Miss Quested had renounced1 her own people. Turning from them, she was drawn2 into a mass of Indians of the shopkeeping class, and carried by them towards the public exit of the court. The faint, indescribable smell of the bazaars5 invaded her, sweeter than a London slum, yet more disquieting6: a tuft of scented7 cotton wool, wedged in an old man’s ear, fragments of pan between his black teeth, odorous powders, oils—the Scented East of tradition, but blended with human sweat as if a great king had been entangled8 in ignominy and could not free himself, or as if the heat of the sun had boiled and fried all the glories of the earth into a single mess. They paid no attention to her. They shook hands over her shoulder, shouted through her body—for when the Indian does ignore his rulers, he becomes genuinely unaware9 of their existence. Without part in the universe she had created, she was flung against Mr. Fielding.
“What do you want here?”
Knowing him for her enemy, she passed on into the sunlight without speaking.
He called after her, “Where are you going, Miss Quested?”
“I don’t know.”
“You can’t wander about like that. Where’s the car you came in?”
“I shall walk.”
“What madness . . . there’s supposed to be a riot on . . . the police have struck, no one knows what’ll happen next. Why don’t you keep to your own people?”
“Ought I to join them?” she said, without emotion. She felt emptied, valueless; there was no more virtue10 in her.
“You can’t, it’s too late. How are you to get round to the private entrance now? Come this way with me—quick—I’ll put you into my carriage.”
“Cyril, Cyril, don’t leave me,” called the shattered voice of Aziz.
“I’m coming back. . . . This way, and don’t argue.” He gripped her arm. “Excuse manners, but I don’t know anyone’s position. Send my carriage back any time to-morrow, if you please.”
“But where am I to go in it?”
“Where you like. How should I know your arrangements?”
The victoria was safe in a quiet side lane, but there were no horses, for the sais, not expecting the trial would end so abruptly11, had led them away to visit a friend. She got into it obediently. The man could not leave her, for the confusion increased, and spots of it sounded fanatical. The main road through the bazaars was blocked, and the English were gaining the civil station by by-ways; they were caught like caterpillars12, and could have been killed off easily.
“What—what have you been doing?” he cried suddenly. “Playing a game, studying life, or what?”
“Sir, I intend these for you, sir,” interrupted a student, running down the lane with a garland of jasmine on his arm.
“I don’t want the rubbish; get out.”
“Sir, I am a horse, we shall be your horses,” another cried as he lifted the shafts13 of the victoria into the air.
“Fetch my sais, Rafi; there’s a good chap.”
“No, sir, this is an honour for us.”
Fielding wearied of his students. The more they honoured him the less they obeyed. They lassoed him with jasmine and roses, scratched the splash-board against a wall, and recited a poem, the noise of which filled the lane with a crowd.
“Hurry up, sir; we pull you in a procession.” And, half affectionate, half impudent14, they bundled him in.
“I don’t know whether this suits you, but anyhow you’re safe,” he remarked. The carriage jerked into the main bazaar4, where it created some sensation. Miss Quested was so loathed15 in Chandrapore that her recantation was discredited16, and the rumour17 ran that she had been stricken by the Deity18 in the middle of her lies. But they cheered when they saw her sitting by the heroic Principal (some addressed her as Mrs. Moore!), and they garlanded her to match him. Half gods, half guys, with sausages of flowers round their necks, the pair were dragged in the wake of Aziz’ victorious19 landau. In the applause that greeted them some derision mingled20. The English always stick together! That was the criticism. Nor was it unjust. Fielding shared it himself, and knew that if some misunderstanding occurred, and an attack was made on the girl by his allies, he would be obliged to die in her defence. He didn’t want to die for her, he wanted to be rejoicing with Aziz.
Where was the procession going? To friends, to enemies, to Aziz’ bungalow21, to the Collector’s bungalow, to the Minto Hospital where the Civil Surgeon would eat dust and the patients (confused with prisoners) be released, to Delhi, Simla. The students thought it was going to Government College. When they reached a turning, they twisted the victoria to the right, ran it by side lanes down a hill and through a garden gate into the mango plantation22, and, as far as Fielding and Miss Quested were concerned, all was peace and quiet. The trees were full of glossy23 foliage24 and slim green fruit, the tank slumbered25; and beyond it rose the exquisite26 blue arches of the garden-house. “Sir, we fetch the others; sir, it is a somewhat heavy load for our arms,” were heard. Fielding took the refugee to his office, and tried to telephone to McBryde. But this he could not do; the wires had been cut. All his servants had decamped. Once more he was unable to desert her. He assigned her a couple of rooms, provided her with ice and drinks and biscuits, advised her to lie down, and lay down himself—there was nothing else to do. He felt restless and thwarted27 as he listened to the retreating sounds of the procession, and his joy was rather spoilt by bewilderment. It was a victory, but such a queer one.
