Here, by a tiny pagan hut,
A kid, star-eyed and brown,
That grew just up the town!
As I, my back turned t’wards the sun,
Stare out across the seas
Wherefrom strange melodies come in and run
Across the Island’s trees.
AH, sublime3 poet O Le Langi! It was your elemental poetic genius, more than the inspirations of the poets of my own land, that first turned my thoughts to the magic of the seas, skies, travelling stars, and the strange look in men’s eyes. ’Twas you who made me hear the ineffable5 sounds of music, the visionary sights and the wonders of night and moonlight in the forest. Yours was the mercy that lent me the ear to hear the pleading voice of the unfledged song in the red-splashed bird’s egg, till I carefully climbed back and laid it once more in the mossy nest high in the banyans. It was you who inspired me to stand on the palm-clad slopes, by the sapphire8-hued Pacific waters, and see the glorious mist of God’s breath pervade10 the circumambient life of this mirror of a universe that shadows forth11 His infinite dreams. ’Twas you who led me into the magic parlour of infinite splendour where birds, goddesses, and gods 215sang and lifted their goblets13 of nectar, toasting in song their joy and thanksgiving to the laughing, flying hours—hours that peeped through the magic door of the sunrise. I too stood by that wondrous14 shanty15 door, where the palms sang, and stretched my shadow-arm to the skyline, while with goblet12 in hand I dipped and filled it to the brim with the sparkling foam16 from the golden sunsets of the wine-dark seas! Yes, Langi, I also drank the intoxicating17 ecstasy18 of those foaming19 hours of crimson20 and golden light. Yet, Langi, I, sceptic that I was, once doubted you when you stood by the moonlit waterfalls of the forest and swore that you saw the silvery flowing beards and big jagged knees of the gods. In the blindness of my worldly vision I swore that it was nothing more than the foaming moonlit waters falling down the fern-clad crags of the mountain’s side: no knees, no gigantic rugged21 faces of gods at all! I even doubted that the dark, Old-Man-Frog’s hind-legs, as he swam deep in the still depths of the star-mirroring water of the lagoon22, touched with his webbed feet and scattered23 the constellation24 of stars that were the proud eyes of your mighty25 ancestors who ever watched over you from the skies out to the north-west. Ah, how blind I was! But I became a true pagan after that. It was I who taught you to sing the songs of Cathay and the melodies of medi?val romance of Long Ago. Who will believe that we heard the winds tolling26 the bells of Time, faintly, far away in some infinite belfry of the stars, as the violin wailed28 and your aged29, cracked voice chanted? Yes, long ago, when strange, blue-eyed Danes and Homeric sailormen from the semi-fabled seas threw silver coins into our old collecting-calabash! I thank you and Heaven, O Le Langi, that once I was rich beyond the dreams of avarice30. Notwithstanding the beauty and truth of the Christian32 apostles, it was you, old heathen, 216who invested me with a glamour33, threw over the shoulders of this dilapidated catastrophe34 Me, a magical cloak, the texture35 whereof I am unable to explain. That old cloak of many colours and glorious illusions has long since been torn to a thousand shreds36. But out of each old heap, the débris of shattered illusions, have blossomed, from the seeds of old enchantments37, other flowers. Beautiful too are the flowers of disenchantment! But away with such rhapsodizing, for I must return as gracefully39 as possible to my immediate40 memoirs41.
About this time I had a recurrence42 of yellow jaundice. My liver was a healthy one; but on my first visit to Samoa, a year before, I had foolishly eaten of some red-berry fruit that turned out to be most poisonous. I had, in consequence, suffered a serious illness. Indeed, I had turned a yellowish-green, and finally had taken a voyage to Honolulu to seek special medical advice. Whilst in Honolulu my visage became so distressingly43 yellow and my aspect so melancholy44 that the chief undertaker, Rami Sarhab, gave me fifteen dollars a week to act as chief mute and mourner at the royal burial ceremonies. But even in this capacity my services failed lugubriously45; for I felt such pain in the abdomen46, was so intensely sad, that the envy expressed in my eyes and on my bilious-green physiognomy for the deep, painless slumber47 of the defunct48 was conspicuous49 to all eyes, as I walked ahead of the hearse, endeavouring my best to mourn over the dreamless sleep of the departed. Thank Heaven, my second attack of jaundice left me in a few days. A local native physician, Rimoloo, recommended me to drink deeply of the water from boiled yams and breadfruits flavoured with Holland gin; and my delight on changing colour at the fourth gallon can be better imagined than described to those who have drunk of the aforesaid mixture.
217While enjoying the congenial companionship of O Le Langi I deserted50 my study of instrumental music and harmony and turned my thoughts to poetry. A trader at Matautu, Savaii Isle51, had presented me with a volume of A. L. Gordon’s poems and Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. The perusal52 of these volumes amidst romantic surroundings intensified53 the ardent54 love I have ever felt for Nature in all her wildest moods. Indeed, I have often stood before an aged, dying forest-tree and felt some affectionate kinship with its sensate sorrow over its approaching dissolution. Strange as it may seem to some, I must confess that old wooden ships, deserted huts, stuffed birds, and the like have appealed to me far more than the tender melodies of beautiful songs and the thrills of romantic books. Even the thick mahogany wood of my arm-chair calls up vistas55 of some mammoth56 tree of the southern forest. What song-birds settled on its boughs57 to stay and sing awhile on their flight! And what wild men, women, and weary children on the strange, long tribal58 march camped beneath their shelter—the shelter of boughs that now encircle my recumbent, dreaming form in this inn’s carven arm-chair!
