I wonder how many readers turn nowadays to the poetical2 works of Thomas Edward Brown, the Manx poet. Not a great number, I think. Indeed, I doubt if he ever had a large audience, though he had the power of exciting almost unlimited3 enthusiasm in the breasts of those whom he did attract. He was praised whole-heartedly by George Eliot, George Meredith, W. E. Henley and other famous writers, and the publication of his Letters a year or two after his death made a great stir.
In my boyhood’s days I was one of Brown’s most devoted4 disciples5. He had a charming trick of infusing scholarship with the real “stuff” of humanity, that appealed to me irresistibly6, and I liked the honest sensuality of his Roman Women and the pathos7 of such poems as Aber Stations and Epistola ad Dakyns. Perhaps I could not read his poems now, for, truth to tell, they “gush” almost indecently. However, he remains8 the most distinguished9 literary figure that the little Isle10 of Man has produced, and two or three of his lyrics11 will persist far into the future.
I met him at Greeba Castle, Mr Hall Caine’s Manx residence, when I was still a schoolboy. It was just a few months before Brown’s death, and a rather sad incident marked his visit to Hall Caine.
129We were at lunch when he arrived: a rather solemn lunch: a lunch at which the guests were ill assorted12. A ponderous13 scholar from Scotland insisted upon discussing the authorship of Homer—a subject about which our host evidently knew little and cared less. In the middle of a rather painful silence, Brown was ushered14 into the dining-room; he was carrying a little book of Laurence Binyon’s that had just been published. His burly figure, his genial15 face, his ready tongue soon lifted us out of the atmosphere of black boredom16 that had settled upon us. In five minutes he had disposed of the Scottish scholar, had drunk a whisky and soda17, and had combated Hall Caine’s opinion that Binyon “had entirely18 missed the point” in one of the poems he (Binyon) had written.
All afternoon we talked. Brown had come all the way from Ramsey (some twenty-four miles, four of which had to be walked) to spend a few hours with his friend, and, as he was a man greedy of enjoyment19, not a single moment was wasted. It soon appeared that Brown was a great admirer of Hall Caine’s—it should be mentioned that Mr Caine had not then written The Prodigal20 Son or The Eternal City—and the novelist basked21 in the tactful praise that was bestowed22 upon him.
As we were talking, a servant came with the news that eleven Americans had arrived and had been shown into the library. Hall Caine left the room to give them tea. An hour later, he came back, exhausted23 but not displeased24.
“One of the penalties of fame,” he said, with a sigh.
“But you are not the only one who suffers from your own fame,” observed Brown. “I am constantly besieged25 by American journalists, who come to me for private information about yourself. A very persistent26 lady from New York came only the other day and wished to know if you were educated.”
Hall Caine laughed.
“What did you say?” he asked.
130“Well, I asked her what she meant by ‘education,’ and she replied: ‘Is he at all like Matthew Arnold?’”
Towards evening, Brown departed.
Next morning, a note arrived from him, evidently written immediately on his return home the previous evening. The note expressed the writer’s regret that he had been unable to visit Greeba Castle that day; he had fully27 intended coming, but had been prevented at the last moment. This letter disturbed Hall Caine enormously.
“His mind is going,” he said; “I have noticed several other signs of vanishing memory, if not of something worse, during the last few months.”
There was, indeed, I have always thought, a streak28 of morbid29 eccentricity30 in Brown’s intellectual make-up. A careful reader of his letters will notice many moods of fierce exaltation engendered31 by wholly inadequate32 and inexplicable33 causes. His sudden death was perhaps a blessing34 in disguise.
. . . . . . . .
There are in London two or three men, not known to the general public, whose influence on modern thought is most profound and most disturbing. Of these men A. R. Orage, the editor of The New Age, is quite the most distinguished. What circulation his paper enjoys, I do not know; it cannot be large; probably it is not more than two or three thousand; perhaps it is not even so much as that. But the men and women who read it are men and women who count—people who welcome daring and original thought, who hold important positions in the civic35, social, political and artistic36 worlds, and who eagerly disseminate37 the seeds of thought they pick up from the study of The New Age. Tens of thousands of people have been influenced by this paper who have never even heard its name. It does not educate the masses directly: it reaches them through the medium of its few but exceedingly able readers.
