IN the Lenin Barracks in Barcelona, the day before I joined the militia1, I saw an Italian militiaman standing2 in front of the officers’ table.
He was a tough-looking youth of twenty-five or six, with reddish-yellow hair and powerful shoulders. His peaked leather cap was pulled fiercely over one eye. He was standing in profile to me, his chin on his breast, gazing with a puzzled frown at a map which one of the officers had open on the table. Something in his face deeply moved me. It was the face of a man who would commit murder and throw away his life for a friend — the kind efface3 you would expect in an Anarchist4, though as likely as not he was a Communist. There were both candour and ferocity in it; also the pathetic reverence5 that illiterate6 people have for their supposed superiors. Obviously he could not make head or tail of the map; obviously he regarded map-reading as a stupendous intellectual feat7. I hardly know why, but I have seldom seen anyone — any man, I mean — to whom I have taken such an immediate8 liking9. While they were talking round the table some remark brought it out that I was a foreigner. The Italian raised his head and said quickly:
‘Italiano?’
I answered in my bad Spanish: ‘No, Ingles. Y tu?’
‘Italiano.’
As we went out he stepped across the room and gripped my hand very hard. Queer, the affection you can feel for a stranger! It was as though his spirit and mine had momentarily succeeded in bridging the gulf10 of language and tradition and meeting in utter intimacy11. I hoped he liked me as well as I liked him. But I also knew that to retain my first impression of him I must not see him again; and needless to say I never did see him again. One was always making contacts of that kind in Spain.
I mention this Italian militiaman because he has stuck vividly12 in my memory. With his shabby uniform and fierce pathetic face he typifies for me the special atmosphere of that time. He is bound up with all my memories of that period of the war — the red flags in Barcelona, the gaunt trains full of shabby soldiers creeping to the front, the grey war-stricken towns farther up the line, the muddy, ice-cold trenches14 in the mountains.
This was in late December 1936, less than seven months ago as I write, and yet it is a period that has already receded15 into enormous distance. Later events have obliterated16 it much more completely than they have obliterated 1935, or 1905, for that matter. I had come to Spain with some notion of writing newspaper articles, but I had joined the militia almost immediately, because at that time and in that atmosphere it seemed the only conceivable thing to do. The Anarchists17 were still in virtual control of Catalonia and the revolution was still in full swing. To anyone who had been there since the beginning it probably seemed even in December or January that the revolutionary period was ending; but when one came straight from England the aspect of Barcelona was something startling and overwhelming. It was the first time that I had ever been in a town where the working class was in the saddle. Practically every building of any size had been seized by the workers and was draped with red flags or with the red and black flag of the Anarchists; every wall was scrawled18 with the hammer and sickle19 and with the initials of the revolutionary parties; almost every church had been gutted20 and its images burnt. Churches here and there were being systematically21 demolished22 by gangs of workmen. Every shop and cafe had an inscription23 saying that it had been collectivized; even the bootblacks had been collectivized and their boxes painted red and black. Waiters and shop-walkers looked you in the face and treated you as an equal. Servile and even ceremonial forms of speech had temporarily disappeared. Nobody said ‘Senior’ or ‘Don’ or even ‘Usted’; everyone called everyone else ‘Comrade’ and ‘Thou’, and said ‘Salud!’ instead of ‘Buenos dias’. Tipping was forbidden by law; almost my first experience was receiving a lecture from a hotel manager for trying to tip a lift-boy. There were no private motor-cars, they had all been commandeered, and all the trams and taxis and much of the other transport were painted red and black. The revolutionary posters were everywhere, flaming from the walls in clean reds and blues24 that made the few remaining advertisements look like daubs of mud. Down the Ramblas, the wide central artery25 of the town where crowds of people streamed constantly to and fro, the loudspeakers were bellowing26 revolutionary songs all day and far into the night. And it was the aspect of the crowds that was the queerest thing of all. In outward appearance it was a town in which the wealthy classes had practically ceased to exist. Except for a small number of women and foreigners there were no ‘well-dressed’ people at all. Practically everyone wore rough working-class clothes, or blue overalls27, or some variant28 of the militia uniform. All this was queer and moving. There was much in it that I did not understand, in some ways I did not even like it, but I recognized it immediately as a state of affairs worth fighting for. Also I believed that things were as they appeared, that this was really a workers’ State and that the entire bourgeoisie had either fled, been killed, or voluntarily come over to the workers’ side; I did not realize that great numbers of well-to-do bourgeois29 were simply lying low and disguising themselves as proletarians for the time being.
