As I sit down to write here amidst the shadows of vine-leaves under the blue sky of southern Italy, it comes to me with a certain quality of astonishment1 that my participation2 in these amazing adventures of Mr. Cavor was, after all, the outcome of the purest accident. It might have been any one. I fell into these things at a time when I thought myself removed from the slightest possibility of disturbing experiences. I had gone to Lympne because I had imagined it the most uneventful place in the world. "Here, at any rate," said I, "I shall find peace and a chance to work!"
And this book is the sequel. So utterly3 at variance4 is destiny with all the little plans of men. I may perhaps mention here that very recently I had come an ugly cropper in certain business enterprises. Sitting now surrounded by all the circumstances of wealth, there is a luxury in admitting my extremity5. I can admit, even, that to a certain extent my disasters were conceivably of my own making. It may be there are directions in which I have some capacity, but the conduct of business operations is not among these. But in those days I was young, and my youth among other objectionable forms took that of a pride in my capacity for affairs. I am young still in years, but the things that have happened to me have rubbed something of the youth from my mind. Whether they have brought any wisdom to light below it is a more doubtful matter.
It is scarcely necessary to go into the details of the speculations6 that landed me at Lympne, in Kent. Nowadays even about business transactions there is a strong spice of adventure. I took risks. In these things there is invariably a certain amount of give and take, and it fell to me finally to do the giving reluctantly enough. Even when I had got out of everything, one cantankerous7 creditor8 saw fit to be malignant9. Perhaps you have met that flaming sense of outraged10 virtue11, or perhaps you have only felt it. He ran me hard. It seemed to me, at last, that there was nothing for it but to write a play, unless I wanted to drudge12 for my living as a clerk. I have a certain imagination, and luxurious13 tastes, and I meant to make a vigorous fight for it before that fate overtook me. In addition to my belief in my powers as a business man, I had always in those days had an idea that I was equal to writing a very good play. It is not, I believe, a very uncommon14 persuasion15. I knew there is nothing a man can do outside legitimate16 business transactions that has such opulent possibilities, and very probably that biased17 my opinion. I had, indeed, got into the habit of regarding this unwritten drama as a convenient little reserve put by for a rainy day. That rainy day had come, and I set to work.
I soon discovered that writing a play was a longer business than I had supposed; at first I had reckoned ten days for it, and it was to have a pied-a-terre while it was in hand that I came to Lympne. I reckoned myself lucky in getting that little bungalow18. I got it on a three years' agreement. I put in a few sticks of furniture, and while the play was in hand I did my own cooking. My cooking would have shocked Mrs. Bond. And yet, you know, it had flavour. I had a coffee-pot, a sauce-pan for eggs, and one for potatoes, and a frying-pan for sausages and bacon--such was the simple apparatus19 of my comfort. One cannot always be magnificent, but simplicity20 is always a possible alternative. For the rest I laid in an eighteen-gallon cask of beer on credit, and a trustful baker21 came each day. It was not, perhaps, in the style of Sybaris, but I have had worse times. I was a little sorry for the baker, who was a very decent man indeed, but even for him I hoped.
Certainly if any one wants solitude22, the place is Lympne. It is in the clay part of Kent, and my bungalow stood on the edge of an old sea cliff and stared across the flats of Romney Marsh23 at the sea. In very wet weather the place is almost inaccessible24, and I have heard that at times the postman used to traverse the more succulent portions of his route with boards upon his feet. I never saw him doing so, but I can quite imagine it. Outside the doors of the few cottages and houses that make up the present village big birch besoms are stuck, to wipe off the worst of the clay, which will give some idea of the texture25 of the district. I doubt if the place would be there at all, if it were not a fading memory of things gone for ever. It was the big port of England in Roman times, Portus Lemanis, and now the sea is four miles away. All down the steep hill are boulders26 and masses of Roman brickwork, and from it old Watling Street, still paved in places, starts like an arrow to the north. I used to stand on the hill and think of it all, the galleys27 and legions, the captives and officials, the women and traders, the speculators like myself, all the swarm28 and tumult29 that came clanking in and out of the harbour. And now just a few lumps of rubble30 on a grassy31 slope, and a sheep or two--and I. And where the port had been were the levels of the marsh, sweeping32 round in a broad curve to distant Dungeness, and dotted here and there with tree clumps33 and the church towers of old medical towns that are following Lemanis now towards extinction34.
