The idiosyncrasy of this town is smoke. It rolls sullenly5 in slow folds from the great chimneys of the iron-foundries, and settles down in black, slimy pools on the muddy streets. Smoke on the wharves6, smoke on the dingy8 boats, on the yellow river,—clinging in a coating of greasy9 soot10 to the house-front, the two faded poplars, the faces of the passers-by. The long train of mules11, dragging masses of pig-iron through the narrow street, have a foul vapor12 hanging to their reeking13 sides. Here, inside, is a little broken figure of an angel pointing upward from the mantel-shelf; but even its wings are covered with smoke, clotted14 and black. Smoke everywhere! A dirty canary chirps15 desolately16 in a cage beside me. Its dream of green fields and sunshine is a very old dream,—almost worn out, I think.
From the back-window I can see a narrow brick-yard sloping down to the river-side, strewed17 with rain-butts and tubs. The river, dull and tawny-colored, (la belle18 riviere!) drags itself sluggishly19 along, tired of the heavy weight of boats and coal-barges. What wonder? When I was a child, I used to fancy a look of weary, dumb appeal upon the face of the negro-like river slavishly bearing its burden day after day. Something of the same idle notion comes to me to-day, when from the street-window I look on the slow stream of human life creeping past, night and morning, to the great mills. Masses of men, with dull, besotted faces bent22 to the ground, sharpened here and there by pain or cunning; skin and muscle and flesh begrimed with smoke and ashes; stooping all night over boiling caldrons of metal, laired by day in dens23 of drunkenness and infamy24; breathing from infancy25 to death an air saturated26 with fog and grease and soot, vileness28 for soul and body. What do you make of a case like that, amateur psychologist? You call it an altogether serious thing to be alive: to these men it is a drunken jest, a joke,—horrible to angels perhaps, to them commonplace enough. My fancy about the river was an idle one: it is no type of such a life. What if it be stagnant29 and slimy here? It knows that beyond there waits for it odorous sunlight, quaint30 old gardens, dusky with soft, green foliage31 of apple-trees, and flushing crimson32 with roses,—air, and fields, and mountains. The future of the Welsh puddler33 passing just now is not so pleasant. To be stowed away, after his grimy work is done, in a hole in the muddy graveyard34, and after that, not air, nor green fields, nor curious roses.
Can you see how foggy the day is? As I stand here, idly tapping the windowpane, and looking out through the rain at the dirty back-yard and the coalboats below, fragments of an old story float up before me,—a story of this house into which I happened to come to-day. You may think it a tiresome35 story enough, as foggy as the day, sharpened by no sudden flashes of pain or pleasure.—I know: only the outline of a dull life, that long since, with thousands of dull lives like its own, was vainly lived and lost: thousands of them, massed, vile27, slimy lives, like those of the torpid36 lizards37 in yonder stagnant water-butt.—Lost? There is a curious point for you to settle, my friend, who study psychology38 in a lazy, dilettante39 way. Stop a moment. I am going to be honest. This is what I want you to do. I want you to hide your disgust, take no heed40 to your clean clothes, and come right down with me,—here, into the thickest of the fog and mud and foul effluvia. I want you to hear this story. There is a secret down here, in this nightmare fog, that has lain dumb for centuries: I want to make it a real thing to you. You, Egoist, or Pantheist, or Arminian, busy in making straight paths for your feet on the hills, do not see it clearly,—this terrible question which men here have gone mad and died trying to answer. I dare not put this secret into words. I told you it was dumb. These men, going by with drunken faces and brains full of unawakened power, do not ask it of Society or of God. Their lives ask it; their deaths ask it. There is no reply. I will tell you plainly that I have a great hope; and I bring it to you to be tested. It is this: that this terrible dumb question is its own reply; that it is not the sentence of death we think it, but, from the very extremity41 of its darkness, the most solemn prophecy which the world has known of the Hope to come. I dare make my meaning no clearer, but will only tell my story. It will, perhaps, seem to you as foul and dark as this thick vapor about us, and as pregnant with death; but if your eyes are free as mine are to look deeper, no perfume-tinted dawn will be so fair with promise of the day that shall surely come.