At that moment Aziz was crying, “Cyril, Cyril . . .” Crammed28 into a carriage with the Nawab Bahadur, Hamidullah, Mahmoud Ali, his own little boys, and a heap of flowers, he was not content; he wanted to be surrounded by all who loved him. Victory gave no pleasure, he had suffered too much. From the moment of his arrest he was done for, he had dropped like a wounded animal; he had despaired, not through cowardice29, but because he knew that an Englishwoman’s word would always outweigh30 his own. “It is fate,” he said; and, “It is fate,” when he was imprisoned31 anew after Mohurram. All that existed, in that terrible time, was affection, and affection was all that he felt in the first painful moments of his freedom. “Why isn’t Cyril following? Let us turn back.” But the procession could not turn back. Like a snake in a drain, it advanced down the narrow bazaar towards the basin of the Maidan, where it would turn about itself, and decide on its prey32.
“Forward, forward,” shrieked33 Mahmoud Ali, whose every utterance34 had become a yell. “Down with the Collector, down with the Superintendent35 of Police.”
“Mr. Mahmoud Ali, this is not wise,” implored36 the Nawab Bahadur: he knew that nothing was gained by attacking the English, who had fallen into their own pit and had better be left there; moreover, he had great possessions and deprecated anarchy37.
“Cyril, again you desert,” cried Aziz.
“Yet some orderly demonstration38 is necessary,” said Hamidullah, “otherwise they will still think we are afraid.”
“Down with the Civil Surgeon . . . rescue Nureddin.”
“Nureddin?”
“They are torturing him.”
“Oh, my God . . .”—for this, too, was a friend.
“They are not. I will not have my grandson made an excuse for an attack on the hospital,” the old man protested.
“They are. Callendar boasted so before the trial. I heard through the tatties; he said, ‘I have tortured that nigger.’”
“Oh, my God, my God. . . . He called him a nigger, did he?”
“They put pepper instead of antiseptic on the wounds.”
“Mr. Mahmoud Ali, impossible; a little roughness will not hurt the boy, he needs discipline.”
“Pepper. Civil Surgeon said so. They hope to destroy us one by one; they shall fail.”
The new injury lashed39 the crowd to fury. It had been aimless hitherto, and had lacked a grievance40. When they reached the Maidan and saw the sallow arcades41 of the Minto they shambled towards it howling. It was near midday. The earth and sky were insanely ugly, the spirit of evil again strode abroad. The Nawab Bahadur alone struggled against it, and told himself that the rumour must be untrue. He had seen his grandson in the ward3 only last week. But he too was carried forward over the new precipice42. To rescue, to maltreat Major Callendar in revenge, and then was to come the turn of the civil station generally.
But disaster was averted43, and averted by Dr. Panna Lal.
Dr. Panna Lal had offered to give evidence for the prosecution44 in the hope of pleasing the English, also because he hated Aziz. When the case broke down, he was in a very painful position. He saw the crash coming sooner than most people, slipped from the court before Mr. Das had finished, and drove Dapple off through the bazaars, in flight from the wrath45 to come. In the hospital he should be safe, for Major Callendar would protect him. But the Major had not come, and now things were worse than ever, for here was a mob, entirely46 desirous of his blood, and the orderlies were mutinous47 and would not help him over the back wall, or rather hoisted48 him and let him drop back, to the satisfaction of the patients. In agony he cried, “Man can but die the once,” and waddled49 across the compound to meet the invasion, salaaming50 with one hand and holding up a pale yellow umbrella in the other. “Oh, forgive me,” he whined51 as he approached the victorious landau. “Oh, Dr. Aziz, forgive the wicked lies I told.” Aziz was silent, the others thickened their throats and threw up their chins in token of scorn. “I was afraid, I was mislaid,” the suppliant52 continued. “I was mislaid here, there, and everywhere as regards your character. Oh, forgive the poor old hakim who gave you milk when ill! Oh, Nawab Bahadur, whoever merciful, is it my poor little dispensary you require? Take every cursed bottle.” Agitated53, but alert, he saw them smile at his indifferent English, and suddenly he started playing the buffoon54, flung down his umbrella, trod through it, and struck himself upon the nose. He knew what he was doing, and so did they. There was nothing pathetic or eternal in the degradation55 of such a man. Of ignoble56 origin, Dr. Panna Lal possessed57 nothing that could be disgraced, and he wisely decided58 to make the other Indians feel like kings, because it would put them into better tempers. When he found they wanted Nureddin, he skipped like a goat, he scuttled59 like a hen to do their bidding, the hospital was saved, and to the end of his life he could not understand why he had not obtained promotion60 on the morning’s work. “Promptness, sir, promptness similar to you,” was the argument he employed to Major Callendar when claiming it.