That outlook on the marsh was, indeed, one of the finest views I have ever seen. I suppose Dungeness was fifteen miles away; it lay like a raft on the sea, and farther westward35 were the hills by Hastings under the setting sun. Sometimes they hung close and clear, sometimes they were faded and low, and often the drift of the weather took them clean out of sight. And all the nearer parts of the marsh were laced and lit by ditches and canals.
The window at which I worked looked over the skyline of this crest36, and it was from this window that I first set eyes on Cavor. It was just as I was struggling with my scenario37, holding down my mind to the sheer hard work of it, and naturally enough he arrested my attention.
The sun had set, the sky was a vivid tranquillity38 of green and yellow, and against that he came out black--the oddest little figure.
He was a short, round-bodied, thin-legged little man, with a jerky quality in his motions; he had seen fit to clothe his extraordinary mind in a cricket cap, an overcoat, and cycling knickerbockers and stockings. Why he did so I do not know, for he never cycled and he never played cricket. It was a fortuitous concurrence39 of garments, arising I know not how. He gesticulated with his hands and arms, and jerked his head about and buzzed. He buzzed like something electric. You never heard such buzzing. And ever and again he cleared his throat with a most extraordinary noise.
There had been rain, and that spasmodic walk of his was enhanced by the extreme slipperiness of the footpath40. Exactly as he came against the sun he stopped, pulled out a watch, hesitated. Then with a sort of convulsive gesture he turned and retreated with every manifestation41 of haste, no longer gesticulating, but going with ample strides that showed the relatively42 large size of his feet--they were, I remember, grotesquely43 exaggerated in size by adhesive44 clay--to the best possible advantage.
This occurred on the first day of my sojourn45, when my play-writing energy was at its height and I regarded the incident simply as an annoying distraction--the waste of five minutes. I returned to my scenario. But when next evening the apparition46 was repeated with remarkable47 precision, and again the next evening, and indeed every evening when rain was not falling, concentration upon the scenario became a considerable effort. "Confound the man," I said, "one would think he was learning to be a marionette48!" and for several evenings I cursed him pretty heartily49. Then my annoyance50 gave way to amazement51 and curiosity. Why on earth should a man do this thing? On the fourteenth evening I could stand it no longer, and so soon as he appeared I opened the french window, crossed the verandah, and directed myself to the point where he invariably stopped.
He had his watch out as I came up to him. He had a chubby52, rubicund53 face with reddish brown eyes--previously I had seen him only against the light. "One moment, sir," said I as he turned. He stared. "One moment," he said, "certainly. Or if you wish to speak to me for longer, and it is not asking too much--your moment is up--would it trouble you to accompany me?"
"Not in the least," said I, placing myself beside him.
"My habits are regular. My time for intercourse--limited."
"This, I presume, is your time for exercise?"
"It is. I come here to enjoy the sunset."
"You don't."
"Sir?"
"You never look at it."
"Never look at it?"
"No. I've watched you thirteen nights, and not once have you looked at the sunset--not once."
He knitted his brows like one who encounters a problem.
"Well, I enjoy the sunlight--the atmosphere--I go along this path, through that gate"--he jerked his head over his shoulder--"and round--"
"You don't. You never have been. It's all nonsense. There isn't a way. To-night for instance--"
"Oh! to-night! Let me see. Ah! I just glanced at my watch, saw that I had already been out just three minutes over the precise half-hour, decided54 there was not time to go round, turned--"
"You always do."