My story is very simple,—Only what I remember of the life of one of these men,—a furnace-tender in one of Kirby & John's rolling-mills,—Hugh Wolfe. You know the mills? They took the great order for the lower Virginia railroads there last winter; run usually with about a thousand men. I cannot tell why I choose the half-forgotten story of this Wolfe more than that of myriads42 of these furnace-hands. Perhaps because there is a secret, underlying43 sympathy between that story and this day with its impure44 fog and thwarted45 sunshine,—or perhaps simply for the reason that this house is the one where the Wolfes lived. There were the father and son,—both hands, as I said, in one of Kirby & John's mills for making railroad-iron,—and Deborah, their cousin, a picker in some of the cotton-mills. The house was rented then to half a dozen families. The Wolfes had two of the cellar-rooms. The old man, like many of the puddlers and feeders of the mills, was Welsh,—had spent half of his life in the Cornish tin-mines. You may pick the Welsh emigrants46, Cornish miners, out of the throng47 passing the windows, any day. They are a trifle more filthy48; their muscles are not so brawny49; they stoop more. When they are drunk, they neither yell, nor shout, nor stagger, but skulk50 along like beaten hounds. A pure, unmixed blood, I fancy: shows itself in the slight angular bodies and sharply-cut facial lines. It is nearly thirty years since the Wolfes lived here. Their lives were like those of their class: incessant51 labor52, sleeping in kennel-like rooms, eating rank pork and molasses, drinking—God and the distillers only know what; with an occasional night in jail, to atone53 for some drunken excess. Is that all of their lives?—of the portion given to them and these their duplicates swarming54 the streets to-day?—nothing beneath?—all? So many a political reformer will tell you,—and many a private reformer, too, who has gone among them with a heart tender with Christ's charity, and come out outraged55, hardened.
One rainy night, about eleven o'clock, a crowd of half-clothed women stopped outside of the cellar-door. They were going home from the cotton-mill.
“Good-night, Deb,” said one, a mulatto, steadying herself against the gas-post. She needed the post to steady her. So did more than one of them.
“Dah's a ball to Miss Potts' to-night. Ye'd best come.”
Two or three dirty hands were thrust out to catch the gown of the woman, who was groping for the latch57 of the door.
“No.”
“Begorra! on the spools59. Alleys60 behint, though we helped her, we dud. An wid ye! Let Deb alone! It's ondacent frettin' a quite body. Be the powers, an we'll have a night of it! there'll be lashin's o' drink,—the Vargent be blessed and praised for't!”
They went on, the mulatto inclining for a moment to show fight, and drag the woman Wolfe off with them; but, being pacified62, she staggered away.
Deborah groped her way into the cellar, and, after considerable stumbling, kindled63 a match, and lighted a tallow dip, that sent a yellow glimmer64 over the room. It was low, damp,—the earthen floor covered with a green, slimy moss,—a fetid air smothering65 the breath. Old Wolfe lay asleep on a heap of straw, wrapped in a torn horse-blanket. He was a pale, meek66 little man, with a white face and red rabbit-eyes. The woman Deborah was like him; only her face was even more ghastly, her lips bluer, her eyes more watery67. She wore a faded cotton gown and a slouching bonnet68. When she walked, one could see that she was deformed69, almost a hunchback. She trod softly, so as not to waken him, and went through into the room beyond. There she found by the half-extinguished fire an iron saucepan filled with cold boiled potatoes, which she put upon a broken chair with a pint-cup of ale. Placing the old candlestick beside this dainty repast, she untied70 her bonnet, which hung limp and wet over her face, and prepared to eat her supper. It was the first food that had touched her lips since morning. There was enough of it, however: there is not always. She was hungry,—one could see that easily enough,—and not drunk, as most of her companions would have been found at this hour. She did not drink, this woman,—her face told that, too,—nothing stronger than ale. Perhaps the weak, flaccid wretch71 had some stimulant72 in her pale life to keep her up,—some love or hope, it might be, or urgent need. When that stimulant was gone, she would take to whiskey. Man cannot live by work alone. While she was skinning the potatoes, and munching73 them, a noise behind her made her stop.