When Nureddin emerged, his face all bandaged, there was a roar of relief as though the Bastille had fallen. It was the crisis of the march, and the Nawab Bahadur managed to get the situation into hand. Embracing the young man publicly, he began a speech about Justice, Courage, Liberty, and Prudence61, ranged under heads, which cooled the passion of the crowd. He further announced that he should give up his British-conferred title, and live as a private gentleman, plain Mr. Zulfiqar, for which reason he was instantly proceeding62 to his country seat. The landau turned, the crowd accompanied it, the crisis was over. The Marabar caves had been a terrible strain on the local administration; they altered a good many lives and wrecked63 several careers, but they did not break up a continent or even dislocate a district.
“We will have rejoicings to-night,” the old man said. “Mr. Hamidullah, I depute you to bring out our friends Fielding and Amritrao, and to discover whether the latter will require special food. The others will keep with me. We shall not go out to Dilkusha until the cool of the evening, of course. I do not know the feelings of other gentlemen; for my own part, I have a slight headache, and I wish I had thought to ask our good Panna Lal for aspirin64.”
For the heat was claiming its own. Unable to madden, it stupefied, and before long most of the Chandrapore combatants were asleep. Those in the civil station kept watch a little, fearing an attack, but presently they too entered the world of dreams—that world in which a third of each man’s life is spent, and which is thought by some pessimists65 to be a premonition of eternity66.
“What do you want here?”
Knowing him for her enemy, she passed on into the sunlight without speaking.
He called after her, “Where are you going, Miss Quested?”
“I don’t know.”
“You can’t wander about like that. Where’s the car you came in?”
“I shall walk.”
“What madness . . . there’s supposed to be a riot on . . . the police have struck, no one knows what’ll happen next. Why don’t you keep to your own people?”
“Ought I to join them?” she said, without emotion. She felt emptied, valueless; there was no more virtue10 in her.
“You can’t, it’s too late. How are you to get round to the private entrance now? Come this way with me—quick—I’ll put you into my carriage.”
“Cyril, Cyril, don’t leave me,” called the shattered voice of Aziz.
“I’m coming back. . . . This way, and don’t argue.” He gripped her arm. “Excuse manners, but I don’t know anyone’s position. Send my carriage back any time to-morrow, if you please.”
“But where am I to go in it?”
“Where you like. How should I know your arrangements?”
The victoria was safe in a quiet side lane, but there were no horses, for the sais, not expecting the trial would end so abruptly11, had led them away to visit a friend. She got into it obediently. The man could not leave her, for the confusion increased, and spots of it sounded fanatical. The main road through the bazaars was blocked, and the English were gaining the civil station by by-ways; they were caught like caterpillars12, and could have been killed off easily.
“What—what have you been doing?” he cried suddenly. “Playing a game, studying life, or what?”
“Sir, I intend these for you, sir,” interrupted a student, running down the lane with a garland of jasmine on his arm.
“I don’t want the rubbish; get out.”
“Sir, I am a horse, we shall be your horses,” another cried as he lifted the shafts13 of the victoria into the air.
“Fetch my sais, Rafi; there’s a good chap.”
“No, sir, this is an honour for us.”
Fielding wearied of his students. The more they honoured him the less they obeyed. They lassoed him with jasmine and roses, scratched the splash-board against a wall, and recited a poem, the noise of which filled the lane with a crowd.
“Hurry up, sir; we pull you in a procession.” And, half affectionate, half impudent14, they bundled him in.
