With old desires, restrained before,
To clamor lifeward with a cry,
As dark flies out the greying door;
But old monotony is there:
Endless avenues of rain.
Oh, might I rise again! Might I
Throw off the heat of that old wine,
See the new morning mass the sky
With fairy towers, line on line;
A symbol, not a dream again...
But old monotony is there:
Endless avenues of rain.”
Under the glass portcullis of a theatre Amory stood, watching the first great drops of rain splatter down and flatten5 to dark stains on the sidewalk. The air became gray and opalescent6; a solitary8 light suddenly outlined a window over the way; then another light; then a hundred more danced and glimmered9 into vision. Under his feet a thick, iron-studded skylight turned yellow; in the street the lamps of the taxi-cabs sent out glistening11 sheens along the already black pavement. The unwelcome November rain had perversely12 stolen the day's last hour and pawned13 it with that ancient fence, the night.
The silence of the theatre behind him ended with a curious snapping sound, followed by the heavy roaring of a rising crowd and the interlaced clatter14 of many voices. The matinee was over.
He stood aside, edged a little into the rain to let the throng15 pass. A small boy rushed out, sniffed16 in the damp, fresh air and turned up the collar of his coat; came three or four couples in a great hurry; came a further scattering17 of people whose eyes as they emerged glanced invariably, first at the wet street, then at the rain-filled air, finally at the dismal19 sky; last a dense20, strolling mass that depressed21 him with its heavy odor compounded of the tobacco smell of the men and the fetid sensuousness22 of stale powder on women. After the thick crowd came another scattering; a stray half-dozen; a man on crutches23; finally the rattling24 bang of folding seats inside announced that the ushers25 were at work.
New York seemed not so much awakening26 as turning over in its bed. Pallid27 men rushed by, pinching together their coat-collars; a great swarm28 of tired, magpie29 girls from a department-store crowded along with shrieks30 of strident laughter, three to an umbrella; a squad31 of marching policemen passed, already miraculously32 protected by oilskin capes33.
The rain gave Amory a feeling of detachment, and the numerous unpleasant aspects of city life without money occurred to him in threatening procession. There was the ghastly, stinking34 crush of the subway—the car cards thrusting themselves at one, leering out like dull bores who grab your arm with another story; the querulous worry as to whether some one isn't leaning on you; a man deciding not to give his seat to a woman, hating her for it; the woman hating him for not doing it; at worst a squalid phantasmagoria of breath, and old cloth on human bodies and the smells of the food men ate—at best just people—too hot or too cold, tired, worried.
He pictured the rooms where these people lived—where the patterns of the blistered35 wall-papers were heavy reiterated36 sunflowers on green and yellow backgrounds, where there were tin bathtubs and gloomy hallways and verdureless, unnamable spaces in back of the buildings; where even love dressed as seduction—a sordid37 murder around the corner, illicit38 motherhood in the flat above. And always there was the economical stuffiness39 of indoor winter, and the long summers, nightmares of perspiration40 between sticky enveloping41 walls... dirty restaurants where careless, tired people helped themselves to sugar with their own used coffee-spoons, leaving hard brown deposits in the bowl.
It was not so bad where there were only men or else only women; it was when they were vilely42 herded43 that it all seemed so rotten. It was some shame that women gave off at having men see them tired and poor—it was some disgust that men had for women who were tired and poor. It was dirtier than any battle-field he had seen, harder to contemplate44 than any actual hardship moulded of mire45 and sweat and danger, it was an atmosphere wherein birth and marriage and death were loathsome46, secret things.
He remembered one day in the subway when a delivery boy had brought in a great funeral wreath of fresh flowers, how the smell of it had suddenly cleared the air and given every one in the car a momentary47 glow.
“I detest48 poor people,” thought Amory suddenly. “I hate them for being poor. Poverty may have been beautiful once, but it's rotten now. It's the ugliest thing in the world. It's essentially49 cleaner to be corrupt50 and rich than it is to be innocent and poor.” He seemed to see again a figure whose significance had once impressed him—a well-dressed young man gazing from a club window on Fifth Avenue and saying something to his companion with a look of utter disgust. Probably, thought Amory, what he said was: “My God! Aren't people horrible!”
Never before in his life had Amory considered poor people. He thought cynically51 how completely he was lacking in all human sympathy. O. Henry had found in these people romance, pathos52, love, hate—Amory saw only coarseness, physical filth53, and stupidity. He made no self-accusations: never any more did he reproach himself for feelings that were natural and sincere. He accepted all his reactions as a part of him, unchangeable, unmoral. This problem of poverty transformed, magnified, attached to some grander, more dignified54 attitude might some day even be his problem; at present it roused only his profound distaste.
He walked over to Fifth Avenue, dodging55 the blind, black menace of umbrellas, and standing56 in front of Delmonico's hailed an auto-bus. Buttoning his coat closely around him he climbed to the roof, where he rode in solitary state through the thin, persistent57 rain, stung into alertness by the cool moisture perpetually reborn on his cheek. Somewhere in his mind a conversation began, rather resumed its place in his attention. It was composed not of two voices, but of one, which acted alike as questioner and answerer:
Question.—Well—what's the situation?
Answer.—That I have about twenty-four dollars to my name.
Q.—You have the Lake Geneva estate.
A.—But I intend to keep it.
Q.—Can you live?
A.—I can't imagine not being able to. People make money in books and I've found that I can always do the things that people do in books. Really they are the only things I can do.
Q.—Be definite.
A.—I don't know what I'll do—nor have I much curiosity. To-morrow I'm going to leave New York for good. It's a bad town unless you're on top of it.
Q.—Do you want a lot of money?
A.—No. I am merely afraid of being poor.
Q.—Very afraid?
A.—Just passively afraid.
Q.—Where are you drifting?
A.—Don't ask me!
Q.—Don't you care?
A.—Rather. I don't want to commit moral suicide.
Q.—Have you no interests left?
A.—None. I've no more virtue58 to lose. Just as a cooling pot gives off heat, so all through youth and adolescence59 we give off calories of virtue. That's what's called ingenuousness60.
Q.—An interesting idea.
A.—That's why a “good man going wrong” attracts people. They stand around and literally61 warm themselves at the calories of virtue he gives off. Sarah makes an unsophisticated remark and the faces simper in delight—“How innocent the poor child is!” They're warming themselves at her virtue. But Sarah sees the simper and never makes that remark again. Only she feels a little colder after that.
Q.—All your calories gone?
A.—All of them. I'm beginning to warm myself at other people's virtue.
