he soon could pick out those who were celebrated31 and those who were notorious; with time, he even came to recognise those who were extremely well known. I do not know if, nowadays, one often sees at the Café Royal, Mr Jacob Epstein, but once it was difficult to detach one’s eyes from the sleepy strength of his heavy profile. One wanted to look into those eyes with the thick lids, in which strangely mingled32 so much detachment and so much kinetic33 energy. He was seldom alone; there was always a little Epstein group about his table. Indeed, it is a characteristic of the Café Royal that few people sit alone. They form groups. One I remember well. It always contained a tall young man with very long, thin features, and hair grown low about the cheek; he had a fancy for clothes faintly 1860 in feeling, notably34, for stocks. There was an extremely beautiful girl, thin, dark, and languid as some warm Italian greyhound. There was a young man who wore a velvet35 coat, whose fair hair fell in long wisps upon his collar, a strange young man, with a peculiar36 grayish skin and an air of nervous excitement. Round these moved other figures less definite, but all of them124 young: square men in knickerbockers, with short pipes stuck precisely37 in the middle of their faces; girls, outrageously38 florid or eloquently39 simple, round whose long necks hung the flowered yokes41 of Chelsea, on whose hands clustered many rings of turquoise43 and aquamarine, or whose hands were virgin44 of all decoration save that of black finger-nails. The smart people used to watch them steadily45 and feel that, at last, they were really seeing life.
Sometimes they saw people whose names could serve as conversation at the morrow’s lunch party. Sometimes they caught sight of Mr C. R. W. Nevinson, and could describe his square figure, his rather blunt, pleasant face with the bright, live, brown eyes. It does one good to look at Mr Nevinson, though, nowadays, something oppressed has crept into his expression; there is, in those rather thick features, a sense of life and desire. With him sometimes goes his wife, slight, white and rose, and bending a little under the heavy sunshine of her hair.
Until recently the Café Royal also often contained Mr Augustus John, and one could sit for a long time, wondering what it was gave his features that air of tautness46. There is always about Mr John a feeling that he is imprisoned47 within himself.... Equally with Mr Epstein he had his court, young men in a state of extreme reverence48, and other men who preached to him in attitudes of hostility49 tinged50 with nervousness, which is the ordinary approach to the successful painter of those who are less successful. I think that, now and then, Mr Arthur Symons used to draw them away, so as to procure51 for Mr John a greater peace. It was as if he were trying to create about him an atmosphere of hush52. At the Café Royal this is not easily done. Notably, it was difficult to create hush among the reverential young men, for I suspect that they all wanted to know what Mr John thought of their work, that is meant to tell him what he ought to think. The young women were more easily managed, and it is interesting to note that they tended to approximate in appearance to the John type. Nearly all were what the vulgar call plain, in some cases because they were perfectly53 beautiful: that which is perfectly beautiful is severe and separate; it does not arouse desire, it125 arouses respect, and this most of humanity cannot forgive. Those strange young women, apparently54 long-legged and long-armed, in their simply-cut high frocks that hung straight from shoulder to ankle, young women with hair plainly banded, rather long noses, strong chins, thick, dark mouths, like open fruits. They seemed to come straight out of some sketch55 in Donegal.
There were many others, too. Now and then one caught sight of Mr Wyndham Lewis who, nowadays, is plump, but in those was tall and white and rather slim, often silent and generally weary; it was an education in negligence56 to watch the depressed57 droop58 of the cigarette stump59 which generally hung from his underlip. There were others, too, a woman with small, humorous eyes and a pleasant coppery complexion60, who wore turbans of purple silk and gold, who never thought or spoke21 an evil thing of any creature alive. One saw Mr Gertler, very young and seductive, perhaps a little conscious of it; Mr Gilbert Cannan, oozing61 defiance62 from every sharp angle and confining his conversation to this process. The other young writers came now and then: Mr Swinnerton before he grew his beard, Mr Hugh Walpole, who always seemed slightly out of place in so ill-regulated a spot. People less definable float through my mind: a young girl who had been told that she looked like a Russian, and thenceforth appeared attired63 in a red sarafan; a young man with black locks massed upon his eyebrows64, locks he often tossed back to show the running water of his pale eyes. There was a young woman who believed in asceticism65; as she looked rather like a brick, I was told that her beliefs had never been put to a rude test. There was another young woman, too, who seriously informed any marble table that she believed in reincarnation, and that within her breathed the soul of Shelley. Nearly everybody painted, some wrote verse, a few ventured on prose; the talk was of art and of sinners against art. Swiftly they passed from studio scandal to the declarations, manifestoes, proclamations which made the arts sound foolish in 1914, but actually were evidences of their vigour66. Indeed, the modern forms of art tend to shock the Philistine67: I am not with him; I like my paint wet.