He looked at me--reflected. "Perhaps I do, now I come to think of it. But what was it you wanted to speak to me about?"
"Why, this!"
"This?"
"Yes. Why do you do it? Every night you come making a noise--"
"Making a noise?"
"Like this." I imitated his buzzing noise. He looked at me, and it was evident the buzzing awakened55 distaste. "Do I do that?" he asked.
"Every blessed evening."
"I had no idea."
He stopped dead. He regarded me gravely. "Can it be," he said, "that I have formed a Habit?"
"Well, it looks like it. Doesn't it?"
He pulled down his lower lip between finger and thumb. He regarded a puddle56 at his feet.
"My mind is much occupied," he said. "And you want to know why! Well, sir, I can assure you that not only do I not know why I do these things, but I did not even know I did them. Come to think, it is just as you say; I never _have_ been beyond that field.... And these things annoy you?"
For some reason I was beginning to relent towards him. "Not annoy," I said. "But--imagine yourself writing a play!"
"I couldn't."
"Well, anything that needs concentration."
"Ah!" he said, "of course," and meditated57. His expression became so eloquent58 of distress59, that I relented still more. After all, there is a touch of aggression60 in demanding of a man you don't know why he hums on a public footpath.
"You see," he said weakly, "it's a habit."
"Oh, I recognise that."
"I must stop it."
"But not if it puts you out. After all, I had no business--it's something of a liberty."
"Not at all, sir," he said, "not at all. I am greatly indebted to you. I should guard myself against these things. In future I will. Could I trouble you--once again? That noise?"
"Something like this," I said. "Zuzzoo, zuzzoo. But really, you know--"
"I am greatly obliged to you. In fact, I know I am getting absurdly absent-minded. You are quite justified61, sir--perfectly justified. Indeed, I am indebted to you. The thing shall end. And now, sir, I have already brought you farther than I should have done."
"I do hope my impertinence--"
"Not at all, sir, not at all."
We regarded each other for a moment. I raised my hat and wished him a good evening. He responded convulsively, and so we went our ways.
At the stile I looked back at his receding62 figure. His bearing had changed remarkably63, he seemed limp, shrunken. The contrast with his former gesticulating, zuzzoing self took me in some absurd way as pathetic. I watched him out of sight. Then wishing very heartily I had kept to my own business, I returned to my bungalow and my play.
The next evening I saw nothing of him, nor the next. But he was very much in my mind, and it had occurred to me that as a sentimental64 comic character he might serve a useful purpose in the development of my plot. The third day he called upon me.
For a time I was puzzled to think what had brought him. He made indifferent conversation in the most formal way, then abruptly65 he came to business. He wanted to buy me out of my bungalow.
"You see," he said, "I don't blame you in the least, but you've destroyed a habit, and it disorganises my day. I've walked past here for years--years. No doubt I've hummed.... You've made all that impossible!"
I suggested he might try some other direction.
"No. There is no other direction. This is the only one. I've inquired. And now--every afternoon at four--I come to a dead wall."
"But, my dear sir, if the thing is so important to you--"
"It's vital. You see, I'm--I'm an investigator--I am engaged in a scientific research. I live--" he paused and seemed to think. "Just over there," he said, and pointed66 suddenly dangerously near my eye. "The house with white chimneys you see just over the trees. And my circumstances are abnormal--abnormal. I am on the point of completing one of the most important--demonstrations67--I can assure you one of the most important demonstrations that have ever been made. It requires constant thought, constant mental ease and activity. And the afternoon was my brightest time!--effervescing with new ideas--new points of view."
"But why not come by still?"
"It would be all different. I should be self-conscious. I should think of you at your play--watching me irritated--instead of thinking of my work. No! I must have the bungalow."
