On a narrow bed—on a bier perhaps—the corpse5 of a woman. The husband kneels beside it. At the foot stands the doctor, putting away his instruments. In a beribboned pink cradle reposes6 a monstrous7 baby.
The Husband: Margaret! Margaret!
The Doctor: She is dead.
The Husband: Margaret!
The Doctor: Of septic?mia, I tell you.
The Husband: I wish that I too were dead!
The Doctor: But you won’t to-morrow.
The Husband: To-morrow! But I don’t want to live to see to-morrow.
The Doctor: You will to-morrow.
The Husband: Margaret! Margaret! Wait for me there; I shall not fail to meet you in that hollow vale.
The Doctor: You will not be slow to survive her.
The Husband: Christ have mercy upon us!
219The Doctor: You would do better to think of the child.
The Doctor: No worse than others.
The Husband: Begotten9 in a night of immaculate pleasure, monster, may you live loveless, in dirt and impurity10!
The Doctor: Conceived in lust11 and darkness, may your own impurity always seem heavenly, monster, in your own eyes!
The Husband: Murderer, slowly die all your life long!
The Doctor: The child must be fed.
The Husband: Fed? With what?
The Doctor: With milk.
The Husband: Her milk is cold in her breasts.
The Doctor: There are still cows.
The Husband: Tubercular shorthorns. (Calling.) Let Short-i’-the-horn be brought!
Voices (off): Short-i’-the-horn! Short-i’-the-horn! (Fadingly) Short-i’-the....
The Doctor: In nineteen hundred and twenty-one, twenty-seven thousand nine hundred and thirteen women died in childbirth.
The Husband: But none of them belonged to my harem.
The Doctor: Each of them was somebody’s wife.
The Husband: Doubtless. But the people we don’t know are only characters in the human comedy. We are the tragedians.
The Doctor: Not in the spectator’s eyes.
The Husband: Do I think of the spectators? Ah, Margaret! Margaret!...
220The Doctor: The twenty-seven thousand nine hundred and fourteenth.
The Husband: The only one!
The Doctor: But here comes the cow.
The Husband: Ah, good Short-i’-the-horn! (He pats the animal.) She was tested last week, was she not?
The Yokel: Ay, sir.
The Husband: And found tubercular. No?
The Yokel: Even in the udders, may it please you.
The Husband: Excellent! Milk me the cow, sir, into this dirty wash-pot.
The Yokel: I will, sir. (He milks the cow.)
The Husband: Her milk—her milk is cold already. All the woman in her chilled and curdled14 within her breasts. Ah, Jesus! what miraculous15 galactagogue will make it flow again?
The Yokel: The wash-pot is full, sir.
The Husband: Then take the cow away.
The Yokel: Come, Short-i’-the-horn; come up, good Short-i’-the-horn. (He goes out with the cow.)
The Husband (pouring the milk into a long-tubed feeding-bottle): Here’s for you, monster, to drink your own health in. (He gives the bottle to the child.)
Curtain.
“But I liked the cow.” Mrs. Viveash opened her cigarette-case and found it empty. Gumbril offered her one of his. She shook her head. “I don’t want it in the least,” she said.
221“Yes, the cow was in the best pantomime tradition,” Gumbril agreed. Ah! but it was a long time since he had been to a Christmas pantomime. Not since Dan Leno’s days. All the little cousins, the uncles and aunts on both sides of the family, dozens and dozens of them—every year they filled the best part of a row in the dress circle at Drury Lane. And buns were stickily passed from hand to hand, chocolates circulated; the grown-ups drank tea. And the pantomime went on and on, glory after glory, under the shining arch of the stage. Hours and hours; and the grown-ups always wanted to go away before the harlequinade. And the children felt sick from eating too much chocolate, or wanted with such extreme urgency to go to the w.c. that they had to be led out, trampling17 and stumbling over everybody else’s feet—and every stumble making the need more agonizingly great—in the middle of the transformation19 scene. And there was Dan Leno, inimitable Dan Leno, dead now as poor Yorick, no more than a mere20 skull21 like anybody else’s skull. And his mother, he remembered, used to laugh at him sometimes till the tears ran down her cheeks. She used to enjoy things thoroughly22, with a whole heart.