Q.—Are you corrupt?
A.—I think so. I'm not sure. I'm not sure about good and evil at all any more.
Q.—Is that a bad sign in itself?
A.—Not necessarily.
Q.—What would be the test of corruption62?
A.—Becoming really insincere—calling myself “not such a bad fellow,” thinking I regretted my lost youth when I only envy the delights of losing it. Youth is like having a big plate of candy. Sentimentalists think they want to be in the pure, simple state they were in before they ate the candy. They don't. They just want the fun of eating it all over again. The matron doesn't want to repeat her girlhood—she wants to repeat her honeymoon63. I don't want to repeat my innocence64. I want the pleasure of losing it again.
Q.—Where are you drifting?
This dialogue merged18 grotesquely65 into his mind's most familiar state—a grotesque66 blending of desires, worries, exterior67 impressions and physical reactions.
One Hundred and Twenty-seventh Street—or One Hundred and Thirty-seventh Street.... Two and three look alike—no, not much. Seat damp... are clothes absorbing wetness from seat, or seat absorbing dryness from clothes?... Sitting on wet substance gave appendicitis68, so Froggy Parker's mother said. Well, he'd had it—I'll sue the steamboat company, Beatrice said, and my uncle has a quarter interest—did Beatrice go to heaven?... probably not—He represented Beatrice's immortality69, also love-affairs of numerous dead men who surely had never thought of him... if it wasn't appendicitis, influenza70 maybe. What? One Hundred and Twentieth Street? That must have been One Hundred and Twelfth back there. One O Two instead of One Two Seven. Rosalind not like Beatrice, Eleanor like Beatrice, only wilder and brainier. Apartments along here expensive—probably hundred and fifty a month—maybe two hundred. Uncle had only paid hundred a month for whole great big house in Minneapolis. Question—were the stairs on the left or right as you came in? Anyway, in 12 Univee they were straight back and to the left. What a dirty river—want to go down there and see if it's dirty—French rivers all brown or black, so were Southern rivers. Twenty-four dollars meant four hundred and eighty doughnuts. He could live on it three months and sleep in the park. Wonder where Jill was—Jill Bayne, Fayne, Sayne—what the devil—neck hurts, darned uncomfortable seat. No desire to sleep with Jill, what could Alec see in her? Alec had a coarse taste in women. Own taste the best; Isabelle, Clara, Rosalind, Eleanor, were all-American. Eleanor would pitch, probably southpaw. Rosalind was outfield, wonderful hitter, Clara first base, maybe. Wonder what Humbird's body looked like now. If he himself hadn't been bayonet instructor71 he'd have gone up to line three months sooner, probably been killed. Where's the darned bell—
The street numbers of Riverside Drive were obscured by the mist and dripping trees from anything but the swiftest scrutiny72, but Amory had finally caught sight of one—One Hundred and Twenty-seventh Street. He got off and with no distinct destination followed a winding73, descending74 sidewalk and came out facing the river, in particular a long pier75 and a partitioned litter of shipyards for miniature craft: small launches, canoes, rowboats, and catboats. He turned northward76 and followed the shore, jumped a small wire fence and found himself in a great disorderly yard adjoining a dock. The hulls77 of many boats in various stages of repair were around him; he smelled sawdust and paint and the scarcely distinguishable fiat78 odor of the Hudson. A man approached through the heavy gloom.
“Hello,” said Amory.
“Got a pass?”
“No. Is this private?”
“This is the Hudson River Sporting and Yacht Club.”
“Oh! I didn't know. I'm just resting.”
“I'll go if you want me to.”
The man made non-committal noises in his throat and passed on. Amory seated himself on an overturned boat and leaned forward thoughtfully until his chin rested in his hand.
“Misfortune is liable to make me a damn bad man,” he said slowly.
While the rain drizzled82 on Amory looked futilely83 back at the stream of his life, all its glitterings and dirty shallows. To begin with, he was still afraid—not physically84 afraid any more, but afraid of people and prejudice and misery85 and monotony. Yet, deep in his bitter heart, he wondered if he was after all worse than this man or the next. He knew that he could sophisticate himself finally into saying that his own weakness was just the result of circumstances and environment; that often when he raged at himself as an egotist something would whisper ingratiatingly: “No. Genius!” That was one manifestation86 of fear, that voice which whispered that he could not be both great and good, that genius was the exact combination of those inexplicable87 grooves88 and twists in his mind, that any discipline would curb89 it to mediocrity. Probably more than any concrete vice90 or failing Amory despised his own personality—he loathed91 knowing that to-morrow and the thousand days after he would swell92 pompously93 at a compliment and sulk at an ill word like a third-rate musician or a first-class actor. He was ashamed of the fact that very simple and honest people usually distrusted him; that he had been cruel, often, to those who had sunk their personalities94 in him—several girls, and a man here and there through college, that he had been an evil influence on; people who had followed him here and there into mental adventures from which he alone rebounded95 unscathed.
Usually, on nights like this, for there had been many lately, he could escape from this consuming introspection by thinking of children and the infinite possibilities of children—he leaned and listened and he heard a startled baby awake in a house across the street and lend a tiny whimper to the still night. Quick as a flash he turned away, wondering with a touch of panic whether something in the brooding despair of his mood had made a darkness in its tiny soul. He shivered. What if some day the balance was overturned, and he became a thing that frightened children and crept into rooms in the dark, approached dim communion with those phantoms96 who whispered shadowy secrets to the mad of that dark continent upon the moon....
Amory smiled a bit.
“You're too much wrapped up in yourself,” he heard some one say. And again—
“Get out and do some real work—”
“Stop worrying—”
He fancied a possible future comment of his own.
“Yes—I was perhaps an egotist in youth, but I soon found it made me morbid97 to think too much about myself.”
Suddenly he felt an overwhelming desire to let himself go to the devil—not to go violently as a gentleman should, but to sink safely and sensuously98 out of sight. He pictured himself in an adobe99 house in Mexico, half-reclining on a rug-covered couch, his slender, artistic100 fingers closed on a cigarette while he listened to guitars strumming melancholy101 undertones to an age-old dirge102 of Castile and an olive-skinned, carmine-lipped girl caressed103 his hair. Here he might live a strange litany, delivered from right and wrong and from the hound of heaven and from every God (except the exotic Mexican one who was pretty slack himself and rather addicted104 to Oriental scents)—delivered from success and hope and poverty into that long chute of indulgence which led, after all, only to the artificial lake of death.