I meditated. Naturally, I wanted to think the matter over thoroughly68 before anything decisive was said. I was generally ready enough for business in those days, and selling always attracted me; but in the first place it was not my bungalow, and even if I sold it to him at a good price I might get inconvenienced in the delivery of goods if the current owner got wind of the transaction, and in the second I was, well--undischarged. It was clearly a business that required delicate handling. Moreover, the possibility of his being in pursuit of some valuable invention also interested me. It occurred to me that I would like to know more of this research, not with any dishonest intention, but simply with an idea that to know what it was would be a relief from play-writing. I threw out feelers.
He was quite willing to supply information. Indeed, once he was fairly under way the conversation became a monologue69. He talked like a man long pent up, who has had it over with himself again and again. He talked for nearly an hour, and I must confess I found it a pretty stiff bit of listening. But through it all there was the undertone of satisfaction one feels when one is neglecting work one has set oneself. During that first interview I gathered very little of the drift of his work. Half his words were technicalities entirely70 strange to me, and he illustrated71 one or two points with what he was pleased to call elementary mathematics, computing72 on an envelope with a copying-ink pencil, in a manner that made it hard even to seem to understand. "Yes," I said, "yes. Go on!" Nevertheless I made out enough to convince me that he was no mere73 crank playing at discoveries. In spite of his crank-like appearance there was a force about him that made that impossible. Whatever it was, it was a thing with mechanical possibilities. He told me of a work-shed he had, and of three assistants--originally jobbing carpenters--whom he had trained. Now, from the work-shed to the patent office is clearly only one step. He invited me to see those things. I accepted readily, and took care, by a remark or so, to underline that. The proposed transfer of the bungalow remained very conveniently in suspense74.
At last he rose to depart, with an apology for the length of his call. Talking over his work was, he said, a pleasure enjoyed only too rarely. It was not often he found such an intelligent listener as myself, he mingled75 very little with professional scientific men.
"So much pettiness," he explained; "so much intrigue76! And really, when one has an idea--a novel, fertilising idea--I don't want to be uncharitable, but--"
I am a man who believes in impulses. I made what was perhaps a rash proposition. But you must remember, that I had been alone, play-writing in Lympne, for fourteen days, and my compunction for his ruined walk still hung about me. "Why not," said I, "make this your new habit? In the place of the one I spoilt? At least, until we can settle about the bungalow. What you want is to turn over your work in your mind. That you have always done during your afternoon walk. Unfortunately that's over--you can't get things back as they were. But why not come and talk about your work to me; use me as a sort of wall against which you may throw your thoughts and catch them again? It's certain I don't know enough to steal your ideas myself--and I know no scientific men--"
I stopped. He was considering. Evidently the thing, attracted him. "But I'm afraid I should bore you," he said.
"You think I'm too dull?"
"Oh, no; but technicalities--"
"Anyhow, you've interested me immensely this afternoon."
"Of course it would be a great help to me. Nothing clears up one's ideas so much as explaining them. Hitherto--"
"My dear sir, say no more."
"But really can you spare the time?"
"There is no rest like change of occupation," I said, with profound conviction.
The affair was over. On my verandah steps he turned. "I am already greatly indebted to you," he said.
I made an interrogative noise.
"You have completely cured me of that ridiculous habit of humming," he explained.
I think I said I was glad to be of any service to him, and he turned away.
Immediately the train of thought that our conversation had suggested must have resumed its sway. His arms began to wave in their former fashion. The faint echo of "zuzzoo" came back to me on the breeze....
Well, after all, that was not my affair....
He came the next day, and again the next day after that, and delivered two lectures on physics to our mutual77 satisfaction. He talked with an air of being extremely lucid78 about the "ether" and "tubes of force," and "gravitational potential," and things like that, and I sat in my other folding-chair and said, "Yes," "Go on," "I follow you," to keep him going. It was tremendously difficult stuff, but I do not think he ever suspected how much I did not understand him. There were moments when I doubted whether I was well employed, but at any rate I was resting from that confounded play. Now and then things gleamed on me clearly for a space, only to vanish just when I thought I had hold of them. Sometimes my attention failed altogether, and I would give it up and sit and stare at him, wondering whether, after all, it would not be better to use him as a central figure in a good farce79 and let all this other stuff slide. And then, perhaps, I would catch on again for a bit.