126 The old arts are unkind to the young arts. Struck by a certain wilful68 outrageousness69 which often overlays talent and in the beginning always heralds70 it, the old arts make as much fun of the new arts, as the old arts made of the older when they were young. Some of my readers may remember Mr Epstein’s rather theoretical Venus, at whose feet reposed71 a wheel. It was an abstract piece of sculpture, but, however abstract, I think it was a little harsh of Mrs Aria72 to describe it as a sick penguin73 sitting on a broken bicycle. The truth is that the modern forms of art are not as wilful or as intentionally74 shocking as their adepts75 choose to make out. It may be true that most schools, from the impressionists onwards, have formed round one man who had something original to say in an original way, and that most of the pupils, having nothing original to say, found it necessary to say it in a violently original way. That is true to a certain extent; truer, perhaps, is it to say that ‘genius creates the taste with which it is enjoyed.’ Thus, I think it quite as likely that people like Manet created the taste for impressionism, just as Wagner created a taste for music in reaction against, let us say, Rossini. Nature, after all, is only a thing which one conceives, and not a thing which really exists; it varies with the eye that beholds76 it, and if a man sincerely and violently feels that trees are pink, then to him they are pink, and if he has art enough to translate his temperament77 into those pink trees, then the people who can understand him will learn to see trees like him, that is, pink. We need not stress this, because it is an extreme case, but I submit that the modern forms of art, during the last dozen years, have all of them tended to express nature on the lines of certain conventions, and that instead of taking up an attitude of contempt, it was easy to understand these conventions, therefore, to understand the artist, therefore, to collect from the canvas the impression he painted there. Here, I will be told by the Philistine: ‘Why should I see that a face looks like a cube?’ Well, nobody wants to force him to see a face as a cube if he doesn’t want to, but one is entitled to point out to him that he has already accepted many conventions. He is quite willing to look at Gainsborough’s ‘Blue Boy,’ and to see it127 as a human figure, though it has only surface and not volume. He is quite willing to look at Venus of Milo and to accept it as a reproduction of a beautiful woman, though it has no colour. He is quite willing to go to a play the action of which extends over five years, and to see this action condensed into two and a half hours. The public has to accept the arts conventionally because the arts do not reproduce nature, they interpret it.
PRIVATE VIEW
THE A.A.A.
It may, therefore, be suggested that our young post-impressionists, futurists, and cubists were badly treated by the public, for the public never tried to understand the new conventions on which they worked. With all the power of my sincerity78, and in the name of such honesty as may be in me, I assure my readers that if they will take the trouble to master the conventions the work can be interpreted. I possess an excellent non-representational picture, by Mr Wadsworth, inspired by the roofs of a Yorkshire village; it is entirely79 composed of black and white planes. When, lately, this was shown to a friend, she asked why she should be told to admire a set of decayed dominoes. But the picture is not made up of decayed dominoes; it is a highly simplified impression of walls and roofs, and when you have sympathetically sought for what we may call the key plane, the picture becomes absolutely obvious.
But what if it were not obvious? Many of the modern men, such as Mr Wadsworth, Mr McKnight Kauffer, Mr Wyndham Lewis, do not aspire80 to represent anything at all. What they want to do is to sketch or paint an interesting pattern. Mr Ezra Pound has put the attitude clearly in his book, Gaudier81 Brzeska, where he says, more or less: ‘When you hear a sonata82 played, you do not say, “Oh, what an eloquent40 reproduction of the waves upon the shore!” or, “This is where the sheep begin to baa.” What you do is to ask yourself whether this combination of sounds is pleasant or moving. That is the freedom we wish to find in painting or sculpture. We are not interested in painting the Mayor of Leeds in such a way as to make it clear that he is a mayor, possibly of Leeds, but we are interested in setting together128 lines and coloured surfaces, irrespective of any meaning, and to be judged on that, according to whether these lines and colours produce a pleasant sensation.’