I remember that, after reading Whitman’s poems, I began to write words to the many melodies that I was continually composing. I was surprised at the ease with which poetical60 ideas seemed to come to me. My brain teemed61 with suitable poetic similes62. But my workmanship was execrable. Many of my lyrics63 were inspired by home-sickness. I recall that I wrote about thirty songs. Probably three of them were good. I know that I set a high value on those sentimental64 lyrics and that I placed them in my tin box with my prized volume of E. Prout’s Harmony and Counterpoint, so that they might be safe until that day when I could submit them to a publisher. But no publisher’s musical editor ever 218had them inflicted65 upon him. My ship, a year later, was wrecked66 off the Solomon Isles67; and I stood under the shore palms, with all my beloved inspirations at the bottom of the ocean, and passed in review, so I grimly imagined, by the tuneful mermaids68 of the coral seas. Many of the stranded69 sailors’ effects were washed ashore70 the next day, but were immediately snatched up by the thieving natives, who bolted off with them into the mountain villages. Perhaps those wild tattooed72 men got hold of my sacred tin box. And if any talented cannibal sings my old songs, and is well up in the mysteries of harmony and counterpoint, he has undoubtedly73 made greater headway in that difficult art than I had in those days. But still, it is something that I should be able to claim to be the first who introduced E. Prout’s volume of Harmony and Counterpoint into the cannibal Solomon Isles.
I remember that O Le Langi asked me to translate the words of many of his legendary74 poems into my own language. My heathen poet’s face lit up with pride when I sang some of his songs in my own tongue, and with equal pride made a forcible accent on the rhymes so that he could hear how the lines went. O Le Langi at once enticed75 me to go with him round the coast to Mootua, so that I might let his rival scribes hear how nice his poems sounded when translated into the great Papalagi’s language. He was so delighted with the obvious jealousy76 that was expressed on the wrinkled faces of his rivals that he struck his chest thrice and flung one hand behind his back. I discovered that this act of Langi’s was a direct challenge to them to compose the words of a song as well as he. One of the older scribes, at once accepting the challenge, stepped forward and, swelling77 the magnificent hieroglyphic78 tattoo71 of his chest, chanted an impromptu79 legend. Though I could not understand all the words of this legendary improvization, 219I remember that the melody was so effective that I extemporized80 with ease an accompaniment on my violin. This brought forth a volley of applause from the whole tribe, who had rushed from their huts to listen to the wonderful magic wood-scraping of the white Tusitala (maker81 of songs). For a while I quite expected there would be a fight between the rivals. But things smoothed down. I was finally awarded a calabash of kava, which I courteously82 placed to my lips, and then, whilst the chiefs were talking, poured the contents into the fern grass at my feet. At this moment the high chief’s daughter, a sea-blue-eyed maid with a veritable forest of bronze-hued hair, fell on one knee before me and started to sing a weird83 melody. For a moment I was considerably84 embarrassed. I soon, however, recovered my wits, and then I took her hand and bade her rise. My imagination clothed me with a majesty85 which I had gathered from my old novels. And I distinctly recall the admiration86 in the eyes of the onlookers87 as I slightly lifted my helmet hat and then bowed as though I were some mighty king paying court to a princess of a neighbouring dynasty. She handed me a beautifully carved tortoise-shell comb from her hair, and the glance that accompanied the gift cannot be divulged88 in mere89 words. I responded by diving my hand into my breast pocket, and then handed her a really valuable silver match-box. She blushed deeply, for the munificence90 of my return gift was obvious. That same night O Le Langi and myself were the chief guests at the festival board of the fale fapule (chief house). And as I sat at the head of the long low table and the steam rose from the mighty dishes of roast pig and many indigenous91 fruit dishes, Essao’s eyes, for that was her name, gave me swift, bright glances that told all that a romantic Samoan maid’s eyes can tell when her heart warms to 220a stranger. But, notwithstanding my ardent nature and the lure92 of her bright eyes, I was saved from early matrimony, for when the head chief caught me bowing gallant93 acknowledgments to his daughter’s eyes, his brow wrinkled up into a tortuous94 map of disapproval95.
Nevertheless, when O Le Langi and I left the village that night, Essao gave me her tenderest secret glance and managed to present me with a flower from her hair. Though I did not see her again, I wrote many verses about her beauty.
I think that it was about this period that I wrote several of the poems that were later on published in my little booklet of Australian and South Sea Lyrics. This little booklet of verse, to my surprise and pleasure, was highly praised in the literary journals in England, and also brought me letters of encouragement from such men as Henry Newbolt, William Michael Rossetti, and Robert Bridges.