“Janey!” she called, lifting the candle and peering into the darkness. “Janey, are you there?”
A heap of ragged74 coats was heaved up, and the face of a young girl emerged, staring sleepily at the woman.
“Deborah,” she said, at last, “I'm here the night.”
“Yes, child. Hur's welcome,” she said, quietly eating on.
The girl's face was haggard and sickly; her eyes were heavy with sleep and hunger: real Milesian eyes they were, dark, delicate blue, glooming out from black shadows with a pitiful fright.
“I was alone,” she said, timidly.
“Where's the father?” asked Deborah, holding out a potato, which the girl greedily seized.
“He's beyant,—wid Haley,—in the stone house.” (Did you ever hear the word tail from an Irish mouth?) “I came here. Hugh told me never to stay me-lone.”
“Hugh?”
“Yes.”
“I have not seen Hugh the day, Deb. The old man says his watch lasts till the mornin'.”
The woman sprang up, and hastily began to arrange some bread and flitch in a tin pail, and to pour her own measure of ale into a bottle. Tying on her bonnet, she blew out the candle.
“Lay ye down, Janey dear,” she said, gently, covering her with the old rags. “Hur can eat the potatoes, if hur's hungry.
“Where are ye goin', Deb? The rain's sharp.”
“To the mill, with Hugh's supper.”
“No, no,”—sharply pushing her off. “The boy'll starve.”
She hurried from the cellar, while the child wearily coiled herself up for sleep. The rain was falling heavily, as the woman, pail in hand, emerged from the mouth of the alley61, and turned down the narrow street, that stretched out, long and black, miles before her. Here and there a flicker77 of gas lighted an uncertain space of muddy footwalk and gutter78; the long rows of houses, except an occasional lager-bier shop, were closed; now and then she met a band of millhands skulking79 to or from their work.
Not many even of the inhabitants of a manufacturing town know the vast machinery80 of system by which the bodies of workmen are governed, that goes on unceasingly from year to year. The hands of each mill are divided into watches that relieve each other as regularly as the sentinels of an army. By night and day the work goes on, the unsleeping engines groan81 and shriek82, the fiery83 pools of metal boil and surge. Only for a day in the week, in half-courtesy to public censure84, the fires are partially85 veiled; but as soon as the clock strikes midnight, the great furnaces break forth86 with renewed fury, the clamor begins with fresh, breathless vigor87, the engines sob88 and shriek like “gods in pain.”
As Deborah hurried down through the heavy rain, the noise of these thousand engines sounded through the sleep and shadow of the city like far-off thunder. The mill to which she was going lay on the river, a mile below the city-limits. It was far, and she was weak, aching from standing89 twelve hours at the spools. Yet it was her almost nightly walk to take this man his supper, though at every square she sat down to rest, and she knew she should receive small word of thanks.
Perhaps, if she had possessed90 an artist's eye, the picturesque91 oddity of the scene might have made her step stagger less, and the path seem shorter; but to her the mills were only “summat deilish to look at by night.”
The road leading to the mills had been quarried92 from the solid rock, which rose abrupt93 and bare on one side of the cinder-covered road, while the river, sluggish20 and black, crept past on the other. The mills for rolling iron are simply immense tent-like roofs, covering acres of ground, open on every side. Beneath these roofs Deborah looked in on a city of fires, that burned hot and fiercely in the night. Fire in every horrible form: pits of flame waving in the wind; liquid metal-flames writhing94 in tortuous95 streams through the sand; wide caldrons filled with boiling fire, over which bent ghastly wretches96 stirring the strange brewing97; and through all, crowds of half-clad men, looking like revengeful ghosts in the red light, hurried, throwing masses of glittering fire. It was like a street in Hell. Even Deborah muttered, as she crept through, “looks like t' Devil's place!” It did,—in more ways than one.