“I don’t know whether this suits you, but anyhow you’re safe,” he remarked. The carriage jerked into the main bazaar4, where it created some sensation. Miss Quested was so loathed15 in Chandrapore that her recantation was discredited16, and the rumour17 ran that she had been stricken by the Deity18 in the middle of her lies. But they cheered when they saw her sitting by the heroic Principal (some addressed her as Mrs. Moore!), and they garlanded her to match him. Half gods, half guys, with sausages of flowers round their necks, the pair were dragged in the wake of Aziz’ victorious19 landau. In the applause that greeted them some derision mingled20. The English always stick together! That was the criticism. Nor was it unjust. Fielding shared it himself, and knew that if some misunderstanding occurred, and an attack was made on the girl by his allies, he would be obliged to die in her defence. He didn’t want to die for her, he wanted to be rejoicing with Aziz.
Where was the procession going? To friends, to enemies, to Aziz’ bungalow21, to the Collector’s bungalow, to the Minto Hospital where the Civil Surgeon would eat dust and the patients (confused with prisoners) be released, to Delhi, Simla. The students thought it was going to Government College. When they reached a turning, they twisted the victoria to the right, ran it by side lanes down a hill and through a garden gate into the mango plantation22, and, as far as Fielding and Miss Quested were concerned, all was peace and quiet. The trees were full of glossy23 foliage24 and slim green fruit, the tank slumbered25; and beyond it rose the exquisite26 blue arches of the garden-house. “Sir, we fetch the others; sir, it is a somewhat heavy load for our arms,” were heard. Fielding took the refugee to his office, and tried to telephone to McBryde. But this he could not do; the wires had been cut. All his servants had decamped. Once more he was unable to desert her. He assigned her a couple of rooms, provided her with ice and drinks and biscuits, advised her to lie down, and lay down himself—there was nothing else to do. He felt restless and thwarted27 as he listened to the retreating sounds of the procession, and his joy was rather spoilt by bewilderment. It was a victory, but such a queer one.
At that moment Aziz was crying, “Cyril, Cyril . . .” Crammed28 into a carriage with the Nawab Bahadur, Hamidullah, Mahmoud Ali, his own little boys, and a heap of flowers, he was not content; he wanted to be surrounded by all who loved him. Victory gave no pleasure, he had suffered too much. From the moment of his arrest he was done for, he had dropped like a wounded animal; he had despaired, not through cowardice29, but because he knew that an Englishwoman’s word would always outweigh30 his own. “It is fate,” he said; and, “It is fate,” when he was imprisoned31 anew after Mohurram. All that existed, in that terrible time, was affection, and affection was all that he felt in the first painful moments of his freedom. “Why isn’t Cyril following? Let us turn back.” But the procession could not turn back. Like a snake in a drain, it advanced down the narrow bazaar towards the basin of the Maidan, where it would turn about itself, and decide on its prey32.
“Forward, forward,” shrieked33 Mahmoud Ali, whose every utterance34 had become a yell. “Down with the Collector, down with the Superintendent35 of Police.”
“Mr. Mahmoud Ali, this is not wise,” implored36 the Nawab Bahadur: he knew that nothing was gained by attacking the English, who had fallen into their own pit and had better be left there; moreover, he had great possessions and deprecated anarchy37.
“Cyril, again you desert,” cried Aziz.
“Yet some orderly demonstration38 is necessary,” said Hamidullah, “otherwise they will still think we are afraid.”
“Down with the Civil Surgeon . . . rescue Nureddin.”
“Nureddin?”
“They are torturing him.”
“Oh, my God . . .”—for this, too, was a friend.
“They are not. I will not have my grandson made an excuse for an attack on the hospital,” the old man protested.
“They are. Callendar boasted so before the trial. I heard through the tatties; he said, ‘I have tortured that nigger.’”
“Oh, my God, my God. . . . He called him a nigger, did he?”
“They put pepper instead of antiseptic on the wounds.”
“Mr. Mahmoud Ali, impossible; a little roughness will not hurt the boy, he needs discipline.”
“Pepper. Civil Surgeon said so. They hope to destroy us one by one; they shall fail.”
The new injury lashed39 the crowd to fury. It had been aimless hitherto, and had lacked a grievance40. When they reached the Maidan and saw the sallow arcades41 of the Minto they shambled towards it howling. It was near midday. The earth and sky were insanely ugly, the spirit of evil again strode abroad. The Nawab Bahadur alone struggled against it, and told himself that the rumour must be untrue. He had seen his grandson in the ward3 only last week. But he too was carried forward over the new precipice42. To rescue, to maltreat Major Callendar in revenge, and then was to come the turn of the civil station generally.
But disaster was averted43, and averted by Dr. Panna Lal.