There were so many places where one might deteriorate105 pleasantly: Port Said, Shanghai, parts of Turkestan, Constantinople, the South Seas—all lands of sad, haunting music and many odors, where lust106 could be a mode and expression of life, where the shades of night skies and sunsets would seem to reflect only moods of passion: the colors of lips and poppies.
STILL WEEDING
Once he had been miraculously able to scent7 evil as a horse detects a broken bridge at night, but the man with the queer feet in Phoebe's room had diminished to the aura over Jill. His instinct perceived the fetidness of poverty, but no longer ferreted out the deeper evils in pride and sensuality.
There were no more wise men; there were no more heroes; Burne Holiday was sunk from sight as though he had never lived; Monsignor was dead. Amory had grown up to a thousand books, a thousand lies; he had listened eagerly to people who pretended to know, who knew nothing. The mystical reveries of saints that had once filled him with awe107 in the still hours of night, now vaguely108 repelled109 him. The Byrons and Brookes who had defied life from mountain tops were in the end but flaneurs and poseurs110, at best mistaking the shadow of courage for the substance of wisdom. The pageantry of his disillusion111 took shape in a world-old procession of Prophets, Athenians, Martyrs112, Saints, Scientists, Don Juans, Jesuits, Puritans, Fausts, Poets, Pacifists; like costumed alumni at a college reunion they streamed before him as their dreams, personalities, and creeds had in turn thrown colored lights on his soul; each had tried to express the glory of life and the tremendous significance of man; each had boasted of synchronizing113 what had gone before into his own rickety generalities; each had depended after all on the set stage and the convention of the theatre, which is that man in his hunger for faith will feed his mind with the nearest and most convenient food.
Women—of whom he had expected so much; whose beauty he had hoped to transmute114 into modes of art; whose unfathomable instincts, marvellously incoherent and inarticulate, he had thought to perpetuate115 in terms of experience—had become merely consecrations to their own posterity116. Isabelle, Clara, Rosalind, Eleanor, were all removed by their very beauty, around which men had swarmed117, from the possibility of contributing anything but a sick heart and a page of puzzled words to write.
Amory based his loss of faith in help from others on several sweeping118 syllogisms. Granted that his generation, however bruised119 and decimated from this Victorian war, were the heirs of progress. Waving aside petty differences of conclusions which, although they might occasionally cause the deaths of several millions of young men, might be explained away—supposing that after all Bernard Shaw and Bernhardi, Bonar Law and Bethmann-Hollweg were mutual120 heirs of progress if only in agreeing against the ducking of witches—waiving the antitheses121 and approaching individually these men who seemed to be the leaders, he was repelled by the discrepancies122 and contradictions in the men themselves.
There was, for example, Thornton Hancock, respected by half the intellectual world as an authority on life, a man who had verified and believed the code he lived by, an educator of educators, an adviser123 to Presidents—yet Amory knew that this man had, in his heart, leaned on the priest of another religion.
And Monsignor, upon whom a cardinal124 rested, had moments of strange and horrible insecurity—inexplicable in a religion that explained even disbelief in terms of its own faith: if you doubted the devil it was the devil that made you doubt him. Amory had seen Monsignor go to the houses of stolid125 philistines126, read popular novels furiously, saturate127 himself in routine, to escape from that horror.
And this priest, a little wiser, somewhat purer, had been, Amory knew, not essentially older than he.
Amory was alone—he had escaped from a small enclosure into a great labyrinth128. He was where Goethe was when he began “Faust”; he was where Conrad was when he wrote “Almayer's Folly129.”
Amory said to himself that there were essentially two sorts of people who through natural clarity or disillusion left the enclosure and sought the labyrinth. There were men like Wells and Plato, who had, half unconsciously, a strange, hidden orthodoxy, who would accept for themselves only what could be accepted for all men—incurable romanticists who never, for all their efforts, could enter the labyrinth as stark130 souls; there were on the other hand sword-like pioneering personalities, Samuel Butler, Renan, Voltaire, who progressed much slower, yet eventually much further, not in the direct pessimistic line of speculative131 philosophy but concerned in the eternal attempt to attach a positive value to life....
Amory stopped. He began for the first time in his life to have a strong distrust of all generalities and epigrams. They were too easy, too dangerous to the public mind. Yet all thought usually reached the public after thirty years in some such form: Benson and Chesterton had popularized Huysmans and Newman; Shaw had sugar-coated Nietzsche and Ibsen and Schopenhauer. The man in the street heard the conclusions of dead genius through some one else's clever paradoxes132 and didactic epigrams.
Life was a damned muddle133... a football game with every one off-side and the referee134 gotten rid of—every one claiming the referee would have been on his side....
Progress was a labyrinth... people plunging135 blindly in and then rushing wildly back, shouting that they had found it... the invisible king—the elan vital—the principle of evolution... writing a book, starting a war, founding a school....
Amory, even had he not been a selfish man, would have started all inquiries136 with himself. He was his own best example—sitting in the rain, a human creature of sex and pride, foiled by chance and his own temperament137 of the balm of love and children, preserved to help in building up the living consciousness of the race.
In self-reproach and loneliness and disillusion he came to the entrance of the labyrinth.
Another dawn flung itself across the river, a belated taxi hurried along the street, its lamps still shining like burning eyes in a face white from a night's carouse138. A melancholy siren sounded far down the river.
MONSIGNOR
Amory kept thinking how Monsignor would have enjoyed his own funeral. It was magnificently Catholic and liturgical139. Bishop140 O'Neill sang solemn high mass and the cardinal gave the final absolutions. Thornton Hancock, Mrs. Lawrence, the British and Italian ambassadors, the papal delegate, and a host of friends and priests were there—yet the inexorable shears141 had cut through all these threads that Monsignor had gathered into his hands. To Amory it was a haunting grief to see him lying in his coffin142, with closed hands upon his purple vestments. His face had not changed, and, as he never knew he was dying, it showed no pain or fear. It was Amory's dear old friend, his and the others'—for the church was full of people with daft, staring faces, the most exalted143 seeming the most stricken.
The cardinal, like an archangel in cope and mitre, sprinkled the holy water; the organ broke into sound; the choir144 began to sing the Requiem145 Eternam.
All these people grieved because they had to some extent depended upon Monsignor. Their grief was more than sentiment for the “crack in his voice or a certain break in his walk,” as Wells put it. These people had leaned on Monsignor's faith, his way of finding cheer, of making religion a thing of lights and shadows, making all light and shadow merely aspects of God. People felt safe when he was near.