She found the man she was looking for, at last, heaping coal on a furnace. He had not time to eat his supper; so she went behind the furnace, and waited. Only a few men were with him, and they noticed her only by a “Hyur comes t'hunchback, Wolfe.”
Deborah was stupid with sleep; her back pained her sharply; and her teeth chattered98 with cold, with the rain that soaked her clothes and dripped from her at every step. She stood, however, patiently holding the pail, and waiting.
“Hout, woman! ye look like a drowned cat. Come near to the fire,”—said one of the men, approaching to scrape away the ashes.
She shook her head. Wolfe had forgotten her. He turned, hearing the man, and came closer.
“I did no' think; gi' me my supper, woman.”
She watched him eat with a painful eagerness. With a woman's quick instinct, she saw that he was not hungry,—was eating to please her. Her pale, watery eyes began to gather a strange light.
“Is't good, Hugh? T' ale was a bit sour, I feared.”
“No, good enough.” He hesitated a moment. “Ye're tired, poor lass! Bide here till I go. Lay down there on that heap of ash, and go to sleep.”
He threw her an old coat for a pillow, and turned to his work. The heap was the refuse of the burnt iron, and was not a hard bed; the half-smothered99 warmth, too, penetrated100 her limbs, dulling their pain and cold shiver.
Miserable101 enough she looked, lying there on the ashes like a limp, dirty rag,—yet not an unfitting figure to crown the scene of hopeless discomfort102 and veiled crime: more fitting, if one looked deeper into the heart of things, at her thwarted woman's form, her colorless life, her waking stupor103 that smothered pain and hunger,—even more fit to be a type of her class. Deeper yet if one could look, was there nothing worth reading in this wet, faded thing, halfcovered with ashes? no story of a soul filled with groping passionate104 love, heroic unselfishness, fierce jealousy105? of years of weary trying to please the one human being whom she loved, to gain one look of real heart-kindness from him? If anything like this were hidden beneath the pale, bleared eyes, and dull, washed-out-looking face, no one had ever taken the trouble to read its faint signs: not the half-clothed furnace-tender, Wolfe, certainly. Yet he was kind to her: it was his nature to be kind, even to the very rats that swarmed106 in the cellar: kind to her in just the same way. She knew that. And it might be that very knowledge had given to her face its apathy107 and vacancy108 more than her low, torpid life. One sees that dead, vacant look steal sometimes over the rarest, finest of women's faces,—in the very midst, it may be, of their warmest summer's day; and then one can guess at the secret of intolerable solitude109 that lies hid beneath the delicate laces and brilliant smile. There was no warmth, no brilliancy, no summer for this woman; so the stupor and vacancy had time to gnaw110 into her face perpetually. She was young, too, though no one guessed it; so the gnawing111 was the fiercer.
She lay quiet in the dark corner, listening, through the monotonous112 din7 and uncertain glare of the works, to the dull plash of the rain in the far distance, shrinking back whenever the man Wolfe happened to look towards her. She knew, in spite of all his kindness, that there was that in her face and form which made him loathe113 the sight of her. She felt by instinct, although she could not comprehend it, the finer nature of the man, which made him among his fellow-workmen something unique, set apart. She knew, that, down under all the vileness and coarseness of his life, there was a groping passion for whatever was beautiful and pure, that his soul sickened with disgust at her deformity, even when his words were kindest. Through this dull consciousness, which never left her, came, like a sting, the recollection of the dark blue eyes and lithe114 figure of the little Irish girl she had left in the cellar. The recollection struck through even her stupid intellect with a vivid glow of beauty and of grace. Little Janey, timid, helpless, clinging to Hugh as her only friend: that was the sharp thought, the bitter thought, that drove into the glazed115 eyes a fierce light of pain. You laugh at it? Are pain and jealousy less savage116 realities down here in this place I am taking you to than in your own house or your own heart,—your heart, which they clutch at sometimes? The note is the same, I fancy, be the octave high or low.