But to proceed with those adventurous96 happy days when the light of the great poet O Le Langi’s eyes shone upon me. Whilst stopping with Langi I was down with severe fever. I was staying at the time in a native homestead quite near to the aged scribe’s residence. Langi was very kind to me, and secured the services of a native woman to attend to my wants. This Samoan lady had a child who was about four years old. He was an intelligent little fellow and had ocean-blue eyes and curly hair. When I sat up on my bed-mat, tinkling97 melodies on my violin, Ramao, for that was his name, would somersault with delight; then once again peep inside the F holes of my instrument to see where the music came from. Every day he would run off into the forest to pluck flowers for me, and would make my bed with soft moss6, attending to my wants with the unremitting solicitude98 of a lovable, innocent child. Heaven knows 221where he learnt the weird songs that he sang to me as he sat by my bedside, swaying to and fro like some elfin-child. Lying there stricken with fever, I would stare into his beautiful, original eyes till the whole world seemed to be singing in its happy childhood. I realized that the age of four was the golden age of mortal existence, the age that understands the grandest philosophy of life, the age when all the infinite possibilities are as near consummation as they can well be in this world. Much that had puzzled my wretched civilized99 brain as I listened to O Le Langi’s long discourses101 became clear to me. Langi was not such a fool after all; it was I who was the heathen! The iron laws of my country had sent me to school so that my God-given wisdom should be strangled by dogmatic heathenish teachers. I recalled how the great and splendidly religious Langi had crashed his club down on his threshold, and in magnificent declamatory style had said:
“Pah! Foolish white-skinned man, he come here with his mouldy skull102 full of worms so that he may teach us also to grow old, scraggy, and full of wretched wisdom. He hears not the voices of the gods murmuring in the children’s babblings.” Then that aged scribe had laid his wrinkled hand on my head, and in sonorous104, melancholy tones had said: “O Papalagi, I say, your people looker beyond the mountains at the stars for the wisdom of the great waters when ’tis only to be heard in the sweet-toned shells that are scattered on the sunny shores of childhood.”
So spake Langi. And I, who knew that we are born in fullest possession of the divine faculties105 only that we may grow old and sad, had at once become a true disciple106 of that glorious old heathen. Indeed, I almost succeeded in realizing that the peoples of the civilized world were my humble107 attendants, and that O Le Langi, crammed108 222with mythology109 and strange tales about sad old crabs110, was a heathen Solomon arrayed in the splendour of the stars. Langi could stand on the mountain peaks of supreme111 “ignorance,” whisper into the ear of the universe, and, listening, hear those Truths that only murmur103 in some great speech of silence to the soul.
I know that the light of little Ramao’s eyes also filled my soul with some strange, intuitive wisdom. When the little fellow opened his eyes wide and said:
“Oh, listen, Papalagi, to the O le mao bird as it sings to the light of the mountain stars,” I did not hear a night-bird singing to its mate in the banyan7 trees, but I heard a soft-feathered transmutation of a blue day of ages ago singing tenderly, sadly, to some memory of its birth in the rosy112 eternity113 of the east. Ramao’s presence in that hut, where I lay sick with fever, cast a poetic glamour over my existence. One evening he rushed into the hut, and, stooping down by my bed-mat, swiftly covered my shoulders with the tappa-rug. Then he turned to the doorway114 and gave a whistle, and softly called out:
“Essimao, come in and see wonderful white boy who play on magic wood.”
He had brought his sister to see me. There she stood, a charming little maid of about seven years, peeping curiously115 at me through the half-open doorway. I called her; and, as though she had been born for the purpose of waiting on men in sickness, she straightway squatted116 by me and commenced to sing. Her voice rippled117 from her lips like the deep-stealing music of a forest stream. Rising to her feet she swayed softly, and it seemed that the rhythm of music rose and fell in tiny billows along the graceful38 movements of her limbs. Her laughter was sweetest balm to my fevered soul. She was a perfect little gipsy of the sea-nursed south. 223I know that if the delightful118 George Borrow, that true lover of the Romany Chile, had reached the South Seas and had seen Essimao place a seashell to her ear and swear that she could hear the big moani ali (ocean) beating on the shores of God’s mountain footstools, he would, I am sure, have devoted119 pages to the beauty of Essimao and the religious influence her presence inspired. I know that she impressed me more than all the Psalms120 could do. The sayings of the Apostles and the teachings of Confucius, down to those of Kant and Strindberg, etc., are as nothing to me when compared with the wisdom and charm of little Essimao and Ramao’s four infinite years. Those little philosophers made me realize, long ago, the cursed irony121 of the fates in decreeing that man should be born the wrong way up, so that we grow old instead of young. But my memory does not betray me when I assert here that O Le Langi was an exception, a phenomenon who had outwitted the fates, had never grown out of his wise, resplendent infancy122. Like the child of four years, he was still a mighty philosopher, a true socialist123, romanticist, individualist, poet, humorist, spritualist, realist, optimist124, pessimist125, mystic, maniac126, prophet, and one who had the transcendentalist’s belief in a Supreme Being; and lo, all this encased in one skull crammed with the divine light that we are all gifted with when we are four years old. Ah, the wondrous book that an imaginative child of four years could give us could it write down its impressions, its own outlook on life and all that it imagines about this world! What marvellous truths would its great unworldliness spring upon us! Once, when I lay near to death, Ramao lay on one side of me and Essimao on the other, placing their fingers in sympathy through my hair. I felt that I had travelled so far that I had stumbled on the edge of the earth that 224is nearest the heavens. Perhaps I digress unduly127 in my reflections over Ramao and Essimao, when it is only children in the hey-day of life’s philosophical128 prime who can understand the truth of that which I say. Few may believe the virtues129 that I claim for my old friend Langi and these children. Langi, who had read many of the abridged130 editions of the standard works, cursed the outrageous131 vanity of white men. His nervous, sensitive nostrils132 would dilate133, his sonorous, eloquently134 violent voice ringing out like the mellow135 poetry of old bells as he declaimed:
“Pah! What am this white Papalagi more than a pale-skinned thief of the night? Am he not the dark misbeliever who slay136 our mighty gods and doubt their virtues—and us?”