Of Amory's attempted sacrifice had been born merely the full realization146 of his disillusion, but of Monsignor's funeral was born the romantic elf who was to enter the labyrinth with him. He found something that he wanted, had always wanted and always would want—not to be admired, as he had feared; not to be loved, as he had made himself believe; but to be necessary to people, to be indispensable; he remembered the sense of security he had found in Burne.
Life opened up in one of its amazing bursts of radiance and Amory suddenly and permanently147 rejected an old epigram that had been playing listlessly in his mind: “Very few things matter and nothing matters very much.”
On the contrary, Amory felt an immense desire to give people a sense of security.
On the day that Amory started on his walk to Princeton the sky was a colorless vault149, cool, high and barren of the threat of rain. It was a gray day, that least fleshly of all weathers; a day of dreams and far hopes and clear visions. It was a day easily associated with those abstract truths and purities that dissolve in the sunshine or fade out in mocking laughter by the light of the moon. The trees and clouds were carved in classical severity; the sounds of the countryside had harmonized to a monotone, metallic150 as a trumpet151, breathless as the Grecian urn10.
The day had put Amory in such a contemplative mood that he caused much annoyance152 to several motorists who were forced to slow up considerably153 or else run him down. So engrossed154 in his thoughts was he that he was scarcely surprised at that strange phenomenon—cordiality manifested within fifty miles of Manhattan—when a passing car slowed down beside him and a voice hailed him. He looked up and saw a magnificent Locomobile in which sat two middle-aged155 men, one of them small and anxious looking, apparently156 an artificial growth on the other who was large and begoggled and imposing157.
“Do you want a lift?” asked the apparently artificial growth, glancing from the corner of his eye at the imposing man as if for some habitual158, silent corroboration159.
“You bet I do. Thanks.”
The chauffeur160 swung open the door, and, climbing in, Amory settled himself in the middle of the back seat. He took in his companions curiously161. The chief characteristic of the big man seemed to be a great confidence in himself set off against a tremendous boredom162 with everything around him. That part of his face which protruded163 under the goggles was what is generally termed “strong”; rolls of not undignified fat had collected near his chin; somewhere above was a wide thin mouth and the rough model for a Roman nose, and, below, his shoulders collapsed164 without a struggle into the powerful bulk of his chest and belly165. He was excellently and quietly dressed. Amory noticed that he was inclined to stare straight at the back of the chauffeur's head as if speculating steadily166 but hopelessly some baffling hirsute167 problem.
The smaller man was remarkable168 only for his complete submersion in the personality of the other. He was of that lower secretarial type who at forty have engraved169 upon their business cards: “Assistant to the President,” and without a sigh consecrate170 the rest of their lives to second-hand171 mannerisms.
“Going far?” asked the smaller man in a pleasant disinterested172 way.
“Quite a stretch.”
“Hiking for exercise?”
“No,” responded Amory succinctly173, “I'm walking because I can't afford to ride.”
“Oh.”
Then again:
“Are you looking for work? Because there's lots of work,” he continued rather testily174. “All this talk of lack of work. The West is especially short of labor175.” He expressed the West with a sweeping, lateral176 gesture. Amory nodded politely.
“Have you a trade?”
No—Amory had no trade.
“Clerk, eh?”
No—Amory was not a clerk.
“Whatever your line is,” said the little man, seeming to agree wisely with something Amory had said, “now is the time of opportunity and business openings.” He glanced again toward the big man, as a lawyer grilling177 a witness glances involuntarily at the jury.
Amory decided178 that he must say something and for the life of him could think of only one thing to say.
“Of course I want a great lot of money—”
The little man laughed mirthlessly but conscientiously179.
“That's what every one wants nowadays, but they don't want to work for it.”
“A very natural, healthy desire. Almost all normal people want to be rich without great effort—except the financiers in problem plays, who want to 'crash their way through.' Don't you want easy money?”
“Of course not,” said the secretary indignantly.
“But,” continued Amory disregarding him, “being very poor at present I am contemplating181 socialism as possibly my forte182.”
Both men glanced at him curiously.
“These bomb throwers—” The little man ceased as words lurched ponderously183 from the big man's chest.
“If I thought you were a bomb thrower I'd run you over to the Newark jail. That's what I think of Socialists185.”
Amory laughed.
“What are you,” asked the big man, “one of these parlor186 Bolsheviks, one of these idealists? I must say I fail to see the difference. The idealists loaf around and write the stuff that stirs up the poor immigrants.”
“What's your difficulty? Lost your job?”
“Not exactly, but—well, call it that.”
“What was it?”
“Writing copy for an advertising188 agency.”
“Lots of money in advertising.”
Amory smiled discreetly189.
“Oh, I'll admit there's money in it eventually. Talent doesn't starve any more. Even art gets enough to eat these days. Artists draw your magazine covers, write your advertisements, hash out rag-time for your theatres. By the great commercializing of printing you've found a harmless, polite occupation for every genius who might have carved his own niche190. But beware the artist who's an intellectual also. The artist who doesn't fit—the Rousseau, the Tolstoi, the Samuel Butler, the Amory Blaine—”
“Who's he?” demanded the little man suspiciously.
“Well,” said Amory, “he's a—he's an intellectual personage not very well known at present.”
The little man laughed his conscientious180 laugh, and stopped rather suddenly as Amory's burning eyes turned on him.
“What are you laughing at?”
“These intellectual people—”
“Do you know what it means?”
“Why, it usually means—”
“It always means brainy and well-educated,” interrupted Amory. “It means having an active knowledge of the race's experience.” Amory decided to be very rude. He turned to the big man. “The young man,” he indicated the secretary with his thumb, and said young man as one says bell-boy, with no implication of youth, “has the usual muddled193 connotation of all popular words.”
“You object to the fact that capital controls printing?” said the big man, fixing him with his goggles.
“Yes—and I object to doing their mental work for them. It seemed to me that the root of all the business I saw around me consisted in overworking and underpaying a bunch of dubs194 who submitted to it.”
“Here now,” said the big man, “you'll have to admit that the laboring195 man is certainly highly paid—five and six hour days—it's ridiculous. You can't buy an honest day's work from a man in the trades-unions.”
“You've brought it on yourselves,” insisted Amory. “You people never make concessions196 until they're wrung197 out of you.”
“What people?”
“Your class; the class I belonged to until recently; those who by inheritance or industry or brains or dishonesty have become the moneyed class.”
“Do you imagine that if that road-mender over there had the money he'd be any more willing to give it up?”
“No, but what's that got to do with it?”
The older man considered.
“No, I'll admit it hasn't. It rather sounds as if it had though.”