Together with all this there was something of the evil atmosphere of war. The town had a gaunt untidy look, roads and buildings were in poor repair, the streets at night were dimly lit for fear of air — raids, the shops were mostly shabby and half-empty. Meat was scarce and milk practically unobtainable, there was a shortage of coal, sugar, and petrol, and a really serious shortage of bread. Even at this period the bread-queues were often hundreds of yards long. Yet so far as one could judge the people were contented30 and hopeful. There was no unemployment, and the price of living was still extremely low; you saw very few conspicuously31 destitute32 people, and no beggars except the gipsies. Above all, there was a belief in the revolution and the future, a feeling of having suddenly emerged into an era of equality and freedom. Human beings were trying to behave as human beings and not as cogs in the capitalist machine. In the barbers’ shops were Anarchist notices (the barbers were mostly Anarchists) solemnly explaining that barbers were no longer slaves. In the streets were coloured posters appealing to prostitutes to stop being prostitutes. To anyone from the hard-boiled, sneering33 civilization of the English — speaking races there was something rather pathetic in the literalness with which these idealistic Spaniards took the hackneyed phrases of revolution. At that time revolutionary ballads34 of the naivest35 kind, all about proletarian brotherhood36 and the wickedness of Mussolini, were being sold on the streets for a few centimes each. I have often seen an illiterate militiaman buy one of these ballads, laboriously37 spell out the words, and then, when he had got the hang of it, begin singing it to an appropriate tune38.
All this time I was at the Lenin Barracks, ostensibly in training for the front. When I joined the militia I had been told that I should be sent to the front the next day, but in fact I had to wait while a fresh centuria was got ready. The workers’ militias39, hurriedly raised by the trade unions at the beginning of the war, had not yet been organized on an ordinary army basis. The units of command were the ‘section’, of about thirty men, the centuria, of about a hundred men, and the ‘column’, which in practice meant any large number of men. The Lenin Barracks was a block of splendid stone buildings with a riding — school and enormous cobbled courtyards; it had been a cavalry40 barracks and had been captured during the July fighting. My centuria slept in one of the stables, under the stone mangers where the names of the cavalry chargers were still inscribed41. All the horses had been seized and sent to the front, but the whole place still smelt42 of horse-piss and rotten oats. I was at the barracks about a week. Chiefly I remember the horsy smells, the quavering bugle-calls (all our buglers were amateurs — I first learned the Spanish bugle-calls by listening to them outside the Fascist43 lines), the tramp-tramp of hobnailed boots in the barrack yard, the long morning parades in the wintry sunshine, the wild games of football, fifty a side, in the gravelled riding — school. There were perhaps a thousand men at the barracks, and a score or so of women, apart from the militiamen’s wives who did the cooking. There were still women serving in the militias, though not very many. In the early battles they had fought side by side with the men as a matter of course. It is a thing that seems natural in time of revolution. Ideas were changing already, however. The militiamen had to be kept out of the riding-school while the women were drilling there because they laughed at the women and put them off. A few months earlier no one would have seen anything comic in a woman handling a gun.
The whole barracks was in the state of filth44 and chaos45 to which the militia reduced every building they occupied and which seems to be one of the by-products of revolution. In every comer you came upon piles of smashed furniture, broken saddles, brass46 cavalry-helmets, empty sabre-scabbards, and decaying food. There was frightful47 wastage of food, especially bread. From my barrack-room alone a basketful of bread was thrown away at every meal — a disgraceful thing when the civilian48 population was short of it. We ate at long trestle-tables out of permanently49 greasy50 tin pannikins, and drank out of a dreadful thing called a porron. A porron is a sort of glass bottle with a pointed51 spout52 from which a thin jet of wine spurts53 out whenever you tip it up; you can thus drink from a distance, without touching54 it with your lips, and it can be passed from hand to hand. I went on strike and demanded a drinking-cup as soon as I saw a porron in use. To my eye the things were altogether too like bed-bottles, especially when they were filled with white wine.