If you could go into this mill where Deborah lay, and drag out from the hearts of these men the terrible tragedy of their lives, taking it as a symptom of the disease of their class, no ghost Horror would terrify you more. A reality of soul-starvation, of living death, that meets you every day under the besotted faces on the street,—I can paint nothing of this, only give you the outside outlines of a night, a crisis in the life of one man: whatever muddy depth of soul-history lies beneath you can read according to the eyes God has given you.
Wolfe, while Deborah watched him as a spaniel its master, bent over the furnace with his iron pole, unconscious of her scrutiny117, only stopping to receive orders. Physically118, Nature had promised the man but little. He had already lost the strength and instinct vigor of a man, his muscles were thin, his nerves weak, his face ( a meek, woman's face) haggard, yellow with consumption. In the mill he was known as one of the girl-men: “Molly Wolfe” was his sobriquet119. He was never seen in the cockpit, did not own a terrier, drank but seldom; when he did, desperately120. He fought sometimes, but was always thrashed, pommelled to a jelly. The man was game enough, when his blood was up: but he was no favorite in the mill; he had the taint121 of school-learning on him,—not to a dangerous extent, only a quarter or so in the free-school in fact, but enough to ruin him as a good hand in a fight.
For other reasons, too, he was not popular. Not one of themselves, they felt that, though outwardly as filthy and ash-covered; silent, with foreign thoughts and longings122 breaking out through his quietness in innumerable curious ways: this one, for instance. In the neighboring furnace-buildings lay great heaps of the refuse from the ore after the pig-metal is run. Korl we call it here: a light, porous124 substance, of a delicate, waxen, flesh-colored tinge125. Out of the blocks of this korl, Wolfe, in his off-hours from the furnace, had a habit of chipping and moulding figures,—hideous, fantastic enough, but sometimes strangely beautiful: even the mill-men saw that, while they jeered126 at him. It was a curious fancy in the man, almost a passion. The few hours for rest he spent hewing127 and hacking128 with his blunt knife, never speaking, until his watch came again,—working at one figure for months, and, when it was finished, breaking it to pieces perhaps, in a fit of disappointment. A morbid129, gloomy man, untaught, unled, left to feed his soul in grossness and crime, and hard, grinding labor.
I want you to come down and look at this Wolfe, standing there among the lowest of his kind, and see him just as he is, that you may judge him justly when you hear the story of this night. I want you to look back, as he does every day, at his birth in vice130, his starved infancy; to remember the heavy years he has groped through as boy and man,—the slow, heavy years of constant, hot work. So long ago he began, that he thinks sometimes he has worked there for ages. There is no hope that it will ever end. Think that God put into this man's soul a fierce thirst for beauty,—to know it, to create it; to be—something, he knows not what,—other than he is. There are moments when a passing cloud, the sun glinting on the purple thistles, a kindly131 smile, a child's face, will rouse him to a passion of pain,—when his nature starts up with a mad cry of rage against God, man, whoever it is that has forced this vile, slimy life upon him. With all this groping, this mad desire, a great blind intellect stumbling through wrong, a loving poet's heart, the man was by habit only a coarse, vulgar laborer132, familiar with sights and words you would blush to name. Be just: when I tell you about this night, see him as he is. Be just,—not like man's law, which seizes on one isolated133 fact, but like God's judging angel, whose clear, sad eye saw all the countless134 cankering days of this man's life, all the countless nights, when, sick with starving, his soul fainted in him, before it judged him for this night, the saddest of all.
I called this night the crisis of his life. If it was, it stole on him unawares. These great turning-days of life cast no shadow before, slip by unconsciously. Only a trifle, a little turn of the rudder, and the ship goes to heaven or hell.