131The New Age is professedly a Socialist38 organ, but the promulgation39 of socialistic doctrines40 is only a part of its policy and work. Its literary, artistic and musical criticism is the sanest41, the bravest and the most brilliant that can be read in England. It reverences43 neither power nor reputation; it is subtle and unsparing; and, if it is sometimes cruel, it is cruel with a purpose. All sleek44 money-makers in Art have reason to fear Orage, for his rapier wit may at any moment glance and slide between their ribs45 and release the hot air that is at once the inspiration and the material of all their works.
Orage has more than a touch of genius. It was Baudelaire (wasn’t it?) who said that genius was the power to look upon the world with the eyes of a child. Well, Orage has the all-seeing, non-rejecting eyes of a child. He has also the eternal spirit of youth. One cannot imagine him growing old. Perhaps his most interesting characteristic is his power of attracting and holding friends; he is the most hero-worshipped of men. Having once given his friendship, however, he exacts the utmost loyalty46; treachery is the one sin that can never be forgiven.
I knew Orage years ago, when he was still in Leeds teaching the young idea how to shoot. He was then a prominent member of the Theosophical Society and lectured a good deal—and rather dangerously, I think—on Nietzsche. His gospel, always preached with his tongue in his cheek, that every man and woman should do precisely47 what he or she desires, acted like heady wine on the gasping48 and enthusiastic young ladies who used to sit in rows worshipping him. They wanted to do all kinds of terrible things, and as Orage, backed by “that great German,” Nietzsche, had sanctioned their most secret desires, they were resolved to begin at once their career of licence. They used to “stay behind” when the lectures were over, and question Orage with their lips and 132invite him with their eyes, and it used to be most amusing and a little pathetic to listen to the gay and half-veiled insults with which Orage at once thwarted49 and bewildered his silly devotees.
He had in those days a wonderful gift of talking a most divine nonsense—a spurious wisdom that ran closely along the border-line of rank absurdity50. The “cosmic consciousness” of Walt Whitman was a great theme of his, and Orage, in his subtle, devilishly clever way, would lead his listeners on to the very threshold of occult knowledge—and leave them there, wide-eyed and wonder-struck.
I have never known an editor more jealous of the reputation of his paper than Orage is of The New Age. No consideration of friendship would induce him to print a dull article, however sound, and when one of his contributors becomes sententious, or slack, or banal—out he goes, neck and crop. Among the contributors to The New Age I remember writers as different in mental calibre as John Davidson and Edward Carpenter, Frank Harris and Cecil Chesterton, Arnold Bennett and Janet Achurch. These and scores of equally distinguished people have written for Orage. Why? For money? Well, scarcely; The New Age’s rates of pay must be very modest. For what, then? They have written because in The New Age they can tell the unadulterated truth and because they are proud to see their work in that paper.
. . . . . . . .
To many people Norman Angell is a rather sinister51 figure, and the people who attack him most violently to-day are precisely those who praised him most when he wrote his first book. He has been overpraised and spoilt. His intellectual attainments52 are not greatly above the average, and his thinking is not always honest. In the early days of the war it used to be amusing to see him working among his spectacled and yellow-skinned 133assistants; he was small but magisterial53, and he was always tucking sheets of foolscap into long envelopes and looking very important as he did so. I really believe that in those days of August, 1914, he had a vague idea that he and his helpers could stop the war at any moment they chose. Certainly, he was very cross with the war. Europe was behaving in her old, mad way without having previously54 consulted him.
“But it will soon be over,” he assured me. “You see——”
He stopped and waved his hand vaguely55 in the direction of a typewriter, smothered56 in documents.
“Quite,” said I uncomprehendingly. “You mean——?”
“Yes; that’s it. Exhaustion57. It can’t go on for ever. It must stop some time.”
A smile that came from nowhere straggled into his face. I felt vaguely discomfited58.