This position appears to me above attack. The technical improvements in painting, which began in the seventeenth century, producing Rembrandt, Raphael, Velasquez, and, in due course, Sir Edward Poynter, seem to have set a heavy yoke42 upon the painter’s neck, for the painter grew enthralled83 by technique, became more and more inclined to represent a baby so life-like that everybody expected it to howl; he grew liable to lose sight of the one thing that matters, namely, that to represent a baby is nothing, and to represent the artist through the baby, everything. (If I am wrong, consider a picture by Mr Clausen and a photograph by Mr Park; Mr Clausen knows how to paint, but Mr Park will far more exactly reproduce the sitter, do it quicker, and much more cheaply.) The thesis of the modern artist, of which I am trying to give an impression, therefore involves that while we bow to the undeniable greatness of men such as Rembrandt, Botticelli, Leonardo, we wonder whether a greater emancipation84 from their technique might not have allowed them to soar higher into the abstract region where none save an artist can breathe. The plea is that in a more abstract field they might have been still greater.
Undeniably, the modern forms of art have emancipated85 themselves too much from technical restrictions86. It is dangerous to have too much technique; it is dangerous to have too little, and I could not say who suavely87 broods in the golden mean. Still, when we consider what a dead and damnable thing technique alone can be, when we consider the annual mortuary at Burlington House, when we stand awhile before a work of Mr Frank Dicksee, and stare incredulously at Sir Luke Fildes’s ‘The Doctor,’ or attempt to solve the Hon. John Collier’s psycho-pictorial mysteries, we are indeed assured that though technique may exclude a man both from heaven and from hell, it shall, for certain, land him in purgatory88.
I remember very well the first ‘advanced’ pictures I ever129 saw. They were twelve impressions of a bridge over a brook89 by Claude Monet. That must have been nearly twenty years ago, and I thought them very beautiful. It is strange that nowadays they seem so tame. But it does not matter to me that I thought them beautiful then, just as when I first saw a Matisse I thought it interesting, that my first Gauguin, with its queer brown figures stirred me; it matters to me that when the futurists came to town, Mr Marinetti did not strike me as a marionette90, and that later all the others, cubists, boulists, imagists, vorticists, were taken by me as honest men. You may call me a fool; you may even think worse of me and say that I was so anxious to be in the movement that I liked every movement; I prefer to say that I was always ready to try to understand a new pictorial convention. When I cease to be able to do that, when I cease to see in painting that Mr Wadsworth is deeply interesting, in literature, that Mr James Joyce is strikingly individual, when I am Philistine enough to hang a painter because I won’t hang his picture, then, indeed, shall I be middle-aged91 and take to meals.
The years between 1908 or so and 1914 were some of the most important English art has passed through. In those six or seven years, for the first time, London saw the post-impressionists, not only Matisse, but also Cézanne and Picasso; she saw the futurists, the singular pictures of views from a moving train which, faulty as they were, were well worth painting, because from a moving train one does see things, therefore material for art. She saw Severini’s ‘Pan-Pan Dance,’ where colour and surface dance rather than men and women; she saw the coming of Mr Epstein, first in the statues outside the British Medical Association, which were said to be indecent and became famous; she also saw reproductions of Mr Epstein’s Oscar Wilde monument, which went to Paris and was said to be indecent and became kilted. The cubists came in the train of Mr Metzinger. The non-representational movement extended, radiating round Mr Wyndham Lewis, impressing many men and women, among whom, in those days, was found true ability. It was a breathless and beautiful period, where everybody was under130 thirty and many were under twenty, when people painted not for art’s sake, but consciously for the expression of self. When that self was feeble, the painting was feeble. But it was not always so. Many ridiculous things were done; many ridiculous things were said in the Café Royal and out of it, but, as Miss May Sinclair puts it very well, these young men had not come to destroy the pictorial glories of the past; they had come to destroy their imitators. Conscious of their period, they wanted to express it.