Wolfe, while Deborah watched him, dug into the furnace of melting iron with his pole, dully thinking only how many rails the lump would yield. It was late,—nearly Sunday morning; another hour, and the heavy work would be done, only the furnaces to replenish135 and cover for the next day. The workmen were growing more noisy, shouting, as they had to do, to be heard over the deep clamor of the mills. Suddenly they grew less boisterous,—at the far end, entirely136 silent. Something unusual had happened. After a moment, the silence came nearer; the men stopped their jeers137 and drunken choruses. Deborah, stupidly lifting up her head, saw the cause of the quiet. A group of five or six men were slowly approaching, stopping to examine each furnace as they came. Visitors often came to see the mills after night: except by growing less noisy, the men took no notice of them. The furnace where Wolfe worked was near the bounds of the works; they halted there hot and tired: a walk over one of these great foundries is no trifling138 task. The woman, drawing out of sight, turned over to sleep. Wolfe, seeing them stop, suddenly roused from his indifferent stupor, and watched them keenly. He knew some of them: the overseer, Clarke,—a son of Kirby, one of the mill-owners,—and a Doctor May, one of the town-physicians. The other two were strangers. Wolfe came closer. He seized eagerly every chance that brought him into contact with this mysterious class that shone down on him perpetually with the glamour139 of another order of being. What made the difference between them? That was the mystery of his life. He had a vague notion that perhaps to-night he could find it out. One of the strangers sat down on a pile of bricks, and beckoned140 young Kirby to his side.
“This is hot, with a vengeance141. A match, please?”—lighting142 his cigar. “But the walk is worth the trouble. If it were not that you must have heard it so often, Kirby, I would tell you that your works look like Dante's Inferno143.”
Kirby laughed.
“Yes. Yonder is Farinata himself in the burning tomb,”—pointing to some figure in the shimmering144 shadows.
“Judging from some of the faces of your men,” said the other, “they bid fair to try the reality of Dante's vision, some day.”
“They're bad enough, that's true. A desperate set, I fancy. Eh, Clarke?”
The overseer did not hear him. He was talking of net profits just then,—giving, in fact, a schedule of the annual business of the firm to a sharp peering little Yankee, who jotted146 down notes on a paper laid on the crown of his hat: a reporter for one of the city-papers, getting up a series of reviews of the leading manufactories. The other gentlemen had accompanied them merely for amusement. They were silent until the notes were finished, drying their feet at the furnaces, and sheltering their faces from the intolerable heat. At last the overseer concluded with—
“I believe that is a pretty fair estimate, Captain.”
“Here, some of you men!” said Kirby, “bring up those boards. We may as well sit down, gentlemen, until the rain is over. It cannot last much longer at this rate.”
“Pig-metal,”—mumbled the reporter,—“um! coal facilities,—um! hands employed, twelve hundred,—bitumen,—um!—all right, I believe, Mr. Clarke;—sinking-fund,—what did you say was your sinking-fund?”
“Twelve hundred hands?” said the stranger, the young man who had first spoken. “Do you control their votes, Kirby?”
“Control? No.” The young man smiled complacently147. “But my father brought seven hundred votes to the polls for his candidate last November. No force-work, you understand,—only a speech or two, a hint to form themselves into a society, and a bit of red and blue bunting to make them a flag. The Invincible148 Roughs,—I believe that is their name. I forget the motto: 'Our country's hope,' I think.”
There was a laugh. The young man talking to Kirby sat with an amused light in his cool gray eye, surveying critically the half-clothed figures of the puddlers, and the slow swing of their brawny muscles. He was a stranger in the city,—spending a couple of months in the borders of a Slave State, to study the institutions of the South,—a brother-in-law of Kirby's,—Mitchell. He was an amateur gymnast,—hence his anatomical eye; a patron, in a blase149' way, of the prize-ring; a man who sucked the essence out of a science or philosophy in an indifferent, gentlemanly way; who took Kant, Novalis, Humboldt, for what they were worth in his own scales; accepting all, despising nothing, in heaven, earth, or hell, but one-idead men; with a temper yielding and brilliant as summer water, until his Self was touched, when it was ice, though brilliant still. Such men are not rare in the States.
As he knocked the ashes from his cigar, Wolfe caught with a quick pleasure the contour of the white hand, the blood-glow of a red ring he wore. His voice, too, and that of Kirby's, touched him like music,—low, even, with chording cadences150. About this man Mitchell hung the impalpable atmosphere belonging to the thoroughbred gentleman, Wolfe, scraping away the ashes beside him, was conscious of it, did obeisance151 to it with his artist sense, unconscious that he did so.