“You see, we are hard at it,” he said, and, as he spoke59, be indicated a pale, ill-shaven youth who was wandering aimlessly about the office, his hands full of papers.
A queer little chap, Angell. Very much in earnest, of course, very sure of himself, very pushing, very “idealistic.”
. . . . . . . .
St John Ervine is a writer who already counts for much but who, a few years hence, will count for a good deal more. He is by way of being a protégé of Bernard Shaw, and earnest young Fabians have already learned to reverence42 him.
We worked together on The Daily Citizen, he being dramatic critic. He was not enormously popular with the rest of the staff, for he was very “high-brow”; his face was smooth, sleek and superior, and he had a habit of being friendly with a man one day and scarcely recognising him the next. My own relations with him were of the most disagreeable. A play of his was given at the Court 134Theatre, and I was sent to criticise60 it. I did criticise it: the play was ugly, clever and sordid61.
“But,” protested Ervine, pale with vexation, the next time he met me, “but you have entirely misunderstood my play. You can’t have stayed till the end.”
“It was very painful for me, Ervine,” said I, “but I really did stick it out to the finish. Why do you young fellows write so depressingly? You look happy enough, Ervine——”
“The close of my play is the part that matters. Bernard Shaw said so....”
We parted: he, with a look of successful hauteur62; I, broken and crushed.
A week or so later I met him at one of Herbert Hughes’s jolly Sunday evenings in Chelsea.
“You know Gerald Cumberland, of course,” said someone who was introducing him to people.
He drew himself up with great dignity and stared at me through his pince-nez.
“I think,” said he, “yes, I believe we have met before somewhere. Where was it, Mr ... er ... Cumberland?”
Shortly after, he left The Daily Citizen, and I was given the position which he had occupied with so much conscious distinction. I somehow think that when the war is over and we meet, he will not know me. Ervine is very much like that.
. . . . . . . .
Fifteen years is a long time in the literary world, and Charles Marriott’s The Column, which threw everybody into fever-heat somewhere about 1902, is, I suppose, forgotten. It was a “first” novel. Uncritical Ouida loved it; W. E. Henley unbent and wrote a Meredithian letter to its author; W. L. Courtney seized some of his short stories for The Fortnightly Review; and I suppose (though I really don’t know this) The Spectator wrote five lines of disapproval64. It was a brilliant book; fresh, 135original, provocative65. It promised a lot: it promised too much; the author has since written many distinguished books, but none of them is as good as The Column said they would be.
Marriott was living at Lamorna, a tiny cove66 in Cornwall, when I first knew him. He was tall, lantern-jawed and spectacled. He was interested in everything, but it appeared to me even then that he was a little inhuman67. He lacked vulgarity; rude things repelled68 him enormously, unnaturally69; he had no literary delight—or else his delight was too literary: I don’t know—in coarseness. Fastidious to the finger-tips, he would rather go without dinner than split an infinitive70. Since those days Marriott has gone on refining himself until there is very little Marriott left. Even the longest and the thickest pencil may be sharpened too frequently.
Many years after I met him at an exhibition of pictures in Bond Street. He was then almost old, tired, preoccupied71. He is quite the last man to be a journalist; his art criticism is wonderfully fine, but a life standing72 on the polished floors of galleries between Bond Street and Leicester Square is soul-corroding and heart-breaking. Marriott’s mind no longer darts73 and leaps. It moves gently, very gently.
. . . . . . . .
Max Beerbohm is not so witty74 in conversation as one might expect. On the spur of the moment he has little verbal readiness; his mind is purely75 literary. He bears no resemblance to his late brother, Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree, one of the cleverest conversationalists I have ever met.
A short, mild and debonair76 figure received me one May afternoon in a house which, if not in Cavendish Square, was somewhere in its neighbourhood. In my later schoolboy days Max was very much cultivated by those of the younger generation who liked to think themselves 136enormously in the swim. We used to “collect” Max Beerbohm’s—not his caricatures, for they were far and away beyond our means; but his articles. I remember a rather startling article of his in The Yellow Book which I had bound in lizard-skin, and a friend of mine had all Max’s Saturday Review articles beautifully typewritten on thick yellow paper and bound in scarlet77 cardboard. Max was precious, Max was deliciously impertinent, Max was too frightfully clever for words.