Some have suggested that the modern forms of painting were merely outbreaks of youth, that these movements had severed92 the continuity which should exist between one period and another. Now the modern young man is generally arrogant93, and if you talked to him of continuity would say, perhaps: ‘I don’t want any ancestors; I am an ancestor.’ But he would be wrong. From Monet to Matisse, from Matisse to the early Nevinson, from the early Nevinson to the modern Wyndham Lewis, the link is close. No doubt a pen better versed94 than mine could link Monet with Giotto. I cannot; for I find it difficult to think back further than fifty years.
THE GOOD INTENT
CHELSEA
There have been reactions. One of the most notable is that of Mr Nevinson, who is to-day the most popular of the young men, the one who has been most completely recognised by a broad public. Certainly he has become more recognisable, though I am not of those who think that his work has thereby95 lost. A man may be great and esoteric, or he may be great and lucid96. It all depends on the way in which the dice97 fall. The several exhibitions of Mr Nevinson’s work, during the war, have shown him more and more gaining independence. He began by adopting one of the cubist conventions; he is still able to do so when he wishes, but he is also able to use other conventions, even the most stereotyped98, when his subject seems to demand it. He paints pattern, or subject, or idea, but an interesting sidelight on his attitude is hatred99 of all cliques101. In the preface of his last exhibition, he bitterly assails102 the people who seek ‘pure form through nothing but still life, endless green apples, saucepans,131 and oranges, picasized and cezanned with a ponderous103 and self-conscious sub-consciousness.’ He hates what he calls the child-like antics and the gambolling104 of the elect of Bloomsbury. He may not be quite fair, but when I remember the various cliques to which I had occasional access, the Rhythm clique100, for whom nobody existed except Anne Estelle Rice, J. D. Fergusson, Jessie Dismorr, and George Banks ... until the review changed its name, when most of these people ceased to exist and nobody but Mr Albert Rutherston was granted physical likelihood, when I reflect how Mr Nevinson used to cluster with many others in a cosy105 cube, only to be driven out at last at the point of a cone106, when I reflect upon the sombre mystery that surrounds the adepts of Mr Roger Fry (a mystery recently grown less sombre with success), I am assured that cliques are the necessary breeding-ground of talent because they fortify107 its members against the cackling Philistine. But they are also the thing which keeps talent small and parochial once they have helped it to grow. The clique is the nursery, and the test of a man is whether he knows when he is grown up. The art clique is like journalism108, which can lead you anywhere provided you forsake109 it.
Most of the cliques have their being in Chelsea, though Fitzroy Square and the Garden City occasionally put forward claims, and Bedford Park asserts itself. I suspect that the movement is nowadays away from Chelsea. King’s Road grows every day more mercantile; nothing in it recalls the arts except a slight excess of shops which sell artists’ materials. One does meet the Chelsea girl, no longer in a jibbah, but more likely in an eloquent sweater, with her hair cut short and her feet brogued, but then the Chelsea style has crept into many circles. You can go into the Chenil Gallery, where you will always find works by Mr Augustus John and Mr Gill; you can even go and have lunch at the Good Intent, but somehow Chelsea will not seem to you very Chelsea-ish. Indeed, there are rows and rows of studios near Glebe Place, Church Street, Redcliffe Square, in all sorts of odd back-yards and shanties110, but the whole thing does not hold132 together. At the Good Intent, for instance, you will find a small, quiet restaurant, decorated with old furniture, pictures that may have been advanced once upon a time, a jolly old pug, very fat and wheezing111, its portraits on the wall, grossly flattered, with a mauve ribbon round its neck; you will see at the tables mainly women who live at local diggings, rather tired and lonely looking, as women grow when they live in diggings and toast muffins on the gas stove.