“I wish they’d hurry up with the second scene,” said Mrs. Viveash. “If there’s anything that bores me, it’s entr’actes.”
“Most of one’s life is an entr’acte,” said Gumbril, whose present mood of hilarious23 depression seemed favourable24 to the enunciation25 of apophthegms.
“None of your cracker26 mottoes, please,” protested Mrs. Viveash. All the same, she reflected, what was she doing now but waiting for the curtain to go up again, waiting, with what unspeakable weariness of spirit, for the curtain 222that had rung down, ten centuries ago, on those blue eyes, that bright strawy hair and the weathered face?
“Thank God,” she said with an expiring earnestness, “here’s the second scene!”
The curtain went up. In a bald room stood the Monster, grown now from an infant into a frail27 and bent28 young man with bandy legs. At the back of the stage a large window giving on to a street along which people pass.
The Monster (solus): The young girls of Sparta, they say, used to wrestle29 naked with naked Spartan30 boys. The sun caressed31 their skins till they were brown and transparent32 like amber33 or a flask34 of olive oil. Their breasts were hard, their bellies35 flat. They were pure with the chastity of beautiful animals. Their thoughts were clear, their minds cool and untroubled. I spit blood into my handkerchief and sometimes I feel in my mouth something slimy, soft and disgusting, like a slug—and I have coughed up a shred36 of my lung. The rickets37 from which I suffered in childhood have bent my bones and made them old and brittle38. All my life I have lived in this huge town, whose domes39 and spires41 are wrapped in a cloud of stink42 that hides the sun. The slug-dank tatters of lung that I spit out are black with the soot43 I have been breathing all these years. I am now come of age. Long-expected one-and-twenty has made me a fully44 privileged citizen of this great realm of which the owners of the Daily Mirror, the News of the World and the Daily Express are noble peers. Somewhere, I must logically infer, there must be other cities, built by men for men to live in. Somewhere, in the past, in the future, a very long way off.... But perhaps the only street improvement schemes that ever really improve the streets are schemes 223in the minds of those who live in them: schemes of love mostly. Ah! here she comes.
(The Young Lady enters. She stands outside the window, in the street, paying no attention to the Monster; she seems to be waiting for somebody.)
She is like a pear tree in flower. When she smiles, it is as though there were stars. Her hair is like the harvest in an eclogue, her cheeks are all the fruits of summer. Her arms and thighs45 are as beautiful as the soul of St. Catherine of Siena. And her eyes, her eyes are plumbless with thought and limpidly46 pure like the water of the mountains.
The Young Lady: If I wait till the summer sale, the crêpe de Chine will be reduced by at least two shillings a yard, and on six camisoles that will mean a lot of money. But the question is: can I go from May till the end of July with the underclothing I have now?
The Monster: If I knew her, I should know the universe!
The Young Lady: My present ones are so dreadfully middle-class. And if Roger should ... by any chance....
The Monster: Or, rather, I should be able to ignore it, having a private universe of my own.
The Young Lady: If—if he did—well, it might be rather humiliating with these I have ... like a servant’s almost....
The Monster: Love makes you accept the world; it puts an end to criticism.
The Young Lady: His hand already....
The Monster: Dare I, dare I tell her how beautiful she is?
The Young Lady: On the whole, I think I’d better get it now, though it will cost more.
224The Monster (desperately advancing to the window as though to assault a battery): Beautiful! beautiful!
The Young Lady (looking at him): Ha, ha, ha!
The Monster: But I love you, flowering pear tree; I love you, golden harvest; I love you, fruitage of summer; I love you, body and limbs, with the shape of a saint’s thought.
The Young Lady (redoubles her laughter): Ha, ha, ha!
The Monster (taking her hand): You cannot be cruel! (He is seized with a violent paroxysm of coughing which doubles him up, which shakes and torments47 him. The handkerchief he holds to his mouth is spotted48 with blood.)