By degrees they were issuing the recruits with uniforms, and because this was Spain everything was issued piecemeal55, so that it was never quite certain who had received what, and various of the things we most needed, such as belts and cartridge-boxes, were not issued till the last moment, when the train was actually waiting to take us to the front. I have spoken of the militia ‘uniform’, which probably gives a wrong impression. It was not exactly a uniform. Perhaps a ‘multiform’ would be the proper name for it. Everyone’s clothes followed the same general plan, but they were never quite the same in any two cases. Practically everyone in the army wore corduroy knee-breeches, but there the uniformity ended. Some wore puttees, others corduroy gaiters, others leather leggings or high boots. Everyone wore a zipper57 jacket, but some of the jackets were of leather, others of wool and of every conceivable colour. The kinds of cap were about as numerous as their wearers. It was usual to adorn58 the front of your cap with a party badge, and in addition nearly every man. wore a red or red and black handkerchief round his throat. A militia column at that time was an extraordinary-looking rabble59. But the clothes had to be issued as this or that factory rushed them out, and they were not bad clothes considering the circumstances. The shirts and socks were wretched cotton things, however, quite useless against cold. I hate to think of what the militiamen must have gone through in the earlier months before anything was organized. I remember coming upon a newspaper of only about two months earlier in which one of the P.O.U.M. leaders, after a visit to the front, said that he would try to see to it that ‘every militiaman had a blanket’. A phrase to make you shudder60 if you have ever slept in a trench13.
On my second day at the barracks there began what was comically called ‘instruction’. At the beginning there were frightful scenes of chaos. The recruits were mostly boys of sixteen or seventeen from the back streets of Barcelona, full of revolutionary ardour but completely ignorant of the meaning of war. It was impossible even to get them to stand in line. Discipline did not exist; if a man disliked an order he would step out of the ranks and argue fiercely with the officer. The lieutenant61 who instructed us was a stout62, fresh-faced, pleasant young man who had previously63 been a Regular Army officer, and still looked like one, with his smart carriage and spick-and-span uniform. Curiously64 enough he was a sincere and ardent65 Socialist66. Even more than the men themselves he insisted upon complete social equality between all ranks. I remember his pained surprise when an ignorant recruit addressed him as ‘Senor’. ‘What! Senor? Who is that calling me Senor? Are we not all comrades?’ I doubt whether it made his job any easier. Meanwhile the raw recruits were getting no military training that could be of the slightest use to them. I had been told that foreigners were not obliged to attend ‘instruction’ (the Spaniards, I noticed, had a pathetic belief that all foreigners knew more of military matters than themselves), but naturally I turned out with the others. I was very anxious to learn how to use a machine-gun; it was a weapon I had never had a chance to handle. To my dismay I found that we were taught nothing about the use of weapons. The so-called instruction was simply parade-ground drill of the most antiquated67, stupid kind; right turn, left turn, about turn, marching at attention in column of threes and all the rest of that useless nonsense which I had learned when I was fifteen years old. It was an extraordinary form for the training of a guerilla army to take. Obviously if you have only a few days in which to train a soldier, you must teach him the things he will most need; how to take cover, how to advance across open ground, how to mount guards and build a parapet — above all, how to use his weapons. Yet this mob of eager children, who were going to be thrown into the front line in a few days’ time, were not even taught how to fire a rifle or pull the pin out of a bomb. At the time I did not grasp that this was because there were no weapons to be had. In the P.O.U.M. militia the shortage of rifles was so desperate that fresh troops reaching the front always had to take their rifles from the troops they relieved in the line. In the whole of the Lenin Barracks there were, I believe, no rifles except those used by the sentries68.
After a few days, though still a complete rabble by any ordinary standard, we were considered fit to be seen in public, and in the mornings we were marched out to the public gardens on the hill beyond the Plaza69 de Espana. This was the common drill-ground of all the party militias, besides the Carabineros and the first contingents70 of the newly formed Popular Army. Up in the public gardens it was a strange and heartening sight. Down every path and alley-way, amid the formal flower-beds, squads71 and companies of men marched stiffly to and fro, throwing out their chests and trying desperately72 to look like soldiers. All of them were unarmed and none completely in uniform, though on most of them the militia uniform was breaking out in patches here and there. The procedure was always very much the same. For three hours we strutted73 to and fro (the Spanish marching step is very short and rapid), then we halted, broke the ranks, and flocked thirstily to a little grocer’s shop which was half-way down the hill and was doing a roaring trade in cheap wine. Everyone was very friendly to me. As an Englishman I was something of a curiosity, and the Carabinero officers made much of me and stood me drinks. Meanwhile, whenever I could get our lieutenant into a corner, I was clamouring to be instructed in the use of a machine-gun. I used to drag my Hugo’s dictionary out of my pocket and start on him in my villainous Spanish:
‘To se manejar fusil. Mo se manejar ametralladora. Quiero apprender ametralladora. Quando vamos apprender ametralladora?’