At the earliest opportunity I went to see his house. It was large and carelessly furnished; there were no servants other than his three assistants, and his dietary and private life were characterised by a philosophical80 simplicity. He was a water-drinker, a vegetarian81, and all those logical disciplinary things. But the sight of his equipment settled many doubts. It looked like business from cellar to attic--an amazing little place to find in an out-of-the-way village. The ground-floor rooms contained benches and apparatus, the bakehouse and scullery boiler82 had developed into respectable furnaces, dynamos occupied the cellar, and there was a gasometer in the garden. He showed it to me with all the confiding83 zest84 of a man who has been living too much alone. His seclusion85 was overflowing86 now in an excess of confidence, and I had the good luck to be the recipient87.
The three assistants were creditable specimens88 of the class of "handy-men" from which they came. Conscientious89 if unintelligent, strong, civil, and willing. One, Spargus, who did the cooking and all the metal work, had been a sailor; a second, Gibbs, was a joiner; and the third was an ex-jobbing gardener, and now general assistant. They were the merest labourers. All the intelligent work was done by Cavor. Theirs was the darkest ignorance compared even with my muddled90 impression.
And now, as to the nature of these inquiries92. Here, unhappily, comes a grave difficulty. I am no scientific expert, and if I were to attempt to set forth93 in the highly scientific language of Mr. Cavor the aim to which his experiments tended, I am afraid I should confuse not only the reader but myself, and almost certainly I should make some blunder that would bring upon me the mockery of every up-to-date student of mathematical physics in the country. The best thing I can do therefore is, I think to give my impressions in my own inexact language, without any attempt to wear a garment of knowledge to which I have no claim.
The object of Mr. Cavor's search was a substance that should be "opaque94"--he used some other word I have forgotten, but "opaque" conveys the idea--to "all forms of radiant energy." "Radiant energy," he made me understand, was anything like light or heat, or those Rontgen Rays there was so much talk about a year or so ago, or the electric waves of Marconi, or gravitation. All these things, he said, _radiate_ out from centres, and act on bodies at a distance, whence comes the term "radiant energy." Now almost all substances are opaque to some form or other of radiant energy. Glass, for example, is transparent95 to light, but much less so to heat, so that it is useful as a fire-screen; and alum is transparent to light, but blocks heat completely. A solution of iodine96 in carbon bisulphide, on the other hand, completely blocks light, but is quite transparent to heat. It will hide a fire from you, but permit all its warmth to reach you. Metals are not only opaque to light and heat, but also to electrical energy, which passes through both iodine solution and glass almost as though they were not interposed. And so on.
Now all known substances are "transparent" to gravitation. You can use screens of various sorts to cut off the light or heat, or electrical influence of the sun, or the warmth of the earth from anything; you can screen things by sheets of metal from Marconi's rays, but nothing will cut off the gravitational attraction of the sun or the gravitational attraction of the earth. Yet why there should be nothing is hard to say. Cavor did not see why such a substance should not exist, and certainly I could not tell him. I had never thought of such a possibility before. He showed me by calculations on paper, which Lord Kelvin, no doubt, or Professor Lodge97, or Professor Karl Pearson, or any of those great scientific people might have understood, but which simply reduced me to a hopeless muddle91, that not only was such a substance possible, but that it must satisfy certain conditions. It was an amazing piece of reasoning. Much as it amazed and exercised me at the time, it would be impossible to reproduce it here. "Yes," I said to it all, "yes; go on!" Suffice it for this story that he believed he might be able to manufacture this possible substance opaque to gravitation out of a complicated alloy98 of metals and something new--a new element, I fancy--called, I believe, _helium_, which was sent to him from London in sealed stone jars. Doubt has been thrown upon this detail, but I am almost certain it was _helium_ he had sent him in sealed stone jars. It was certainly something very gaseous99 and thin. If only I had taken notes...