The Young Lady: You disgust me! (She draws away her skirts so that they shall not come in contact with him.)
The Monster: But I swear to you, I love—I—— (He is once more interrupted by his cough.)
The Young Lady: Please go away. (In a different voice) Ah, Roger! (She advances to meet a snub-nosed lubber with curly hair and a face like a groom’s, who passes along the street at this moment.)
Roger: I’ve got the motor-bike waiting at the corner.
The Young Lady: Let’s go, then.
Roger (pointing to the Monster): What’s that?
The Young Lady: Oh, it’s nothing in particular.
(Both roar with laughter. Roger escorts her out, patting her familiarly on the back as they walk along.)
The Monster (looking after her): There is a wound under my left pap. She has deflowered all women. I cannot....
“Lord!” whispered Mrs. Viveash, “how this young man bores me!”
225“I confess,” replied Gumbril, “I have rather a taste for moralities. There is a pleasant uplifting vagueness about these symbolical50 generalized figures which pleases me.”
“You were always charmingly simple-minded,” said Mrs. Viveash. “But who’s this? As long as the young man isn’t left alone on the stage, I don’t mind.”
Another female figure has appeared in the street beyond the window. It is the Prostitute. Her face, painted in two tones of red, white, green, blue and black, is the most tasteful of nature-mortes.
The Prostitute: Hullo, duckie!
The Monster: Hullo!
The Prostitute: Are you lonely?
The Monster: Yes.
The Prostitute: Would you like me to come in to see you?
The Monster: Very well.
The Prostitute: Shall we say thirty bob?
The Monster: As you like.
The Prostitute: Come along then.
(She climbs through the window and they go off together through the door on the left of the stage. The curtains descend51 for a moment, then rise again. The Monster and the Prostitute are seen issuing from the door at which they went out.)
The Monster (taking out a cheque-book and a fountain pen): Thirty shillings....
The Prostitute: Thank you. Not a cheque. I don’t want any cheques. How do I know it isn’t a dud one that 226they’ll refuse payment for at the bank? Ready money for me, thanks.
The Monster: But I haven’t got any cash on me at the moment.
The Prostitute: Well, I won’t take a cheque. Once bitten, twice shy, I can tell you.
The Monster: But I tell you I haven’t got any cash.
The Prostitute: Well, all I can say is, here I stay till I get it. And, what’s more, if I don’t get it quick, I’ll make a row.
The Prostitute: And I won’t take it. So there!
The Monster: Well then, take my watch. It’s worth more than thirty bob. (He pulls out his gold half-hunter.)
The Prostitute: Thank you, and get myself arrested as soon as I take it to the pop-shop! No, I want cash, I tell you.
The Monster: But where the devil do you expect me to get it at this time of night?
The Prostitute: I don’t know. But you’ve got to get it pretty quick.
The Monster: You’re unreasonable53.
The Prostitute: Aren’t there any servants in this house?
The Monster: Yes.
The Prostitute: Well, go and borrow it from one of them.
The Monster: But really, that would be too low, too humiliating.
The Prostitute: All right, I’ll begin kicking up a noise. I’ll go to the window and yell till all the neighbours are 227woken up and the police come to see what’s up. You can borrow it from the copper54 then.
The Monster: You really won’t take my cheque? I swear to you it’s perfectly all right. There’s plenty of money to meet it.
The Prostitute: Oh, shut up! No more dilly-dallying. Get me my money at once, or I’ll start the row. One, two, three.... (She opens her mouth wide as if to yell.)
The Monster: All right. (He goes out.)
The Prostitute: Nice state of things we’re coming to, when young rips try and swindle us poor girls out of our money! Mean, stinking55 skunks56! I’d like to slit57 the throats of some of them.
The Monster (coming back again): Here you are. (He hands her money.)
The Prostitute (examining it): Thank you, dearie. Any other time you’re lonely....
The Monster: No, no!
The Prostitute: Where did you get it finally?