When I called upon him four or five years ago I had, I need scarcely say, long outgrown78 my early infatuation, for he had begun to “date,” and was safely in his niche79 among the men of the nineties. But half-an-hour’s talk with him revived some of the old fascination80. He had “atmosphere”; his personality created an environment; he brought a flavour of far-off days. We talked quite pleasantly of his art, but he said nothing that has stuck in my memory, and my questions seemed to amuse rather than interest him. His small dapper figure gave one the impression of a schoolboy who had grown a little tired, who had prematurely81 developed his talents, and who had just fallen short of winning a big prize.
He led the way to the front door, shook me by the hand, looked at me meditatively82 for a moment, smiled faintly, and ... vanished.
. . . . . . . .
Of Israel Zangwill I can give only an impression. I see him now as I saw him one hot afternoon at his rooms in the Temple. A dark man, a spare man, a man very much in earnest and anxious to be just. He was perspiring83 slightly, I remember, and he bent63 forward a little so as to hear and understand every word I said. I had a request to make: a favour to ask. He listened patiently, gave me a cup of tea, and stirred his own. For a little he ruminated84. Then he turned to me and lifted his eyebrows85—lifted his eyebrows rather high. I repeated my 137request, giving further details. I was a little confused. He studied my confusion, not cruelly, but in the way that a trained observer studies everything that comes under his notice. Then: “Ye-es,” he said; “I see. I see.” And then there was a minute’s silence.
“I will do what you want,” he remarked, at length. “I will do it willingly—most willingly.”
And he did. Our little business entailed86 some subsequent correspondence, and some work on Zangwill’s part. The work was done promptly87; his letters answered mine by return of post. He gained nothing by his work, whereas the paper I represented gained a great deal.
. . . . . . . .
Alphonse Courlander was one of the many young and promising88 writers whom the war has killed. He was one of the most hard-working journalists in Fleet Street, and if he was not precisely brilliant, he had unusual gifts and used them to good purpose. I could never read his novels, but I understand they met with a certain success, and people whose opinion I respect have spoken highly of them.
He represented The Daily Express in Paris at the time the war broke out. He was the most conscientious89 of men, and he grappled with the extra work that grew up with the war with a fierce and fanatical energy. He overworked himself, and the horror of the war appears to have got on his nerves. He disappeared from Paris and was found wandering alone in London, neurasthenic, beaten, purposeless. A week or two later he died.
Courlander was a good example of a not unusual type of man one frequently meets in Fleet Street—a type that, in the end, is bound to meet either failure or tragedy. He was too highly strung for the rigours of the game: too sensitive; too ambitious for his weak frame. The type either takes to drink or wears itself out long before 138middle age. Courlander was an abstemious90 man; perhaps if he had “let himself go” occasionally, he would have stood the strain of his work better. When I saw him, he was always busy, always up to date, always writing or going to write a novel in his spare time. He had very little inventive faculty91 and used to worry over his plots and worry his friends over them. “Plots! ... as if plots matter if you have anything to say!” I used to urge. And then he would look at me, mystified.
“But, Cumberland, what can you know about it? You have never written a novel.”
“Oh, but I have,” I would reply, “but no one will publish them.”
“Ah! that’s the reason.”
And he really believed that that was the reason.
. . . . . . . .
Ivan Heald was a colleague of Courlander—a colleague any man in Fleet Street would have been glad to possess. Heald was original, and he created a record in so far as he was the first and, so far as I know, the only man to be employed by a British daily paper to write a “funny story” each day. He made a wide reputation, a reputation that, no doubt, pleased him, but he had no real ambition. People who “got on” rather amused him—that is to say, if their success was won at the expense of experience of life. I never met a man more full of zest92 for life, a man more eager for experience, a man who retained his youth so successfully. He was vivid, careless, tolerant and, in spite of every appearance to the contrary, essentially93 serious-minded. It was the simple pleasures of life that attracted him.
He had no scholarship, but his mind was well ordered, and his appreciation94 of natural and artistic beauty was of the keenest.