“True! true! O mighty O Le Langi!” I’d say, as I listened in incorrigible137 delight, while with chin and hand raised to the sky he spoke138 on:
“The white Papalagi am one great hypocrite, who loveth the earth, money, and old clothes—neither doth he smell over-sweet! Where? Where is this God who had power to fashion this white man, yet, lo, made some First Great Mistake—since I am brown?” And saying this, O Le Langi dashed his coco-nut-shell goblet to the ground, and exclaimed: “Think you ’tis wise His faults to change?” And still he would rave4 on in this wise: “I say, O Papalagi, had the first white man discovered my people living in one great town that had a leaning tower, and one rotunda139 and nicer cathedrals with great stained-glass windows, they would have said: ‘O great Samoan Peoples! God’s eyelight doth shine in thy sight; your women, too, are beautiful as the stars and flowers. O wondrous brown men, I greet you, Allelujah!’” Then, wiping the tears of tense emotion from his eyes, he wailed forth: “Alas140, 225my people lived in huts, therefore were severely141 belaboured with rods and their daughters sold into slavery and worshipped only for their bodies’ beauty.”
Even as I write I can hear O Le Langi sigh: “Alas! Alas! Papalagi the faithful,” as his ghost peers over my shoulder to-night as I pen these memoirs. Yes, O Le Langi could see “Heaven in a wild flower and Eternity in a grain of sand.” Little Ramao, too, felt quite equal to the white men, and honestly claimed everything from the stars down to my boots and my violin. He even claimed my parents’ photographs which I kept in my tin box, for he placed them carefully in the folds of his lava-lava when I was not looking—true little socialist that he was. And, when he fell from the palm tree, whilst seeking coco-nuts, and broke his back, he died with a smile on his lips that had God’s philosophy in it.
The tears fell fast from O Le Langi’s eyes when he said:
“O Papalagi, the seas do roll on for ever, but man go back to his fathers.”
Then the winds sighed mournfully in the coco-palms, and O Le Langi softly dug his fingers into the heap of soft-scented142 mould, and dropped the first lump of earth down on to Ramao’s dead, smiling face.
“Aue! Aue!” wailed the stricken mother, as we turned away from the graveside. And three or four little children who had stood watching the burial procession from the shades of the flamboyant143 trees, cried: “Wa noo! Wa noo!” and then disappeared in some fright down the forest tracks. Such was the end of Ramao as the sunset fired the far-off sea horizon. The cicalas were chrruping in the belts of mangroves as we arrived once more at Langi’s homestead.
For a long time after that sad incident I fancied I could hear some wail27 of sorrow in the mournful monotones 226of the waves that incessantly144 beat against the barrier reefs. But the splendid reality of the hot sunlight again came over the world. Again Time turned the withered145 pages of each blue tropic day, pages that faded into the yellowing of each sunset. Flowers on the slopes grew musical with bees. Fierce happiness reigned146 in the tribal villages along the coast as the old chiefs chanted their savage147 memories of olden time and the children thumped148 toy drums. Bright-eyed maidens149 and amorous150 youths laughed and sang. Then O Le Langi enticed me to go off troubadouring with him.
“We maker lot moneys, O Tusitala!” said he.
And so I went, and O Le Langi carried my violin as we tramped miles and miles visiting the coast villages. Sometimes we hired a canoe and paddled to the many islets of the Samoan group. With his tappa robe wrapped about him, the tasselled end flung cavalier-wise over one shoulder, O Le Langi would stand with chin raised as he stood in the old tribal forums151 of many a lonely native village, chanting melodiously152 as I played on my violin. Even the white men, traders and sailors in the grog-bars near Matautu, down by the beach on Savaii Isle, left their rum mugs, strode to the bar doorway, listened and stared, as Langi told wonderful things about his old gods, pointing magnificently to the trees, the distant mountains and seas, calling them mighty witnesses of all which he would claim for the beauty of his legendary world. The old shellbacks opened their eyes in astonishment153, tugged154 their beards, spat155 seaward, and stared again, as the earnest note in his voice gained even their ragged156 respect. It must have been a strange sight as my pagan brother-artist stood before them, clothed in the majesty of a past tribal chiefdom and the glory of a proud imagination that they could not understand. But what cared I, as with fiddle157 to my chin I played on, 227my helmet hat tilted158 back on my head, till O Le Langi’s wheezy voice gave the final chant ere he snatched that dilapidated shelter from the tropic sun off my head, and held it under the eyes of those sunburnt men from the seas!
Ah, memory of Langi and true romance! Great, unlaurelled poet of the South Seas, how satisfied you were with your earthly existence! How satisfied with the poetic fame you achieved as your kind critics cast coins of approval into my shabby helmet hat—that old hat that held the joy and romance of my youth and all that was wealth inexhaustible to you—and me! Often in my deeper dreams I see you standing31 beneath your beloved palms near Apia as you watch the gold of the setting sun sinking into the western seas. Ah, kind old heathen, again I see your grim glance when you look at the woebegone faces of the missionaries159 as they pass you by; and, as you watch them, I see your aged lips smile and quiver into that poetic grin that seems to say:
“There, but for God’s mercy, goes O Le Langi!”