The Monster: I woke the cook.
The Monster (solus): Somewhere there must be love like music. Love harmonious59 and ordered: two spirits, two bodies moving contrapuntally together. Somewhere, the stupid brutish act must be made to make sense, must be enriched, must be made significant. Lust, like Diabelli’s waltz, a stupid air, turned by a genius into three-and-thirty fabulous60 variations. Somewhere....
“Oh dear!” sighed Mrs. Viveash.
“Charming!” Gumbril protested.
228
... love like sheets of silky flame; like landscapes brilliant in the sunlight against a background of purple thunder; like the solution of a cosmic problem; like faith....
“Crikey!” said Mrs. Viveash.
“Really, really!” Mrs. Viveash shook her head. “Too medical!”
The Monster threw himself to the ground, and the curtain came down.
“And about time too!” declared Mrs. Viveash.
“Charming!” Gumbril stuck to his guns. “Charming! charming!”
There was a disturbance63 near the door. Mrs. Viveash looked round to see what was happening. “And now on top of it all,” she said, “here comes Coleman, raving64, with an unknown drunk.”
“Lovely bloody!” his companion repeated with drunken raptures67, and he went into fits of uncontrollable laughter. He was a very young boy with straight dark hair and a face of Hellenic beauty, now distorted with tipsiness.
Coleman greeted his acquaintances in the hall, shouting a jovial68 obscenity to each. “And Bumbril-Gumbril,” he exclaimed, catching69 sight of him at last in the front row. 229“And Hetaira-Myra!” He pushed his way through the crowd, followed unsteadily by his young disciple70. “So you’re here,” he said, standing over them and looking down with an enigmatic malice71 in his bright blue eyes. “Where’s the physiologue?”
“Am I the physiologue’s keeper?” asked Gumbril. “He’s with his glands72 and his hormones73, I suppose. Not to mention his wife.” He smiled to himself.
“Where the hormones, there moan I,” said Coleman, skidding74 off sideways along the slippery word. “I hear, by the way, that there’s a lovely prostitute in this play.”
“You’ve missed her,” said Mrs. Viveash.
“What a misfortune,” said Coleman. “We’ve missed the delicious trull,” he said, turning to the young man.
The young man only laughed.
“Let me introduce, by the way,” said Coleman. “This is Dante,” he pointed75 to the dark-haired boy; “and I am Virgil. We’re making a round tour—or, rather, a descending76 spiral tour of hell. But we’re only at the first circle so far. These, Alighieri, are two damned souls, though not, as you might suppose, Paolo and Francesca.”
The boy continued to laugh, happily and uncomprehendingly.
“Another of these interminable entr’actes,” complained Mrs. Viveash. “I was just saying to Theodore here that if there’s one thing I dislike more than another, it’s a long entr’acte.” Would hers ever come to an end?
“And if there’s one thing I dislike more than another,” said the boy, breaking silence for the first time, with an air of the greatest earnestness, “it’s ... it’s one thing more than another.”
230“And you’re perfectly right in doing so,” said Coleman. “Perfectly right.”
“I know,” the boy replied modestly.
When the curtain rose again it was on an aged12 Monster, with a black patch over the left side of his nose, no hair, no teeth, and sitting harmlessly behind the bars of an asylum78.