But then, how was I to foresee the necessity of taking notes?
Any one with the merest germ of an imagination will understand the extraordinary possibilities of such a substance, and will sympathise a little with the emotion I felt as this understanding emerged from the haze100 of abstruse101 phrases in which Cavor expressed himself. Comic relief in a play indeed! It was some time before I would believe that I had interpreted him aright, and I was very careful not to ask questions that would have enabled him to gauge102 the profundity103 of misunderstanding into which he dropped his daily exposition. But no one reading the story of it here will sympathise fully104, because from my barren narrative105 it will be impossible to gather the strength of my conviction that this astonishing substance was positively106 going to be made.
I do not recall that I gave my play an hour's consecutive107 work at any time after my visit to his house. My imagination had other things to do. There seemed no limit to the possibilities of the stuff; whichever way I tried I came on miracles and revolutions. For example, if one wanted to lift a weight, however enormous, one had only to get a sheet of this substance beneath it, and one might lift it with a straw. My first natural impulse was to apply this principle to guns and ironclads, and all the material and methods of war, and from that to shipping108, locomotion109, building, every conceivable form of human industry. The chance that had brought me into the very birth-chamber of this new time--it was an epoch110, no less--was one of those chances that come once in a thousand years. The thing unrolled, it expanded and expanded. Among other things I saw in it my redemption as a business man. I saw a parent company, and daughter companies, applications to right of us, applications to left, rings and trusts, privileges, and concessions111 spreading and spreading, until one vast, stupendous Cavorite company ran and ruled the world.
And I was in it!
I took my line straight away. I knew I was staking everything, but I jumped there and then.
"We're on absolutely the biggest thing that has ever been invented," I said, and put the accent on "we." "If you want to keep me out of this, you'll have to do it with a gun. I'm coming down to be your fourth labourer to-morrow."
He seemed surprised at my enthusiasm, but not a bit suspicious or hostile. Rather, he was self-depreciatory. He looked at me doubtfully. "But do you really think--?" he said. "And your play! How about that play?"
"It's vanished!" I cried. "My dear sir, don't you see what you've got? Don't you see what you're going to do?"
That was merely a rhetorical turn, but positively, he didn't. At first I could not believe it. He had not had the beginning of the inkling of an idea. This astonishing little man had been working on purely112 theoretical grounds the whole time! When he said it was "the most important" research the world had ever seen, he simply meant it squared up so many theories, settled so much that was in doubt; he had troubled no more about the application of the stuff he was going to turn out than if he had been a machine that makes guns. This was a possible substance, and he was going to make it! V'la tout113, as the Frenchman says.
Beyond that, he was childish! If he made it, it would go down to posterity114 as Cavorite or Cavorine, and he would be made an F.R.S., and his portrait given away as a scientific worthy115 with Nature, and things like that. And that was all he saw! He would have dropped this bombshell into the world as though he had discovered a new species of gnat116, if it had not happened that I had come along. And there it would have lain and fizzled, like one or two other little things these scientific people have lit and dropped about us.
When I realised this, it was I did the talking, and Cavor who said, "Go on!" I jumped up. I paced the room, gesticulating like a boy of twenty. I tried to make him understand his duties and responsibilities in the matter--_our_ duties and responsibilities in the matter. I assured him we might make wealth enough to work any sort of social revolution we fancied, we might own and order the whole world. I told him of companies and patents, and the case for secret processes. All these things seemed to take him much as his mathematics had taken me. A look of perplexity came into his ruddy little face. He stammered117 something about indifference118 to wealth, but I brushed all that aside. He had got to be rich, and it was no good his stammering119. I gave him to understand the sort of man I was, and that I had had very considerable business experience. I did not tell him I was an undischarged bankrupt at the time, because that was temporary, but I think I reconciled my evident poverty with my financial claims. And quite insensibly, in the way such projects grow, the understanding of a Cavorite monopoly grew up between us. He was to make the stuff, and I was to make the boom.