As some may think I have overestimated160 the comeliness161 and mentality162 of the majority of the old-time Samoans, I would like to give other opinions than my own on the subject before finishing this chapter. First of all, I would mention that all observant, able authorities who have travelled, and written about the South Seas, have remarked upon the fine physique and general attractiveness of the Polynesian races. In my profession, and I was bandmaster of the king’s bodyguard163 band in Hawaii, in Tahiti, and again in Mexico, etc., I had many opportunities of hearing the opinions of the various representatives of the Missionary164 Societies, and they were very often men of refined tastes, and so competent to judge. These men all seemed to share my 228opinion with respect to the manliness165 and refinement166 of the Samoans. Of course, a difference of opinion is bound to exist, for, to be sure, there is a class of men who, by an inherent obliquity167 of mental vision, see all the coloured races as something semi-bestial and unworthy of a white man’s interest and sympathy.
I once had the pleasure of arriving in Apia with Monsieur Bassaire, a well-known French artist. I vividly168 recall his astonishment and admiration when he first saw the Samoans who came on deck to welcome us when we arrived off Mulinuu. Nor was Bassaire’s surprise to be wondered at, for the handsome, sun-bronzed, herculean figures of the Samoan men were shown off to tremendous advantage as they stood on deck amongst the slop-shouldered, thick-necked German crew. Bassaire, who had travelled in New Guinea in 1879 with James Chalmers, the God-fearing, adventurous missionary,[7] was touring the world, and was taking sketches170 of the various races of mankind. I know that he was pleased with his artistic171 work in Samoa. Bassaire was introduced to Robert Louis Stevenson, and it was whilst they were in each other’s company that I heard R. L. S. comment on the clear complexions173 of the Samoans. We were in the photographer’s studio in Apia, and Stevenson was examining some of the photographs. The photographer told us that, though hundreds of native girls and youths presented themselves at his studio in hopes that they would make photographs of commercial value for book illustrations and for selling to tourists, he was invariably able to choose only two, or three at most, who possessed174 the thick lips and sensual features that coincided with the stock European idea of 229the South Sea type. Indeed, when Stevenson glanced through the albums, he actually mistook some of the photographs of the Samoans, which were toned in a light shade, for Europeans. R. L. S. remarked that he considered that in some ways the Samoans were amongst the handsomest races to be found in the world. However, they become slightly broad in the nose as they get older and the lips become sensual-looking; the skin, which in youth is of a golden hue9, deepens to a tawny175 hue with age, the complexion172 becoming swarthy, something akin169 to that of the Spanish, Italian, Southern French, and the darker types of British. Of course, these remarks refer to the true-blooded types of over twenty years ago. Through intermarriage with Mongolians, Negroes, Malays, Papuans, and low-caste British, the herculean Samoan is becoming a very rare individual indeed. The statue-like figure is becoming bent59 and dwarfed176, the full, clear eyes crafty-looking. I know that the surviving children of the old race, who now roam those palm-clad slopes, struck me, on a later day, as a kind of human rainbow, some aftermath that sadly reflected the tropic suns, the light and laughter of other brighter days. For now one meets all kinds of complexion—yellowish, brownish, white-blotched, mauve, greenish, tawny, and black, and eyes as multitudinous in colour as their own tropic flowers. At times it is hard to tell the half-caste from the pure-blooded white man or woman.
7. The author met James Chalmers in Apia and again at Port Moresby, New Guinea. Chalmers was a splendid type of the earnest missionary—manly, sincere, and brave, and a true Bohemian. He was murdered by New Guinea cannibals a few years ago.
The last remark recalls to my mind a little incident that it may not be out of place to mention here. Robert Louis Stevenson heard that a white woman was residing near Matautu, Savaii Isle. He at once made up his mind to go and see this lady—a natural enough wish in those remote isles, “where white men will tramp miles to catch a glimpse of a white woman.” Well, 230R. L. S. hired a boat from a half-caste who was a store-keeper, and with whom I was staying at that time. And so it happened that I and the mate of a schooner177 had the pleasure of accompanying R. L. S. in the boat. After a long, very wearying row from Manono, for it was a terrifically hot day, we arrived off the coast of Savaii. Even then we had to go ashore and tramp over two miles before we could reach the bungalow178 where the white lady resided. When we did arrive, Stevenson was nearly “dead-beat,” and struck me as irritated and fatigued179. It was with much relief that the three of us at length passed under the shade of the mango-trees that sheltered the approach to the bungalow.
“Where’s the white lady?” said Stevenson, speaking in rather a sharp manner to a tawny-looking female who wore a small dark moustache and happened to be looking out of the bungalow’s doorway. To our astonishment the woman screwed her mouth up and shrieked181 out:
“What white lady?—damn yer eyes!”
Stevenson’s consternation182 and my own can be better imagined than described, when I say that the sun-tanned, brown-skinned, vulgar-looking woman who addressed us was the beautiful white lady herself! And, if I may say so, she was a good specimen183 of the white lady to be found in the South Seas in those days.
“’ave a beer, old party?” she said to R. L. S., who had astutely184 apologized and cursed the hot sunlight that, shining in his eyes, had made him so colour-blind.