The Monster: Asses49, apes and dogs! Milton called them that; he should have known. Somewhere there must be men, however. The variations on Diabelli prove it. Brunelleschi’s dome40 is more than the magnification of Cléo de Mérode’s breast. Somewhere there are men with power, living reasonably. Like our mythical79 Greeks and Romans. Living cleanly. The images of the gods are their portraits. They walk under their own protection. (The Monster climbs on to a chair and stands in the posture80 of a statue.) Jupiter, father of gods, a man, I bless myself, I throw bolts at my own disobedience, I answer my own prayers, I pronounce oracles81 to satisfy the questions I myself propound82. I abolish all tetters, poxes, blood-spitting, rotting of bones. With love I recreate the world from within. Europa puts an end to squalor, Leda does away with tyranny, Danae tempers stupidity. After establishing these reforms in the social sewer83, I climb, I climb, up through the manhole, out of the manhole, beyond humanity. For the manhole, even the manhole, is dark; though not so dingy84 as the doghole it was before I altered it. Up through the manhole, towards the air. Up, up! (And the Monster, suiting the action to his words, climbs up the runged back of his chair and stands, by a miraculous feat85 of acrobacy, on the topmost bar.) I begin to see the stars through other eyes than my own. More than dog already, I become more than man. 231I begin to have inklings of the shape and sense of things. Upwards86, upwards I strain, I peer, I reach aloft. (The balanced Monster reaches, strains and peers.) And I seize, I seize! (As he shouts these words, the Monster falls heavily, head foremost, to the floor. He lies there quite still. After a little time the door opens and the Doctor of the first scene enters with a Warder.)
The Warder: I heard a crash.
The Doctor (who has by this time become immensely old and has a beard like Father Thames): It looks as though you were right. (He examines the Monster.)
The Warder: He was for ever climbing on to his chair.
The Doctor: Well, he won’t any more. His neck’s broken.
The Warder: You don’t say so?
The Doctor: I do.
The Warder: Well, I never!
The Doctor: Have it carried down to the dissecting-room.
The Warder: I’ll send for the porters at once.
(Exeunt severally, and Curtain.)
“Well,” said Mrs. Viveash, “I’m glad that’s over.”
The music struck up again, saxophone and ’cello, with the thin draught87 of the violin to cool their ecstasies88 and the thumping89 piano to remind them of business. Gumbril and Mrs. Viveash slid out into the dancing crowd, revolving90 as though by force of habit.
“These substitutes for the genuine copulative article,” said Coleman to his disciple, “are beneath the dignity of hell-hounds like you and me.”
Charmed, the young man laughed; he was attentive91 as 232though at the feet of Socrates. Coleman had found him in a night club, where he had gone in search of Zoe, found him very drunk in the company of two formidable women fifteen or twenty years his senior, who were looking after him, half maternally92 out of pure kindness of heart, half professionally; for he seemed to be carrying a good deal of money. He was incapable93 of looking after himself. Coleman had pounced94 on him at once, claimed an old friendship which the youth was too tipsy to be able to deny, and carried him off. There was something, he always thought, peculiarly interesting about the spectacle of children tobogganing down into the cesspools.
“I like this place,” said the young man.
“Tastes differ!” Coleman shrugged95 his shoulders. “The German professors have catalogued thousands of people whose whole pleasure consists in eating dung.”
“Too respectable,” Coleman answered, shaking his head.
“I think this is a bloody place,” said the young man.
“Ah! but some people like blood. And some like boots. And some like long gloves and corsets. And some like birch-rods. And some like sliding down slopes and can’t look at Michelangelo’s ‘Night’ on the Medici Tombs without dying the little death, because the statue seems to be sliding. And some....”
“But I want something to drink,” insisted the young man.
Coleman stamped his feet, waved his arms. “à boire! à boire!” he shouted, like the newborn Gargantua. Nobody paid any attention.
233The music came to an end. Gumbril and Mrs. Viveash reappeared.
“Dante,” said Coleman, “calls for drink. We must leave the building.”
“Yes. Anything to get out of this,” said Mrs. Viveash. “What’s the time?”
Gumbril looked at his watch. “Half-past one.”
Mrs. Viveash sighed. “Can’t possibly go to bed,” she said, “for another hour at least.”
They walked out into the street. The stars were large and brilliant overhead. There was a little wind that almost seemed to come from the country. Gumbril thought so, at any rate; he thought of the country.
“The question is, where?” said Coleman. “You can come to my bordello, if you like; but it’s a long way off and Zoe hates us all so much, she’ll probably set on us with the meat-chopper. If she’s back again, that is. Though she may be out all night. Zoe mou, sas agapo. Shall we risk it?”
“To me it’s quite indifferent,” said Mrs. Viveash faintly, as though wholly preoccupied97 with expiring.