“In fact,” continued Amory, “he'd be worse. The lower classes are narrower, less pleasant and personally more selfish—certainly more stupid. But all that has nothing to do with the question.”
“Just exactly what is the question?”
Here Amory had to pause to consider exactly what the question was.
AMORY COINS A PHRASE
“When life gets hold of a brainy man of fair education,” began Amory slowly, “that is, when he marries he becomes, nine times out of ten, a conservative as far as existing social conditions are concerned. He may be unselfish, kind-hearted, even just in his own way, but his first job is to provide and to hold fast. His wife shoos him on, from ten thousand a year to twenty thousand a year, on and on, in an enclosed treadmill198 that hasn't any windows. He's done! Life's got him! He's no help! He's a spiritually married man.”
Amory paused and decided that it wasn't such a bad phrase.
“Some men,” he continued, “escape the grip. Maybe their wives have no social ambitions; maybe they've hit a sentence or two in a 'dangerous book' that pleased them; maybe they started on the treadmill as I did and were knocked off. Anyway, they're the congressmen you can't bribe199, the Presidents who aren't politicians, the writers, speakers, scientists, statesmen who aren't just popular grab-bags for a half-dozen women and children.”
“Yes,” said Amory. “He may vary from the disillusioned201 critic like old Thornton Hancock, all the way to Trotsky. Now this spiritually unmarried man hasn't direct power, for unfortunately the spiritually married man, as a by-product202 of his money chase, has garnered203 in the great newspaper, the popular magazine, the influential204 weekly—so that Mrs. Newspaper, Mrs. Magazine, Mrs. Weekly can have a better limousine205 than those oil people across the street or those cement people 'round the corner.”
“Why not?”
“It makes wealthy men the keepers of the world's intellectual conscience and, of course, a man who has money under one set of social institutions quite naturally can't risk his family's happiness by letting the clamor for another appear in his newspaper.”
“But it appears,” said the big man.
“Where?—in the discredited206 mediums. Rotten cheap-papered weeklies.”
“All right—go on.”
“Well, my first point is that through a mixture of conditions of which the family is the first, there are these two sorts of brains. One sort takes human nature as it finds it, uses its timidity, its weakness, and its strength for its own ends. Opposed is the man who, being spiritually unmarried, continually seeks for new systems that will control or counteract207 human nature. His problem is harder. It is not life that's complicated, it's the struggle to guide and control life. That is his struggle. He is a part of progress—the spiritually married man is not.”
The big man produced three big cigars, and proffered208 them on his huge palm. The little man took one, Amory shook his head and reached for a cigarette.
“Go on talking,” said the big man. “I've been wanting to hear one of you fellows.”
GOING FASTER
“Modern life,” began Amory again, “changes no longer century by century, but year by year, ten times faster than it ever has before—populations doubling, civilizations unified209 more closely with other civilizations, economic interdependence, racial questions, and—we're dawdling210 along. My idea is that we've got to go very much faster.” He slightly emphasized the last words and the chauffeur unconsciously increased the speed of the car. Amory and the big man laughed; the little man laughed, too, after a pause.
“Every child,” said Amory, “should have an equal start. If his father can endow him with a good physique and his mother with some common sense in his early education, that should be his heritage. If the father can't give him a good physique, if the mother has spent in chasing men the years in which she should have been preparing herself to educate her children, so much the worse for the child. He shouldn't be artificially bolstered211 up with money, sent to these horrible tutoring schools, dragged through college... Every boy ought to have an equal start.”
“All right,” said the big man, his goggles indicating neither approval nor objection.
“Next I'd have a fair trial of government ownership of all industries.”
“That's been proven a failure.”
“No—it merely failed. If we had government ownership we'd have the best analytical212 business minds in the government working for something besides themselves. We'd have Mackays instead of Burlesons; we'd have Morgans in the Treasury213 Department; we'd have Hills running interstate commerce. We'd have the best lawyers in the Senate.”
“They wouldn't give their best efforts for nothing. McAdoo—”
“No,” said Amory, shaking his head. “Money isn't the only stimulus214 that brings out the best that's in a man, even in America.”
“You said a while ago that it was.”
“It is, right now. But if it were made illegal to have more than a certain amount the best men would all flock for the one other reward which attracts humanity—honor.”
The big man made a sound that was very like boo.
“That's the silliest thing you've said yet.”
“No, it isn't silly. It's quite plausible215. If you'd gone to college you'd have been struck by the fact that the men there would work twice as hard for any one of a hundred petty honors as those other men did who were earning their way through.”
“Not by a darned sight—unless we're all children. Did you ever see a grown man when he's trying for a secret society—or a rising family whose name is up at some club? They'll jump when they hear the sound of the word. The idea that to make a man work you've got to hold gold in front of his eyes is a growth, not an axiom. We've done that for so long that we've forgotten there's any other way. We've made a world where that's necessary. Let me tell you”—Amory became emphatic—“if there were ten men insured against either wealth or starvation, and offered a green ribbon for five hours' work a day and a blue ribbon for ten hours' work a day, nine out of ten of them would be trying for the blue ribbon. That competitive instinct only wants a badge. If the size of their house is the badge they'll sweat their heads off for that. If it's only a blue ribbon, I damn near believe they'll work just as hard. They have in other ages.”
“I don't agree with you.”
“I know it,” said Amory nodding sadly. “It doesn't matter any more though. I think these people are going to come and take what they want pretty soon.”
“Machine-guns!”
“Ah, but you've taught them their use.”
The big man shook his head.
“In this country there are enough property owners not to permit that sort of thing.”
Amory wished he knew the statistics of property owners and non-property owners; he decided to change the subject.
But the big man was aroused.
“When you talk of 'taking things away,' you're on dangerous ground.”
“How can they get it without taking it? For years people have been stalled off with promises. Socialism may not be progress, but the threat of the red flag is certainly the inspiring force of all reform. You've got to be sensational219 to get attention.”
“Russia is your example of a beneficent violence, I suppose?”
“Quite possibly,” admitted Amory. “Of course, it's overflowing220 just as the French Revolution did, but I've no doubt that it's really a great experiment and well worth while.”
“Don't you believe in moderation?”
“You won't listen to the moderates, and it's almost too late. The truth is that the public has done one of those startling and amazing things that they do about once in a hundred years. They've seized an idea.”
“What is it?”
“That however the brains and abilities of men may differ, their stomachs are essentially the same.”