Stevenson’s tact185, after that grievous mistake, had a magical effect on the manners of our countrywoman. She fastened a flower on R. L. S.’s coat.
“Say when!” she said to the mate, as she clutched the gin bottle, holding it high as she filled the glass.
231Then she smacked186 me on the back, and filled with beer a huge receptacle that looked like one of those fancy glasses wherein one keeps goldfish. I think Stevenson had whisky. I know he enjoyed the situation. The lady made eyes at R. L. S. and the mate too. She swore and behaved with the convivial187 vulgarity that is the sole prerogative188 of the low-caste British woman. I know that the Samoan servant-maid blushed as her mistress complained of the “’orrible ’eat,” and pulled her dress down below her Camberwell-South-East bosom189. Who she was, why she was there alone in that bungalow, only God knows. I recall that she nudged Stevenson in the ribs190 and said she came from “Camberwool Sarth-East.” She swore at everything in Samoa, and said that she never went “art of a night because she knew the blasted natives were cannyballs!” Stevenson’s face during all this was a perfect study in self-control and amused politeness; and nothing off the stage could possibly outrival his simulated interest and his convivial ejaculation of “Well now!” as she finished each breezy yarn191 and ribald joke.
The mate was a London man.
“Do you remember the ‘Pig and Whistle’?” she screamed, as she plunged192 into reminiscent talk about the “old homeland,” smacked the mate on the shoulder, and pinched my leg! She insisted on fillng our glasses again and again. She commenced to sing. Her wild, silvery laughter rippled about our ears, mesmerized193 us all, and made the roosting parakeets in the orange-trees outside rise, flutter and shriek180 with fright. Stevenson was the first to attempt to withdraw from that little realistic drama of life in a South Sea bungalow. His ?sthetic, intellectual-looking face became shadowed with a fierce determination as the wild familiarities of the woman asserted themselves. He bowed with urbane194 politeness as he rose from the table.
232“Git the gentleman’s ’at, yer little brown-skinned slut!” she yelled.
In a moment the trembling Polynesian maid made a dive for Stevenson’s old peaked cap. Stevenson was still expressing in his politest terms the pleasure he felt at meeting the lady in the island.
“Stow it, yer son of a gun! No politeness ’ere! You know where to find me, and don’t forget me when yer comes this way!” she said, as we passed through the doorway.
Stevenson nearly fell down her bungalow’s five steps as she yelled forth a volley of ribald farewells. The relief of that parting was very evident on Stevenson’s face. He chuckled195 like a schoolboy when we had embarked196 and were all rowing our hardest, far away, safe out at sea.
But to return to O Le Langi. Many of the old-time chiefs of Langi’s type were faithful to their old creeds197 in many ways, and lived just as they had done in the heathen days. Indeed, Langi lived as though white men had never trod on his isles. He was deeply imbued198 with the old commercial spirit. Like the medi?val merchants of Cathay who travelled far with their scented merchandise, Langi would go wandering from village to village and isle to isle. True enough, he did not travel with a camel across mighty deserts, but was his own caravan199; for he carried, by the aid of a large calabash slung200 over his own hump, not sandalwood, topazes, diamonds, and opals for mummies’ eyes, but set off with pink shells, corals, tappa-cloth, and magic charms that had been warmed by the soft bosoms201 of mighty queens on their wedding-nights. These charms were small precious stones that he ran through his fingers whilst mumbling202 his pagan prayers.
“What may they be, those little shining stones, O 233mighty O Le Langi?” said I one night, as he trickled203 the gems204 through his fingers and gazed in a most mysterious way on the stars. He then informed me that they were the old magic jewels of the ancient Samoan dynasty, and their value was beyond all price. It turned out that they had once been threaded on the skeins of a maiden’s hair so that they might be warmed on the virgin205 bosom of her whom a king was about to take to wife. It appeared that on the eve of the wedding the royal bride slept with the stones warm on her bosom, and that the warmth imparted to them was the sapphire and ruby206 light which shone in their depths as Langi ran them through his fingers.
One may wonder how O Le Langi obtained possession of the magic Crown jewels of the old Samoan dynasty; but he was a true scribe and, possibly, knew the ropes. Even in my time, kings and queens were not too severe in Court etiquette207. Here I will simply say that, through possessing a bottle of the best Holland gin, I have received the highest Court honours from South Sea Royalty208. Indeed, I was once offered a princess’s hand in marriage, as well as being presented with the “freedom of the pagan city,” because the half-blind old king (in the Paumotou group) had been told by his head chief that I had a flask209 of the best Jamaica rum in my coat pocket. I seldom visited South Sea Royalty without a bottle of gin on my person.
Langi never tired of expatiating210 on the beauty of the Samoan and Marquesan maidens of his youth. He would lift his chin to the sky, and curse the day when the maids were forced by the missionaries to wear the Europeans’ cast-off clothing.
“Ugh! O Papalagi of the spirit-finger, we no do cover the flowers with stink-cloth and so hide the loveliness of their leaves; then why, I say, should new-time 234fool-men cover nicer girls, women, and mans down to feets?”
But it must be admitted that the long pink and blue-striped night-gown-like attire212 of the maids suited them admirably. It was a pretty sight to see a flock of native girls running along the shore sands, delighting in the windy dishevelment, as they stooped and clutched the gowns that were lifted from their ankles as the warm, seductive winds blew in. And it must be confessed that many maids who delighted in brown stockings would sit out on the shore reefs purposely to court the flirtatious213 of the winds as the handsome native youths passed by.