“But you live still farther, don’t you?” said Coleman. “With venerable parents, and so forth99. One foot in the grave and all that. Shall we mingle100 hornpipes with funerals?” He began to hum Chopin’s ‘Funeral March’ at three times its proper speed, and seizing the young stranger in his arms, two-stepped two or three turns on the pavement, then released his hold and let him go reeling against the area railings.
“No, I don’t mean the family mansion,” said Gumbril. 234“I mean my own rooms. They’re quite near. In Great Russell Street.”
“I never knew you had any rooms, Theodore,” said Mrs. Viveash.
“Nobody did.” Why should they know now? Because the wind seemed almost a country wind? “There’s drink there,” he said.
“Splendid!” cried the young man. They were all splendid people.
“There’s some gin,” said Gumbril.
“Capital aphrodisiac!” Coleman commented.
“Some light white wine.”
“Diuretic.”
“And some whisky.”
“The great emetic101,” said Coleman. “Come on.” And he struck up the March of the Fascisti. “Giovinezza, giovinezza, primavera di bellezza....” The noise went fading down the dark, empty streets.
The gin, the white wine, and even, for the sake of the young stranger, who wanted to sample everything, the emetic whisky, were produced.
“I like your rooms,” said Mrs. Viveash, looking round her. “And I resent your secrecy102 about them, Theodore.”
“Drink, puppy!” Coleman refilled the boy’s glass.
“Here’s to secrecy,” Gumbril proposed. Shut it tightly, keep it dark, cover it up. Be silent, prevaricate103, lie outright104. He laughed and drank. “Do you remember,” he went on, “those instructive advertisements of Eno’s Fruit Salt they used to have when we were young? There was one little anecdote105 about a doctor who advised the hypochondriacal patient who had come to consult him, 235to go and see Grimaldi, the clown; and the patient answered, ‘I am Grimaldi.’ Do you remember?”
“No,” said Mrs. Viveash. “And why do you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Or rather, I do know,” Gumbril corrected himself, and laughed again.
The young man suddenly began to boast. “I lost two hundred pounds yesterday playing chemin de fer,” he said, and looked round for applause.
Coleman patted his curly head. “Delicious child!” he said. “You’re positively106 Hogarthian.”
Angrily, the boy pushed him away. “What are you doing?” he shouted; then turned and addressed himself once more to the others. “I couldn’t afford it, you know—not a bloody penny of it. Not my money, either.” He seemed to find it exquisitely107 humorous. “And that two hundred wasn’t all,” he added, almost expiring with mirth.
“Tell Coleman how you borrowed his beard, Theodore.”
Gumbril was looking intently into his glass, as though he hoped to see in its pale mixture of gin and Sauterne visions, as in a crystal, of the future. Mrs. Viveash touched him on the arm and repeated her injunction.
“Oh yes, it is! I insist,” said Mrs. Viveash, commanding peremptorily109 from her death-bed.
Gumbril drank his gin and Sauterne. “Very well then,” he said reluctantly, and began.
“I don’t know what my governor will say,” the young man put in once or twice. But nobody paid any attention to him. He relapsed into a sulky and, it seemed to him, very dignified110 silence. Under the warm, jolly tipsiness he felt a chill of foreboding. He poured out some more whisky.
236Gumbril warmed to his anecdote. Expiringly Mrs. Viveash laughed from time to time, or smiled her agonizing18 smile. Coleman whooped111 like a Redskin.
“And after the concert to these rooms,” said Gumbril.
Well, let everything go. Into the mud. Leave it there, and let the dogs lift their hind77 legs over it as they pass.
“I am Grimaldi,” Gumbril laughed. Further than this it was difficult to see where the joke could go. There, on the couch, where Mrs. Viveash and Coleman were now sitting, she had lain sleeping in his arms.
“Towsing, in Elizabethan,” said Coleman.
Unreal, eternal in the secret darkness. A night that was an eternal parenthesis113 among the other nights and days.