THE LITTLE MAN GETS HIS
“If you took all the money in the world,” said the little man with much profundity221, “and divided it up in equ—”
“Oh, shut up!” said Amory briskly and, paying no attention to the little man's enraged222 stare, he went on with his argument.
“The human stomach—” he began; but the big man interrupted rather impatiently.
“I'm letting you talk, you know,” he said, “but please avoid stomachs. I've been feeling mine all day. Anyway, I don't agree with one-half you've said. Government ownership is the basis of your whole argument, and it's invariably a beehive of corruption. Men won't work for blue ribbons, that's all rot.”
When he ceased the little man spoke223 up with a determined224 nod, as if resolved this time to have his say out.
“There are certain things which are human nature,” he asserted with an owl-like look, “which always have been and always will be, which can't be changed.”
Amory looked from the small man to the big man helplessly.
“Listen to that! That's what makes me discouraged with progress. Listen to that! I can name offhand225 over one hundred natural phenomena226 that have been changed by the will of man—a hundred instincts in man that have been wiped out or are now held in check by civilization. What this man here just said has been for thousands of years the last refuge of the associated mutton-heads of the world. It negates227 the efforts of every scientist, statesman, moralist, reformer, doctor, and philosopher that ever gave his life to humanity's service. It's a flat impeachment228 of all that's worth while in human nature. Every person over twenty-five years old who makes that statement in cold blood ought to be deprived of the franchise229.”
The little man leaned back against the seat, his face purple with rage. Amory continued, addressing his remarks to the big man.
“These quarter-educated, stale-minded men such as your friend here, who think they think, every question that comes up, you'll find his type in the usual ghastly muddle. One minute it's 'the brutality230 and inhumanity of these Prussians'—the next it's 'we ought to exterminate231 the whole German people.' They always believe that 'things are in a bad way now,' but they 'haven't any faith in these idealists.' One minute they call Wilson 'just a dreamer, not practical'—a year later they rail at him for making his dreams realities. They haven't clear logical ideas on one single subject except a sturdy, stolid opposition232 to all change. They don't think uneducated people should be highly paid, but they won't see that if they don't pay the uneducated people their children are going to be uneducated too, and we're going round and round in a circle. That—is the great middle class!”
The big man with a broad grin on his face leaned over and smiled at the little man.
The little man made an attempt to smile and act as if the whole matter were so ridiculous as to be beneath notice. But Amory was not through.
“The theory that people are fit to govern themselves rests on this man. If he can be educated to think clearly, concisely234, and logically, freed of his habit of taking refuge in platitudes235 and prejudices and sentimentalisms, then I'm a militant236 Socialist184. If he can't, then I don't think it matters much what happens to man or his systems, now or hereafter.”
“I am both interested and amused,” said the big man. “You are very young.”
“Which may only mean that I have neither been corrupted237 nor made timid by contemporary experience. I possess the most valuable experience, the experience of the race, for in spite of going to college I've managed to pick up a good education.”
“It's not all rubbish,” cried Amory passionately239. “This is the first time in my life I've argued Socialism. It's the only panacea240 I know. I'm restless. My whole generation is restless. I'm sick of a system where the richest man gets the most beautiful girl if he wants her, where the artist without an income has to sell his talents to a button manufacturer. Even if I had no talents I'd not be content to work ten years, condemned241 either to celibacy242 or a furtive243 indulgence, to give some man's son an automobile244.”
“But, if you're not sure—”
“That doesn't matter,” exclaimed Amory. “My position couldn't be worse. A social revolution might land me on top. Of course I'm selfish. It seems to me I've been a fish out of water in too many outworn systems. I was probably one of the two dozen men in my class at college who got a decent education; still they'd let any well-tutored flathead play football and I was ineligible245, because some silly old men thought we should all profit by conic sections. I loathed the army. I loathed business. I'm in love with change and I've killed my conscience—”
“So you'll go along crying that we must go faster.”
“That, at least, is true,” Amory insisted. “Reform won't catch up to the needs of civilization unless it's made to. A laissez-faire policy is like spoiling a child by saying he'll turn out all right in the end. He will—if he's made to.”
“But you don't believe all this Socialist patter you talk.”
“I don't know. Until I talked to you I hadn't thought seriously about it. I wasn't sure of half of what I said.”
“You puzzle me,” said the big man, “but you're all alike. They say Bernard Shaw, in spite of his doctrines246, is the most exacting247 of all dramatists about his royalties248. To the last farthing.”
“Well,” said Amory, “I simply state that I'm a product of a versatile249 mind in a restless generation—with every reason to throw my mind and pen in with the radicals250. Even if, deep in my heart, I thought we were all blind atoms in a world as limited as a stroke of a pendulum251, I and my sort would struggle against tradition; try, at least, to displace old cants with new ones. I've thought I was right about life at various times, but faith is difficult. One thing I know. If living isn't a seeking for the grail it may be a damned amusing game.”
For a minute neither spoke and then the big man asked:
“What was your university?”
“Princeton.”
The big man became suddenly interested; the expression of his goggles altered slightly.
“I sent my son to Princeton.”
“Did you?”
“Perhaps you knew him. His name was Jesse Ferrenby. He was killed last year in France.”
“I knew him very well. In fact, he was one of my particular friends.”
“He was—a—quite a fine boy. We were very close.”
Amory began to perceive a resemblance between the father and the dead son and he told himself that there had been all along a sense of familiarity. Jesse Ferrenby, the man who in college had borne off the crown that he had aspired252 to. It was all so far away. What little boys they had been, working for blue ribbons—
The car slowed up at the entrance to a great estate, ringed around by a huge hedge and a tall iron fence.
“Won't you come in for lunch?”
Amory shook his head.
“Thank you, Mr. Ferrenby, but I've got to get on.”
The big man held out his hand. Amory saw that the fact that he had known Jesse more than outweighed253 any disfavor he had created by his opinions. What ghosts were people with which to work! Even the little man insisted on shaking hands.
“Good-by!” shouted Mr. Ferrenby, as the car turned the corner and started up the drive. “Good luck to you and bad luck to your theories.”
“Same to you, sir,” cried Amory, smiling and waving his hand.
“OUT OF THE FIRE, OUT OF THE LITTLE ROOM”
Eight hours from Princeton Amory sat down by the Jersey254 roadside and looked at the frost-bitten country. Nature as a rather coarse phenomenon composed largely of flowers that, when closely inspected, appeared moth-eaten, and of ants that endlessly traversed blades of grass, was always disillusioning255; nature represented by skies and waters and far horizons was more likable. Frost and the promise of winter thrilled him now, made him think of a wild battle between St. Regis and Groton, ages ago, seven years ago—and of an autumn day in France twelve months before when he had lain in tall grass, his platoon flattened256 down close around him, waiting to tap the shoulders of a Lewis gunner. He saw the two pictures together with somewhat the same primitive257 exaltation—two games he had played, differing in quality of acerbity258, linked in a way that differed them from Rosalind or the subject of labyrinths259 which were, after all, the business of life.