Though I have recorded the aforesaid incidents, they appear trivial enough when I think of the wonders of pagan life and the poetic mystery of a South Sea forest that flashes on the inward eye. I myself have more than once completely lost my civilized individuality and become part of the South Sea forest scene. I remember that O Le Langi once took me away to a secret witch-hut in the forest near Mootua. Sunset had already thrown the silent wooded depths into deep shadow when Langi, who was creeping along just ahead of me, heard a suspicious noise, and suddenly stood perfectly214 still: his tattooed wrinkled form had become a part of the forest! his arms instinctively215 bent, twisted at the elbows, represented two short, broken branch stumps216. Lo! he was no longer O Le Langi, but was a gnarled spotted217 tree-trunk with blinkless eyes and carved to resemble man, apparently218 lifeless, as he stood with ears alert among the aged banyan stems! Well, just as Langi’s primitive219 instincts came to his assistance and made him unrecognizable, I too have become a part of 235the forest. I do not say that I have turned into a human tree-stump; but I have stood alone in the silent depths and felt my inner life become one with the old trees around me. It was as though my conscious life was splashed in spiritual colours over the leaves. I felt some old sense exude220 from my being, like warm blood, and dye the forest depth with the sunset’s golden glory and poetic mystery that lay hushed on the branched luxuriant tropical growth about me.
Of O Le Langi’s musical ability I can say but little. It would require a genius to describe the universal music of his gifts. He was a true primitive literary man and, therefore, like most true literary men, was a musician in the deeper meaning of that word. Langi could hear the grandeur221 of Creation’s harmony and that still, small voice of humanity that cannot possibly express itself by fiddling222 on catgut or blowing on brass223. I can only say that Langi wrote a great symphony that my memory has vainly striven to play in these after years. The memory of his face and deep-set, poetic eyes seems to me as of some weird, conscious embodiment of all the sublimity224 of the rugged mountains and sunlit palms, the unheard harmonies of the moon-ridden seas and lagoons225 from Samoa to the Solomons, and again from Fiji to Tahiti and the far-off Poutomous. Those old forests are, to me, O Le Langi’s now dead whitening bones, where through the warm sea-winds whistle wonderful legends that his tongue once uttered forth.
It was years after that I went to Apia again and stood by his grave. It is situated226 by Safata village. I noticed that they had placed a wooden cross over the spot, and on it was written:
“Here lies O Le Langi.
Died Feb. 14, 1908.”
“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”
236He had undoubtedly been buried by the residential227 ecclesiastics228; and the spiritual text chosen by them for his memorial cross showed, to me at least, that missionaries often speak great truths about dead men.
I had it in my mind to finish this chapter with a critical discourse100 on native and European styles of music; but I feel that I am not able to do the subject justice. I am too liable to be influenced by the maze229 of melodies that are always playing in the great invincible230 orchestral world of my memory. There are some, too, who would consider my taste for music decidedly vulgar. Indeed, one night, whilst stopping at an old inn on my north-west travels, I heard a barrel-organ being played outside on the main country road. Looking out of the window, I saw a melancholy-visaged, white-whiskered, weird-looking foreigner turning the handle of a derelict barrel-organ that stood on one leg. It was an old melody that it played, a ballad231 that I had been familiar with in my childhood. Its dismal232 groan233 thrilled my soul. It took me across the years! I heard the laughter of my brothers and sisters and the forgotten strummings of the old piano. The old inn was transmuted—it stood on the grey night-hills of another age. I peeped through the window-blind and saw that weird old organ-grinder, just visible by the mingy gleam of the one lamp-post’s flickering234 light. He had a strange look about him. He wore a most suitable slouched hat, too! He seemed to me some ambassador of Fate who had been sent out of the night to appeal to my soul. I fancied that the stars and the moon went round as he turned that handle. “Play on! Play on!” I gasped235 mentally; and so the vision of sight and sound continued, yes, as I listened to the grand opera of my existence. The semi-sad, half-gay ballad that he played touched my heart-strings; the 237stars waved bright hands, dead laughter and beautiful, half-forgotten voices of long ago murmured to the wailing236 accompaniment of the poplar-trees that surely sighed over old memories just across the road. I even saw the ghost of the little, curly-headed Italian troubadour girl creep into our old front garden again, and once more commence to play “Santa Lucia” on her accordion237. What maestro ever played as soulfully as she played for my ears?—Her voice? Oh, music inexpressibly beautiful! Ah, the cleverness of that surreptitious special smile for me, as she peered sideways through her thrush-brown tresses up at our castle window! I thought of my passion for her, of my betrothal238 to that pretty, red-rose-lipped vagabondess of the south when I was ten years old; of my austere239 father’s wrath240 when our plans for the elopement were discovered, of my mother’s horror—and of my shame! Alas! Let men and women go to the grand opera, let the mighty cathedral organs of the world thunder and moan till their hearts are touched; but oh, give me a one-legged barrel-organ under the poplar trees outside the window of some old inn—playing “Santa Lucia” after dark!