I remember that when we were holidaying together at Oxford95 he would become almost angry with me because I 139could not immediately perceive the beauty of certain lines—the outlines of trees, the curve of a table-napkin, the pattern made by the ropes of a tent, and so on.
“You should get Eddie or Norman Morrow to go a walk with you,” he said. “They would make you see things.”
He loved folk-songs, Irish peasants, the plays of Synge, the Russian Ballet, the Thames, the homely96 comfort of a country inn. His feeling for family life was strong, and Friday evenings at the Healds’, where one met his mother and sisters, as clever if not so vivid as he himself, were one of the great recurring97 pleasures of many men’s lives.
He was wounded in Gallipoli, nursed back to health, transferred to the R.F.C., and died (in all probability, for the exact manner of his death is not certainly known) in the air. A death he would have desired. But Ivan Heald should not have died, and sometimes I am tempted98 to think that he still lives, that something in him still lives—something that was rich and strange and beautiful. The other day I came across one of the little notes he used to scribble99 to me. It is written from Ireland, and because it is so like him I give it here:
Dear Gerald,—If only I had the nice stiff paper and the delicate pen nib100, I would try to write a letter to you like the ones you send me. There came a thrill yesterday. As I sat in my little parlour toying with my last month’s Ulster Guardian101, there leapt out of the page your poem, Fashioned of Dreams You Are [reprinted from a magazine]. It was as though the sea between us had suddenly shrunk to a couple of glasses of whisky. I shall never pass a Poet’s Corner again without looking for you. There are poets here, too. An old-age pensioner102 describing a wonderful fish he had seen told me that it was “a gay and antic fish, fresh and smart and soople.” I shall leave for 140home to-morrow evening and see you on Sunday night, and if there is one bottle of red wine left in the world, you and I will surely drag it out of the dust. How the bottles must wonder under their cobwebs at this strange turn of fate—that the Master Butler may either transform them into sparkling phrases and beautiful thoughts through rare fellows like us, or send them to dreary103 death in the paunch of fools like ——
Ivan.
. . . . . . . .
Dixon Scott used to throw me into little ecstasies104 by his reviews in The Manchester Guardian, and I often used to wonder if I should meet him. Our paths crossed for a brief minute not long before we left England—he to meet his death in France, and I to sit and wait in Serbia. It was at the end of one of my evenings in the Café Royal, where one used to sip105 absinthe, smoke a cigar, and listen to Orage. It was “Time, gentlemen, please”: 12-30 A.M.: in Army parlance106, 0030 hours. We were all very merry as we crowded into Regent Street, and I heard a voice behind me say: “Dixon Scott.”
I turned round immediately.
“Are you Dixon Scott?” I asked a man—a man who looked as unlike my preconceived picture of him as possible.
“Yes, and someone has just told me you are Gerald Cumberland.”
“How awfully107 jolly,” said I, “for now I have the opportunity of telling you how much I admire your wonderful genius.”
“Tophole!” said he. “I love praise, don’t you?”
“Ra-ther!” said I.
And then I fought for a taxi and saw Scott no more.
. . . . . . . .
Barry Pain, like the gentleman who used to be known as Adrian Ross, leads a double intellectual life. He earns 141his bread by writing humorous literature; he is the king of modern jesters; but secretly (and perhaps in shame) he studies philosophy and metaphysics and is known to have written a big two-volume work dealing108 with the furtive109 processes of the human mind. He is a scholar, but Fate has made of him a manufacturer of jokes. While his tougher intellectual faculties110 are wrestling with the basic problems of the universe—the whence, whither and why of things—his observing eye is noting the little discrepancies111 of life, the jolly frailties112 of human nature, the absurdities113 of our everyday existence.
He revealed little of his capacity for humour when he entertained me to whisky and soda at his club. I found a big, bearded and rather fleshy man rolling about in a very easy chair. I had been sent to interview him by one of those very pushing newspapers that, in the Silly Season especially, run absurd “stories.” I have not the slightest recollection of the particular story that took me to Barry Pain, but I am perfectly114 certain that it was preposterous115, and I am perfectly certain that my news editor—he was Stanley Bishop116, of blessed memory—expected me to bring back to the office several gems117 of humour tempted from the brain and stolen from the lips of the famous writer. But Pain was coy. Perhaps he does not believe in giving away jokes for which coin of the realm is usually paid.