“I am selfish,” he thought.
“This is not a quality that will change when I 'see human suffering' or 'lose my parents' or 'help others.'
“This selfishness is not only part of me. It is the most living part.
“It is by somehow transcending260 rather than by avoiding that selfishness that I can bring poise261 and balance into my life.
“There is no virtue of unselfishness that I cannot use. I can make sacrifices, be charitable, give to a friend, endure for a friend, lay down my life for a friend—all because these things may be the best possible expression of myself; yet I have not one drop of the milk of human kindness.”
The problem of evil had solidified262 for Amory into the problem of sex. He was beginning to identify evil with the strong phallic worship in Brooke and the early Wells. Inseparably linked with evil was beauty—beauty, still a constant rising tumult263; soft in Eleanor's voice, in an old song at night, rioting deliriously264 through life like superimposed waterfalls, half rhythm, half darkness. Amory knew that every time he had reached toward it longingly265 it had leered out at him with the grotesque face of evil. Beauty of great art, beauty of all joy, most of all the beauty of women.
After all, it had too many associations with license266 and indulgence. Weak things were often beautiful, weak things were never good. And in this new loneness of his that had been selected for what greatness he might achieve, beauty must be relative or, itself a harmony, it would make only a discord267.
In a sense this gradual renunciation of beauty was the second step after his disillusion had been made complete. He felt that he was leaving behind him his chance of being a certain type of artist. It seemed so much more important to be a certain sort of man.
His mind turned a corner suddenly and he found himself thinking of the Catholic Church. The idea was strong in him that there was a certain intrinsic lack in those to whom orthodox religion was necessary, and religion to Amory meant the Church of Rome. Quite conceivably it was an empty ritual but it was seemingly the only assimilative, traditionary bulwark268 against the decay of morals. Until the great mobs could be educated into a moral sense some one must cry: “Thou shalt not!” Yet any acceptance was, for the present, impossible. He wanted time and the absence of ulterior pressure. He wanted to keep the tree without ornaments269, realize fully80 the direction and momentum270 of this new start.
The afternoon waned271 from the purging272 good of three o'clock to the golden beauty of four. Afterward273 he walked through the dull ache of a setting sun when even the clouds seemed bleeding and at twilight274 he came to a graveyard275. There was a dusky, dreamy smell of flowers and the ghost of a new moon in the sky and shadows everywhere. On an impulse he considered trying to open the door of a rusty276 iron vault built into the side of a hill; a vault washed clean and covered with late-blooming, weepy watery-blue flowers that might have grown from dead eyes, sticky to the touch with a sickening odor.
Amory wanted to feel “William Dayfield, 1864.”
He wondered that graves ever made people consider life in vain. Somehow he could find nothing hopeless in having lived. All the broken columns and clasped hands and doves and angels meant romances. He fancied that in a hundred years he would like having young people speculate as to whether his eyes were brown or blue, and he hoped quite passionately that his grave would have about it an air of many, many years ago. It seemed strange that out of a row of union soldiers two or three made him think of dead loves and dead lovers, when they were exactly like the rest, even to the yellowish moss277.
Long after midnight the towers and spires278 of Princeton were visible, with here and there a late-burning light—and suddenly out of the clear darkness the sound of bells. As an endless dream it went on; the spirit of the past brooding over a new generation, the chosen youth from the muddled, unchastened world, still fed romantically on the mistakes and half-forgotten dreams of dead statesmen and poets. Here was a new generation, shouting the old cries, learning the old creeds, through a revery of long days and nights; destined279 finally to go out into that dirty gray turmoil280 to follow love and pride; a new generation dedicated281 more than the last to the fear of poverty and the worship of success; grown up to find all Gods dead, all wars fought, all faiths in man shaken....
Amory, sorry for them, was still not sorry for himself—art, politics, religion, whatever his medium should be, he knew he was safe now, free from all hysteria—he could accept what was acceptable, roam, grow, rebel, sleep deep through many nights....
There was no God in his heart, he knew; his ideas were still in riot; there was ever the pain of memory; the regret for his lost youth—yet the waters of disillusion had left a deposit on his soul, responsibility and a love of life, the faint stirring of old ambitions and unrealized dreams. But—oh, Rosalind! Rosalind!...
“It's all a poor substitute at best,” he said sadly.
And he could not tell why the struggle was worth while, why he had determined to use to the utmost himself and his heritage from the personalities he had passed....
He stretched out his arms to the crystalline, radiant sky.
“I know myself,” he cried, “but that is all.”