“I feel I’m going to be sick,” said the young man suddenly. He had wanted to go on silently and haughtily114 sulking; but his stomach declined to take part in the dignified game.
“Good Lord!” said Gumbril, and jumped up. But before he could do anything effective, the young man had fulfilled his own prophecy.
“The real charm about debauchery,” said Coleman philosophically, “is its total pointlessness, futility115, and above all its incredible tediousness. If it really were all roses and exhilaration, as these poor children seem to imagine, it would be no better than going to church or studying the higher mathematics. I should never touch a drop of wine or another harlot again. It would be against my principles. I told you it was emetic,” he called to the young man.
“And what are your principles?” asked Mrs. Viveash.
“You’re responsible for this creature,” said Gumbril, pointing to the young man, who was sitting on the floor near the fireplace, cooling his forehead against the marble of the mantelpiece. “You must take him away. Really, what a bore!” His nose and mouth were all wrinkled up with disgust.
“I’m sorry,” the young man whispered. He kept his eyes shut and his face was exceedingly pale.
“But with pleasure,” said Coleman. “What’s your name?” he asked the young man, “and where do you live?”
“My name is Porteous,” murmured the young man.
“Good lord!” cried Gumbril, letting himself fall on to the couch beside Mrs. Viveash. “That’s the last straw!”
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allusively
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philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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theatrical
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suspense
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corpse
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reposes
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monstrous
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standing
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begotten
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impurity
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lust
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aged
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yokel
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curdled
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| v.（使）凝结( curdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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19
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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20
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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21
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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22
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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23
hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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25
enunciation
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| n.清晰的发音；表明，宣言；口齿 | |
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26
cracker
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| n.（无甜味的）薄脆饼干 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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28
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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29
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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30
spartan
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| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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31
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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33
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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34
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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35
bellies
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| n.肚子( belly的名词复数 )；腹部；（物体的）圆形或凸起部份；腹部…形的 | |
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36
shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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37
rickets
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| n.软骨病，佝偻病，驼背 | |
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38
brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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39
domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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40
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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41
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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42
stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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43
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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44
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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45
thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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46
limpidly
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| adv.清澈地，透明地 | |
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47
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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48
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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49
asses
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| n. 驴，愚蠢的人，臀部 adv. (常用作后置)用于贬损或骂人 | |
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50
symbolical
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| a.象征性的 | |
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51
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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52
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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53
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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54
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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55
stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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56
skunks
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| n.臭鼬( skunk的名词复数 )；臭鼬毛皮；卑鄙的人；可恶的人 | |
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57
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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58
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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59
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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60
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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61
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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62
burrowing
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的现在分词 )；翻寻 | |
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63
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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65
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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66
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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67
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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68
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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69
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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70
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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71
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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72
glands
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| n.腺( gland的名词复数 ) | |
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73
hormones
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| n. 荷尔蒙，激素 名词hormone的复数形式 | |
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74
skidding
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| n.曳出，集材v.（通常指车辆） 侧滑( skid的现在分词 )；打滑；滑行；（住在）贫民区 | |
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75
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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76
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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77
hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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78
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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79
mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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80
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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81
oracles
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| 神示所( oracle的名词复数 )； 神谕； 圣贤； 哲人 | |
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82
propound
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| v.提出 | |
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83
sewer
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| n.排水沟，下水道 | |
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84
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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85
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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86
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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87
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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88
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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89
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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90
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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91
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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92
maternally
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93
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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94
pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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95
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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96
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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97
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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98
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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99
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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100
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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101
emetic
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| n.催吐剂；adj.催吐的 | |
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102
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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103
prevaricate
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| v.支吾其词；说谎；n.推诿的人；撒谎的人 | |
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104
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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105
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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106
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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107
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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108
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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109
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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110
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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111
whooped
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| 叫喊( whoop的过去式和过去分词 )； 高声说； 唤起 | |
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112
platonic
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| adj.精神的；柏拉图（哲学）的 | |
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113
parenthesis
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲，间歇，停歇 | |
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114
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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115
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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116
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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