I presented my “story” to him and tried to make him talk about it, but he looked glum118 and stared stonily119 into the empty fire-grate.
“Really,” he began, at length, “I can’t think of anything to say. Can you? If you can think of something very clever, put it in your article and say I said it. Yes, do say I said it. But, of course, it must be very clever.”
And he lapsed120 into a long, depressed121 silence. I was very glad when a friend of his popped his head into the 142room and shouted: “What about that game of bridge?” I rose hastily and escaped.
. . . . . . . .
It would be difficult to find a more picturesque122 figure than R. B. Cunninghame Graham. I always picture him sitting on a bare-backed Mexican steed, his shirt open at the throat, a long whip in one hand, a lasso in the other, his eyes, like Blake’s tiger, burning bright, his boots fantastically spurred, his hat flapping in the wind, and his steed galloping123 ventre à terre. In South and Central America, no doubt, he does run wild, but in London of late years he has always been most respectable. And yet even West End respectability cannot kill his picturesqueness124. He has a shining mind, and everything he says is youthful and spirited.
Most of his literary enthusiasms are for the younger—the youngest—generation, but as his mind is essentially uncritical and impulsive125, his judgments126 are not very trustworthy. I remember his praising unreservedly a young alleged127 poet who in recent years has made himself known by his scholarship and impudence128, and, as far as I could gather, it was chiefly his impudence that had attracted Cunninghame Graham.
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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unlimited
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devoted
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disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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irresistibly
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pathos
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remains
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distinguished
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isle
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lyrics
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assorted
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ponderous
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ushered
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genial
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boredom
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soda
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entirely
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enjoyment
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prodigal
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basked
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bestowed
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exhausted
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displeased
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persistent
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fully
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streak
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morbid
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eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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31
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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33
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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34
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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35
civic
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| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
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36
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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37
disseminate
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| v.散布；传播 | |
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38
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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39
promulgation
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| n.颁布 | |
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40
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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41
sanest
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| adj.心智健全的( sane的最高级 )；神志正常的；明智的；稳健的 | |
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42
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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43
reverences
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| n.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的名词复数 )；敬礼 | |
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44
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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45
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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46
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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47
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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48
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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49
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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50
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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51
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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52
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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53
magisterial
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| adj.威风的，有权威的；adv.威严地 | |
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54
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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55
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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56
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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57
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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58
discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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59
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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60
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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61
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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62
hauteur
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| n.傲慢 | |
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63
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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64
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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65
provocative
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| adj.挑衅的，煽动的，刺激的，挑逗的 | |
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66
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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67
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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68
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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69
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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70
infinitive
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| n.不定词；adj.不定词的 | |
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71
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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72
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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73
darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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74
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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75
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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76
debonair
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| adj.殷勤的，快乐的 | |
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77
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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78
outgrown
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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79
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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80
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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81
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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82
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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83
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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84
ruminated
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| v.沉思( ruminate的过去式和过去分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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85
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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86
entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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87
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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88
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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89
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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90
abstemious
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| adj.有节制的，节俭的 | |
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91
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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92
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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93
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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94
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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95
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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96
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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97
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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98
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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99
scribble
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| v.潦草地书写，乱写，滥写；n.潦草的写法，潦草写成的东西，杂文 | |
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100
nib
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| n.钢笔尖；尖头 | |
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101
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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102
pensioner
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| n.领养老金的人 | |
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103
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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104
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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105
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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106
parlance
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| n.说法；语调 | |
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107
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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108
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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109
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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110
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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111
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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112
frailties
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| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
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113
absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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114
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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115
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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116
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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117
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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118
glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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119
stonily
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| 石头地，冷酷地 | |
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120
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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121
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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122
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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123
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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124
picturesqueness
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125
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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126
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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127
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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128
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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