The rain did not cease. Clarke and the reporter left the mills; the others, comfortably seated near the furnace, lingered, smoking and talking in a desultory152 way. Greek would not have been more unintelligible153 to the furnace-tenders, whose presence they soon forgot entirely. Kirby drew out a newspaper from his pocket and read aloud some article, which they discussed eagerly. At every sentence, Wolfe listened more and more like a dumb, hopeless animal, with a duller, more stolid154 look creeping over his face, glancing now and then at Mitchell, marking acutely every smallest sign of refinement155, then back to himself, seeing as in a mirror his filthy body, his more stained soul.
Never! He had no words for such a thought, but he knew now, in all the sharpness of the bitter certainty, that between them there was a great gulf156 never to be passed. Never!
The bell of the mills rang for midnight. Sunday morning had dawned. Whatever hidden message lay in the tolling157 bells floated past these men unknown. Yet it was there. Veiled in the solemn music ushering158 the risen Saviour159 was a key-note to solve the darkest secrets of a world gone wrong,—even this social riddle160 which the brain of the grimy puddler grappled with madly to-night.
The men began to withdraw the metal from the caldrons. The mills were deserted161 on Sundays, except by the hands who fed the fires, and those who had no lodgings162 and slept usually on the ash-heaps. The three strangers sat still during the next hour, watching the men cover the furnaces, laughing now and then at some jest of Kirby's.
“Do you know,” said Mitchell, “I like this view of the works better than when the glare was fiercest? These heavy shadows and the amphitheatre of smothered fires are ghostly, unreal. One could fancy these red smouldering lights to be the half-shut eyes of wild beasts, and the spectral163 figures their victims in the den21.”
Kirby laughed. “You are fanciful. Come, let us get out of the den. The spectral figures, as you call them, are a little too real for me to fancy a close proximity164 in the darkness,—unarmed, too.”
The others rose, buttoning their overcoats, and lighting cigars.
“Raining, still,” said Doctor May, “and hard. Where did we leave the coach, Mitchell?”
“At the other side of the works.—Kirby, what's that?”
Mitchell started back, half-frightened, as, suddenly turning a corner, the white figure of a woman faced him in the darkness,—a woman, white, of giant proportions, crouching165 on the ground, her arms flung out in some wild gesture of warning.
“Stop! Make that fire burn there!” cried Kirby, stopping short.
The flame burst out, flashing the gaunt figure into bold relief.
Mitchell drew a long breath.
“I thought it was alive,” he said, going up curiously.
The others followed.
One of the lower overseers stopped.
“Korl, Sir.”
“Who did it?”
“Can't say. Some of the hands; chipped it out in off-hours.”
“Chipped to some purpose, I should say. What a flesh-tint the stuff has! Do you see, Mitchell?”
“I see.”
He had stepped aside where the light fell boldest on the figure, looking at it in silence. There was not one line of beauty or grace in it: a nude167 woman's form, muscular, grown coarse with labor, the powerful limbs instinct with some one poignant168 longing123. One idea: there it was in the tense, rigid169 muscles, the clutching hands, the wild, eager face, like that of a starving wolf's. Kirby and Doctor May walked around it, critical, curious. Mitchell stood aloof170, silent. The figure touched him strangely.
“Not badly done,” said Doctor May, “Where did the fellow learn that sweep of the muscles in the arm and hand? Look at them! They are groping, do you see?—clutching: the peculiar171 action of a man dying of thirst.”
“They have ample facilities for studying anatomy,” sneered172 Kirby, glancing at the half-naked figures.
“Look,” continued the Doctor, “at this bony wrist, and the strained sinews of the instep! A working-woman,—the very type of her class.”
“God forbid!” muttered Mitchell.
“Why?” demanded May, “What does the fellow intend by the figure? I cannot catch the meaning.”
“Ask him,” said the other, dryly, “There he stands,”—pointing to Wolfe, who stood with a group of men, leaning on his ash-rake.