The End
The End
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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assertive
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| adj.果断的，自信的，有冲劲的 | |
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mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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flatten
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| v.把．．．弄平，使倒伏；使(漆等)失去光泽 | |
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opalescent
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| adj.乳色的，乳白的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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glimmered
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urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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glistening
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perversely
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pawned
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clatter
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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merged
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dismal
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dense
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depressed
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sensuousness
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crutches
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rattling
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ushers
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awakening
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pallid
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swarm
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magpie
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miraculously
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capes
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stinking
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blistered
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reiterated
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sordid
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illicit
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stuffiness
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perspiration
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enveloping
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的现在分词 ) | |
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vilely
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herded
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| 群集，纠结( herd的过去式和过去分词 )； 放牧； （使）向…移动 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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mire
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loathsome
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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essentially
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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cynically
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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55
dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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56
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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57
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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58
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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59
adolescence
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| n.青春期，青少年 | |
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60
ingenuousness
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| n.率直；正直；老实 | |
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61
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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62
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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63
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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64
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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65
grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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66
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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67
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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68
appendicitis
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| n.阑尾炎，盲肠炎 | |
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69
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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70
influenza
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| n.流行性感冒，流感 | |
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71
instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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72
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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73
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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74
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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75
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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76
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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77
hulls
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| 船体( hull的名词复数 )； 船身； 外壳； 豆荚 | |
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78
fiat
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| n.命令，法令，批准；vt.批准，颁布 | |
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79
dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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80
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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81
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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82
drizzled
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| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
futilely
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| futile（无用的）的变形； 干 | |
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84
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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85
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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86
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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87
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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88
grooves
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| n.沟( groove的名词复数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏v.沟( groove的第三人称单数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏 | |
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89
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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90
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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91
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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92
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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93
pompously
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| adv.傲慢地，盛大壮观地；大模大样 | |
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94
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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95
rebounded
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| 弹回( rebound的过去式和过去分词 )； 反弹； 产生反作用； 未能奏效 | |
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96
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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97
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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98
sensuously
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| adv.感觉上 | |
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99
adobe
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| n.泥砖，土坯，美国Adobe公司 | |
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100
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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101
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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102
dirge
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| n.哀乐，挽歌，庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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103
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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105
deteriorate
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| v.变坏；恶化；退化 | |
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106
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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107
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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108
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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109
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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110
poseurs
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| n.装腔作势的人( poseur的名词复数 ) | |
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111
disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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112
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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113
synchronizing
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| v.同步，整步adj.同步的 | |
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114
transmute
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| vt.使变化，使改变 | |
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115
perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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116
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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117
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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118
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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119
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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120
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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121
antitheses
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| n.对照，对立的，对比法；对立( antithesis的名词复数 )；对立面；对照；对偶 | |
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122
discrepancies
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| n.差异，不符合（之处），不一致（之处）( discrepancy的名词复数 ) | |
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123
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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124
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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125
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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126
philistines
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| n.市侩，庸人( philistine的名词复数 )；庸夫俗子 | |
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127
saturate
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| vt.使湿透，浸透；使充满，使饱和 | |
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128
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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129
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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130
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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131
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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132
paradoxes
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| n.似非而是的隽语，看似矛盾而实际却可能正确的说法( paradox的名词复数 )；用于语言文学中的上述隽语；有矛盾特点的人[事物，情况] | |
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133
muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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134
referee
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| n.裁判员．仲裁人，代表人，鉴定人 | |
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135
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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136
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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137
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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138
carouse
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| v.狂欢；痛饮；n.狂饮的宴会 | |
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139
liturgical
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| adj.礼拜仪式的 | |
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140
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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141
shears
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| n.大剪刀 | |
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142
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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143
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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144
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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145
requiem
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| n.安魂曲，安灵曲 | |
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146
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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147
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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148
goggles
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| n.护目镜 | |
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149
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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150
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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151
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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152
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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153
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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154
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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155
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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156
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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157
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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158
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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159
corroboration
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| n.进一步的证实，进一步的证据 | |
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160
chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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161
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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162
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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163
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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164
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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165
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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166
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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167
hirsute
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| adj.多毛的 | |
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168
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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169
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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170
consecrate
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| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
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171
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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172
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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173
succinctly
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| adv.简洁地；简洁地，简便地 | |
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174
testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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175
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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176
lateral
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| adj.侧面的，旁边的 | |
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177
grilling
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| v.烧烤( grill的现在分词 )；拷问，盘问 | |
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178
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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179
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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180
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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181
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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182
forte
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| n.长处，擅长；adj.(音乐)强音的 | |
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183
ponderously
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184
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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185
socialists
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| 社会主义者( socialist的名词复数 ) | |
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186
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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187
lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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188
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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189
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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190
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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191
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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192
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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193
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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194
dubs
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| v.给…起绰号( dub的第三人称单数 )；把…称为；配音；复制 | |
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195
laboring
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| n.劳动，操劳v.努力争取(for)( labor的现在分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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196
concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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197
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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198
treadmill
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| n.踏车；单调的工作 | |
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199
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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200
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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201
disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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202
by-product
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| n.副产品，附带产生的结果 | |
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203
garnered
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| v.收集并（通常）贮藏（某物），取得，获得( garner的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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204
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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205
limousine
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| n.豪华轿车 | |
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206
discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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207
counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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208
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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209
unified
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| (unify 的过去式和过去分词)； 统一的； 统一标准的； 一元化的 | |
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210
dawdling
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| adj.闲逛的，懒散的v.混（时间）( dawdle的现在分词 ) | |
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211
bolstered
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| v.支持( bolster的过去式和过去分词 )；支撑；给予必要的支持；援助 | |
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212
analytical
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| adj.分析的；用分析法的 | |
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213
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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214
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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215
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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216
scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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217
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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218
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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219
sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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220
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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221
profundity
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| n.渊博；深奥，深刻 | |
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222
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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223
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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224
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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225
offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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226
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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227
negates
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| v.取消( negate的第三人称单数 )；使无效；否定；否认 | |
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228
impeachment
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| n.弹劾；控告；怀疑 | |
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229
franchise
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| n.特许，特权，专营权，特许权 | |
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230
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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231
exterminate
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| v.扑灭，消灭，根绝 | |
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232
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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233
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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234
concisely
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| adv.简明地 | |
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235
platitudes
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| n.平常的话，老生常谈，陈词滥调( platitude的名词复数 )；滥套子 | |
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236
militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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237
corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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238
glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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239
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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240
panacea
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| n.万灵药；治百病的灵药 | |
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241
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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242
celibacy
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| n.独身(主义) | |
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243
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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244
automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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245
ineligible
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| adj.无资格的，不适当的 | |
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246
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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247
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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248
royalties
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| 特许权使用费 | |
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249
versatile
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| adj.通用的，万用的；多才多艺的，多方面的 | |
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250
radicals
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| n.激进分子( radical的名词复数 )；根基；基本原理；[数学]根数 | |
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251
pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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252
aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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253
outweighed
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| v.在重量上超过( outweigh的过去式和过去分词 )；在重要性或价值方面超过 | |
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254
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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255
disillusioning
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| 使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭( disillusion的现在分词 ) | |
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256
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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257
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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258
acerbity
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| n.涩，酸，刻薄 | |
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259
labyrinths
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| 迷宫( labyrinth的名词复数 )； （文字，建筑）错综复杂的 | |
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260
transcending
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的现在分词 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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261
poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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262
solidified
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| （使）成为固体，（使）变硬，（使）变得坚固( solidify的过去式和过去分词 )； 使团结一致； 充实，巩固； 具体化 | |
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263
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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264
deliriously
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| adv.谵妄（性）；发狂；极度兴奋/亢奋；说胡话 | |
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265
longingly
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| adv. 渴望地 热望地 | |
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266
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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267
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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268
bulwark
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| n.堡垒，保障，防御 | |
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269
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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270
momentum
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| n.动力，冲力，势头；动量 | |
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271
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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272
purging
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| 清洗； 清除； 净化； 洗炉 | |
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273
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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274
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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275
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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276
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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277
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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278
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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279
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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280
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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281
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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