I stuck like a leech120 to the "we"--"you" and "I" didn't exist for me.
His idea was that the profits I spoke121 of might go to endow research, but that, of course, was a matter we had to settle later. "That's all right," I shouted, "that's all right." The great point, as I insisted, was to get the thing done.
"Here is a substance," I cried, "no home, no factory, no fortress122, no ship can dare to be without--more universally applicable even than a patent medicine. There isn't a solitary123 aspect of it, not one of its ten thousand possible uses that will not make us rich, Cavor, beyond the dreams of avarice124!"
"No!" he said. "I begin to see. It's extraordinary how one gets new points of view by talking over things!"
"And as it happens you have just talked to the right man!"
"I suppose no one," he said, "is absolutely _averse_ to enormous wealth. Of course there is one thing--"
He paused. I stood still.
"It is just possible, you know, that we may not be able to make it after all! It may be one of those things that are a theoretical possibility, but a practical absurdity125. Or when we make it, there may be some little hitch126!"
"We'll tackle the hitch when it comes." said I.
收听单词发音 |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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cantankerous
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| adj.爱争吵的，脾气不好的 | |
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creditor
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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17
biased
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| a.有偏见的 | |
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18
bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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19
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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20
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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21
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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22
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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23
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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24
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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25
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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26
boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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27
galleys
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| n.平底大船，战舰( galley的名词复数 )；（船上或航空器上的）厨房 | |
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28
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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29
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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30
rubble
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| n.（一堆）碎石，瓦砾 | |
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31
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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32
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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33
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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34
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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35
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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36
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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37
scenario
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| n.剧本，脚本；概要 | |
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38
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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39
concurrence
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| n.同意；并发 | |
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40
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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41
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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42
relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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43
grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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44
adhesive
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| n.粘合剂；adj.可粘着的，粘性的 | |
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45
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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46
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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47
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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48
marionette
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| n.木偶 | |
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49
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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50
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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51
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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52
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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53
rubicund
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| adj.(脸色)红润的 | |
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54
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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55
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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56
puddle
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| n.(雨)水坑，泥潭 | |
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57
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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58
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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59
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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60
aggression
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| n.进攻，侵略，侵犯，侵害 | |
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61
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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62
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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63
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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64
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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65
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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66
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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67
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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68
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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69
monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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70
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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71
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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72
computing
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| n.计算 | |
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73
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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74
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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75
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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76
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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77
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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78
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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79
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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80
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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81
vegetarian
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| n.素食者；adj.素食的 | |
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82
boiler
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| n.锅炉；煮器(壶，锅等) | |
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83
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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84
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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85
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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86
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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87
recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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88
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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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
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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91
muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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92
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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93
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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94
opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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95
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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96
iodine
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| n.碘，碘酒 | |
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97
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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98
alloy
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| n.合金，(金属的)成色 | |
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99
gaseous
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| adj.气体的，气态的 | |
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100
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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101
abstruse
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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102
gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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103
profundity
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| n.渊博；深奥，深刻 | |
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104
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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105
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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106
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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107
consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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108
shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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109
locomotion
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| n.运动，移动 | |
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110
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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111
concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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112
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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113
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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114
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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115
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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116
gnat
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| v.对小事斤斤计较，琐事 | |
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117
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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118
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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119
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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120
leech
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| n.水蛭，吸血鬼，榨取他人利益的人；vt.以水蛭吸血；vi.依附于别人 | |
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121
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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122
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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123
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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124
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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125
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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126
hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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