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1
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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2
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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3
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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rave
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| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
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5
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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6
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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banyan
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| n.菩提树，榕树 | |
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sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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10
pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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12
goblet
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| n.高脚酒杯 | |
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13
goblets
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| n.高脚酒杯( goblet的名词复数 ) | |
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14
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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15
shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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16
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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17
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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18
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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19
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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20
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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21
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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22
lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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23
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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24
constellation
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| n.星座n.灿烂的一群 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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26
tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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28
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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32
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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33
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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34
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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35
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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36
shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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37
enchantments
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| n.魅力( enchantment的名词复数 )；迷人之处；施魔法；着魔 | |
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38
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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39
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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40
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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41
memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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42
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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43
distressingly
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| adv. 令人苦恼地；悲惨地 | |
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44
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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45
lugubriously
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46
abdomen
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| n.腹，下腹(胸部到腿部的部分) | |
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47
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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48
defunct
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| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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49
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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50
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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51
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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52
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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53
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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54
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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55
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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56
mammoth
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| n.长毛象；adj.长毛象似的，巨大的 | |
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57
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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58
tribal
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| adj.部族的，种族的 | |
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59
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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60
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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61
teemed
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| v.充满( teem的过去式和过去分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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62
similes
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| （使用like或as等词语的）明喻( simile的名词复数 ) | |
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63
lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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64
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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65
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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68
mermaids
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| n.（传说中的）美人鱼( mermaid的名词复数 ) | |
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69
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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70
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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71
tattoo
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| n.纹身，(皮肤上的)刺花纹；vt.刺花纹于 | |
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72
tattooed
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| v.刺青，文身( tattoo的过去式和过去分词 )；连续有节奏地敲击；作连续有节奏的敲击 | |
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73
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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74
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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75
enticed
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| 诱惑，怂恿( entice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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77
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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78
hieroglyphic
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| n.象形文字 | |
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impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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80
extemporized
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| v.即兴创作，即席演奏( extemporize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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82
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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83
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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84
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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85
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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86
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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87
onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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88
divulged
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| v.吐露，泄露( divulge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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90
munificence
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| n.宽宏大量，慷慨给与 | |
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91
indigenous
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| adj.土产的，土生土长的，本地的 | |
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92
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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93
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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94
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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95
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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96
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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97
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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98
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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99
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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100
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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101
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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102
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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103
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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104
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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105
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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106
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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107
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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108
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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109
mythology
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| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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110
crabs
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| n.蟹( crab的名词复数 )；阴虱寄生病；蟹肉v.捕蟹( crab的第三人称单数 ) | |
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111
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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112
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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113
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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114
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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115
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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116
squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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117
rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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118
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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119
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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120
psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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121
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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122
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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123
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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124
optimist
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| n.乐观的人，乐观主义者 | |
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125
pessimist
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| n.悲观者；悲观主义者；厌世 | |
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126
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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127
unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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128
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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129
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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130
abridged
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| 削减的，删节的 | |
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131
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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132
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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133
dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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134
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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135
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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136
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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137
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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138
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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139
rotunda
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| n.圆形建筑物；圆厅 | |
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140
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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141
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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142
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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143
flamboyant
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|
| adj.火焰般的，华丽的，炫耀的 | |
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144
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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145
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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146
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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147
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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148
thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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150
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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151
forums
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| 讨论会； 座谈会； 广播专题讲话节目； 集会的公共场所( forum的名词复数 )； 论坛，讨论会，专题讨论节目； 法庭 | |
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152
melodiously
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153
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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154
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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155
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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156
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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157
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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158
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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159
missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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160
overestimated
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| 对（数量）估计过高，对…作过高的评价( overestimate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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161
comeliness
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| n. 清秀, 美丽, 合宜 | |
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162
mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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163
bodyguard
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| n.护卫，保镖 | |
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164
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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165
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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166
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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167
obliquity
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| n.倾斜度 | |
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168
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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169
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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170
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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171
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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172
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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173
complexions
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| 肤色( complexion的名词复数 )； 面色； 局面； 性质 | |
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174
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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175
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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176
dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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177
schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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178
bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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179
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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180
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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181
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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182
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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183
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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184
astutely
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| adv.敏锐地；精明地；敏捷地；伶俐地 | |
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185
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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186
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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187
convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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188
prerogative
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| n.特权 | |
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189
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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190
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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191
yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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192
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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193
mesmerized
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| v.使入迷( mesmerize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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194
urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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195
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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196
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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197
creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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198
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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199
caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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200
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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201
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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202
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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203
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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204
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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205
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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206
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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207
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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208
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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209
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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210
expatiating
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| v.详述，细说( expatiate的现在分词 ) | |
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211
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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212
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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213
flirtatious
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| adj.爱调情的，调情的，卖俏的 | |
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214
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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215
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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216
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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217
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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218
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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219
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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220
exude
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| v.(使)流出，(使)渗出 | |
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221
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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222
fiddling
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| 微小的 | |
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223
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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224
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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225
lagoons
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| n.污水池( lagoon的名词复数 )；潟湖；（大湖或江河附近的）小而浅的淡水湖；温泉形成的池塘 | |
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226
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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residential
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| adj.提供住宿的；居住的；住宅的 | |
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228
ecclesiastics
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| n.神职者，教会，牧师( ecclesiastic的名词复数 ) | |
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229
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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230
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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231
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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232
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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233
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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234
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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235
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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236
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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237
accordion
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| n.手风琴；adj.可折叠的 | |
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238
betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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239
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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240
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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