No, Chelsea is nowadays too successful to be a locality for artists. Cheyne Walk has become too famous and too rich, for artists cannot live together, unless it is in a sort of Alsatia where you must pay your footing in such coin as the keeper thinks fit. Nowadays, the arts tend to scatter112. They can be found in Chalk Farm, even in Paddington, some say in Bayswater, though this is not likely. They tend to live more privately113 than they do in Paris, where half the day seems to be spent at the Lilas. (Oh, how I hate the Lilas! The last time I went there, there was an enormous crowd; a hairy Russian philosopher stood on my right foot while he read bad French translations from the Sanskrit; meanwhile, two young people stood on my left foot and made love.) In London the arts meet at their communal114 places, in certain restaurants which they discover and then forsake, at the Coq d’Or, at little dancing clubs. If only the Philistine hated them more, they might cling closer.
Still, the arts are not, in London, as absent and ignored as the foreigner likes to think. It is true, as Mr Nevinson says, that owing chiefly to our Press, to our loathsome115, tradition-loving public schools and our antiquity-stinking universities, the average Englishman is not merely suspicious of the new in all intellectual and artistic experiment, but he is mentally trained to be so unsportsmanlike as to try to kill every new endeavour in embryo116. It is true, but it does not matter. The arts are vigorous, and in the end, those who came to kill stay to buy. That will be seen as time goes on.
Is it, I wonder, a symptom of the English attitude to the arts, that the chapter which concerns them should, in the words of133 Mr Henry James, drag far in the dusty rear of this book? Perhaps, though London of to-day is so vivid and so eloquent, so full of sharp colour and true line that, when I consider her music, I am inclined to think that she would not have attained her crisp and harmonious117 form if some creative instinct within her humorous, pessimistic, and languid people had not presided over her birth, and favoured her composite life.
The End
The End
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auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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wilt
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opposition
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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rubicund
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frescoes
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gilding
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gilt
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modesty
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tarnished
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blatant
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decency
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parvenu
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astound
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memoirs
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aged
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predecessors
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artistic
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kinetic
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velvet
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precisely
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outrageously
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eloquently
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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41
yokes
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| 轭( yoke的名词复数 )； 奴役； 轭形扁担； 上衣抵肩 | |
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42
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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43
turquoise
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| n.绿宝石；adj.蓝绿色的 | |
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44
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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45
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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46
tautness
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| 拉紧，紧固度 | |
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47
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
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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49
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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50
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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52
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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53
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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54
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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55
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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56
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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57
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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58
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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59
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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60
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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61
oozing
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的现在分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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62
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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63
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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65
asceticism
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| n.禁欲主义 | |
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66
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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67
philistine
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| n.庸俗的人；adj.市侩的，庸俗的 | |
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68
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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69
outrageousness
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| n. 残暴 蛮横 | |
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70
heralds
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| n.使者( herald的名词复数 )；预报者；预兆；传令官v.预示( herald的第三人称单数 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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71
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
aria
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| n.独唱曲，咏叹调 | |
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73
penguin
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| n.企鹅 | |
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74
intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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adepts
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| n.专家，能手( adept的名词复数 ) | |
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76
beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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77
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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78
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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79
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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80
aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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81
gaudier
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| adj.花哨的，俗气的( gaudy的比较级 ) | |
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82
sonata
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| n.奏鸣曲 | |
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83
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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emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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85
emancipated
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| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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suavely
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88
purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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89
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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90
marionette
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| n.木偶 | |
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91
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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92
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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93
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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94
versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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95
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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96
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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97
dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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98
stereotyped
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| adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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99
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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100
clique
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| n.朋党派系，小集团 | |
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101
cliques
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| n.小集团，小圈子，派系( clique的名词复数 ) | |
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102
assails
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| v.攻击( assail的第三人称单数 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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103
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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104
gambolling
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的现在分词 ) | |
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105
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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106
cone
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| n.圆锥体，圆锥形东西，球果 | |
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107
fortify
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| v.强化防御，为…设防；加强，强化 | |
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108
journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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109
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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110
shanties
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| n.简陋的小木屋( shanty的名词复数 )；铁皮棚屋；船工号子；船歌 | |
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111
wheezing
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的现在分词 )；哮鸣 | |
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112
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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113
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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114
communal
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| adj.公有的，公共的，公社的，公社制的 | |
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115
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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116
embryo
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| n.胚胎，萌芽的事物 | |
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117
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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