The Doctor beckoned him with the affable smile which kind-hearted men put on, when talking to these people.
“Mr. Mitchell has picked you out as the man who did this,—I'm sure I don't know why. But what did you mean by it?”
“She be hungry.”
Wolfe's eyes answered Mitchell, not the Doctor.
“Oh-h! But what a mistake you have made, my fine fellow! You have given no sign of starvation to the body. It is strong,—terribly strong. It has the mad, half-despairing gesture of drowning.”
Wolfe stammered173, glanced appealingly at Mitchell, who saw the soul of the thing, he knew. But the cool, probing eyes were turned on himself now,—mocking, cruel, relentless174.
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1
stifles
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的第三人称单数 )； 镇压，遏制 | |
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2
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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3
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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4
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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5
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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6
wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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7
din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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8
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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9
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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10
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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11
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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12
vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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13
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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14
clotted
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| adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
chirps
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的第三人称单数 )； 啾； 啾啾 | |
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16
desolately
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| 荒凉地，寂寞地 | |
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17
strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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18
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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19
sluggishly
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| adv.懒惰地；缓慢地 | |
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20
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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21
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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22
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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23
dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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24
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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25
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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26
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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27
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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28
vileness
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| n.讨厌，卑劣 | |
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29
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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30
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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31
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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32
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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33
puddler
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| n.捣泥者，搅拌器，混凝器 | |
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34
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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35
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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36
torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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37
lizards
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| n.蜥蜴( lizard的名词复数 ) | |
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38
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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39
dilettante
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| n.半瓶醋，业余爱好者 | |
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40
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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41
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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42
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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43
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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44
impure
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| adj.不纯净的，不洁的；不道德的，下流的 | |
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45
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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46
emigrants
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| n.（从本国移往他国的）移民( emigrant的名词复数 ) | |
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47
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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48
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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49
brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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50
skulk
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| v.藏匿；潜行 | |
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51
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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52
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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53
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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54
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 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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55
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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56
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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57
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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58
kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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59
spools
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| n.（绕线、铁线、照相软片等的）管( spool的名词复数 )；络纱；纺纱机；绕圈轴工人v.把…绕到线轴上（或从线轴上绕下来）( spool的第三人称单数 )；假脱机（输出或输入） | |
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60
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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61
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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62
pacified
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的过去式和过去分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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63
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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64
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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65
smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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66
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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67
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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68
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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69
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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70
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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71
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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72
stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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73
munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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74
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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75
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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76
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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77
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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78
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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79
skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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80
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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81
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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82
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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83
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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84
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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85
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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86
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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87
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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88
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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89
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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90
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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91
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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92
quarried
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| v.从采石场采得( quarry的过去式和过去分词 )；从（书本等中）努力发掘（资料等）；在采石场采石 | |
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93
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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94
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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95
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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96
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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97
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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98
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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99
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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100
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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101
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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102
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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103
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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104
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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105
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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106
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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107
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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108
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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109
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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110
gnaw
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| v.不断地啃、咬；使苦恼，折磨 | |
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111
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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112
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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113
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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114
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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115
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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116
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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117
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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118
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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119
sobriquet
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| n.绰号 | |
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120
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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121
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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122
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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porous
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| adj.可渗透的，多孔的 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hewing
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| v.（用斧、刀等）砍、劈( hew的现在分词 )；砍成；劈出；开辟 | |
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hacking
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| n.非法访问计算机系统和数据库的活动 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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laborer
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| n.劳动者，劳工 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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replenish
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| vt.补充；(把…)装满；(再)填满 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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jeers
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| n.操纵帆桁下部（使其上下的）索具；嘲讽( jeer的名词复数 )v.嘲笑( jeer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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inferno
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| n.火海；地狱般的场所 | |
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shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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blase
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| adj.厌烦于享乐的 | |
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150
cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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obeisance
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| n.鞠躬，敬礼 | |
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desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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ushering
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的现在分词 ) | |
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saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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167
nude
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| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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172
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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173
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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174
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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