Dr. Panna Lal had offered to give evidence for the prosecution44 in the hope of pleasing the English, also because he hated Aziz. When the case broke down, he was in a very painful position. He saw the crash coming sooner than most people, slipped from the court before Mr. Das had finished, and drove Dapple off through the bazaars, in flight from the wrath45 to come. In the hospital he should be safe, for Major Callendar would protect him. But the Major had not come, and now things were worse than ever, for here was a mob, entirely46 desirous of his blood, and the orderlies were mutinous47 and would not help him over the back wall, or rather hoisted48 him and let him drop back, to the satisfaction of the patients. In agony he cried, “Man can but die the once,” and waddled49 across the compound to meet the invasion, salaaming50 with one hand and holding up a pale yellow umbrella in the other. “Oh, forgive me,” he whined51 as he approached the victorious landau. “Oh, Dr. Aziz, forgive the wicked lies I told.” Aziz was silent, the others thickened their throats and threw up their chins in token of scorn. “I was afraid, I was mislaid,” the suppliant52 continued. “I was mislaid here, there, and everywhere as regards your character. Oh, forgive the poor old hakim who gave you milk when ill! Oh, Nawab Bahadur, whoever merciful, is it my poor little dispensary you require? Take every cursed bottle.” Agitated53, but alert, he saw them smile at his indifferent English, and suddenly he started playing the buffoon54, flung down his umbrella, trod through it, and struck himself upon the nose. He knew what he was doing, and so did they. There was nothing pathetic or eternal in the degradation55 of such a man. Of ignoble56 origin, Dr. Panna Lal possessed57 nothing that could be disgraced, and he wisely decided58 to make the other Indians feel like kings, because it would put them into better tempers. When he found they wanted Nureddin, he skipped like a goat, he scuttled59 like a hen to do their bidding, the hospital was saved, and to the end of his life he could not understand why he had not obtained promotion60 on the morning’s work. “Promptness, sir, promptness similar to you,” was the argument he employed to Major Callendar when claiming it.
When Nureddin emerged, his face all bandaged, there was a roar of relief as though the Bastille had fallen. It was the crisis of the march, and the Nawab Bahadur managed to get the situation into hand. Embracing the young man publicly, he began a speech about Justice, Courage, Liberty, and Prudence61, ranged under heads, which cooled the passion of the crowd. He further announced that he should give up his British-conferred title, and live as a private gentleman, plain Mr. Zulfiqar, for which reason he was instantly proceeding62 to his country seat. The landau turned, the crowd accompanied it, the crisis was over. The Marabar caves had been a terrible strain on the local administration; they altered a good many lives and wrecked63 several careers, but they did not break up a continent or even dislocate a district.
“We will have rejoicings to-night,” the old man said. “Mr. Hamidullah, I depute you to bring out our friends Fielding and Amritrao, and to discover whether the latter will require special food. The others will keep with me. We shall not go out to Dilkusha until the cool of the evening, of course. I do not know the feelings of other gentlemen; for my own part, I have a slight headache, and I wish I had thought to ask our good Panna Lal for aspirin64.”
For the heat was claiming its own. Unable to madden, it stupefied, and before long most of the Chandrapore combatants were asleep. Those in the civil station kept watch a little, fearing an attack, but presently they too entered the world of dreams—that world in which a third of each man’s life is spent, and which is thought by some pessimists65 to be a premonition of eternity66.
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收听单词发音
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1
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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2
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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3
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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4
bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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5
bazaars
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| （东方国家的）市场( bazaar的名词复数 )； 义卖； 义卖市场； （出售花哨商品等的）小商品市场 | |
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6
disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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7
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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8
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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10
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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11
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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12
caterpillars
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| n.毛虫( caterpillar的名词复数 )；履带 | |
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13
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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14
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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15
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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16
discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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17
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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18
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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19
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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20
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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21
bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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22
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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23
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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24
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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25
slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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26
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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27
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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28
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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29
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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outweigh
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| vt.比...更重，...更重要 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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arcades
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| n.商场( arcade的名词复数 )；拱形走道（两旁有商店或娱乐设施）；连拱廊；拱形建筑物 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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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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mutinous
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| adj.叛变的，反抗的；adv.反抗地，叛变地；n.反抗，叛变 | |
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hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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waddled
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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salaaming
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| 行额手礼( salaam的现在分词 ) | |
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whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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buffoon
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| n.演出时的丑角 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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scuttled
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| v.使船沉没( scuttle的过去式和过去分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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aspirin
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| n.阿司匹林 | |
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pessimists
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| n.悲观主义者( pessimist的名词复数 ) | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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