The answer was always a harassed74 smile and a promise that there should be machine-gun instruction manana. Needless to say manana never came. Several days passed and the recruits learned to march in step and spring to attention almost smartly, but if they knew which end of a rifle the bullet came out of, that was all they knew. One day an armed Carabinero strolled up to us when we were halting and allowed us to examine his rifle. It turned out that in the whole of my section no one except myself even knew how to load the rifle, much less how to take aim.
All this time I was having the usual struggles with the Spanish language. Apart from myself there was only one Englishman at the barracks, and nobody even among the officers spoke56 a word of French. Things were not made easier for me by the fact that when my companions spoke to one another they generally spoke in Catalan. The only way I could get along was to carry everywhere a small dictionary which I whipped out of my pocket in moments of crisis. But I would sooner be a foreigner in Spain than in most countries. How easy it is to make friends in Spain I Within a day or two there was a score of militiamen who called me by my Christian75 name, showed me the ropes, and overwhelmed me with hospitality. I am not writing a book of propaganda and I do not want to idealize the P.O.U.M. militia. The whole militia — system had serious faults, and the men themselves were a mixed lot, for by this time voluntary recruitment was falling off and many of the best men were already at the front or dead. There was always among us a certain percentage who were completely useless. Boys of fifteen were being brought up for enlistment76 by their parents, quite openly for the sake of the ten pesetas a day which was the militiaman’s wage; also for the sake of the bread which the militia received in plenty and could smuggle77 home to their parents. But I defy anyone to be thrown as I was among the Spanish working class — I ought perhaps to say the Catalan working class, for apart from a few Aragonese and Andalusians I mixed only with Catalans — and not be struck by their essential decency78; above all, their straightforwardness79 and generosity80. A Spaniard’s generosity, in the ordinary sense of the word, is at times almost embarrassing. If you ask him for a cigarette he will force the whole packet upon you. And beyond this there is generosity in a deeper sense, a real largeness of spirit, which I have met with again and again in the most unpromising circumstances. Some of the journalists and other foreigners who travelled in Spain during the war have declared that in secret the Spaniards were bitterly jealous of foreign aid. All I can say is that I never observed anything of the kind. I remember that a few days before I left the barracks a group of men returned on leave from the front. They were talking excitedly about their experiences and were full of enthusiasm for some French troops who had been next to them at Huesca. The French were very brave, they said; adding enthusiastically: ‘Mas valientes que nosotros’ — ‘Braver than we are!’ Of course I demurred81, whereupon they explained that the French knew more of the art of war — were more expert with bombs, machine-guns, and so forth82. Yet the remark was significant. An Englishman would cut his hand off sooner than say a thing like that.
Every foreigner who served in the militia spent his first few weeks in learning to love the Spaniards and in being exasperated83 by certain of their characteristics. In the front line my own exasperation84 sometimes reached the pitch of fury. The Spaniards are good at many things, but not at making war. All foreigners alike are appalled85 by their inefficiency86, above all their maddening unpunctuality. The one Spanish word that no foreigner can avoid learning is manana — ‘tomorrow’ (literally, ‘the morning’). Whenever it is conceivably possible, the business of today is put off until manana. This is so notorious that even the Spaniards themselves make jokes about it. In Spain nothing, from a meal to a battle, ever happens at the appointed time. As a general rule things happen too late, but just occasionally — just so that you shan’t even be able to depend on their happening late — they happen too early. A train which is due to leave at eight will normally leave at any time between nine and ten, but perhaps once a week, thanks to some private whim87 of the engine-driver, it leaves at half past seven. Such things can be a little trying. In theory I rather admire the Spaniards for not sharing our Northern time-neurosis; but unfortunately I share it myself.
After endless rumours88, mananas, and delays we were suddenly ordered to the front at two hours’ notice, when much of our equipment was still unissued. There were terrible tumults89 in the quartermaster’s store; in the end numbers of men had to leave without their full equipment. The barracks had promptly90 filled with women who seemed to have sprung up from the ground and were helping91 their men-folk to roll their blankets and pack their kit-bags. It was rather humiliating that I had to be shown how to put on my new leather cartridge-boxes by a Spanish girl, the wife of Williams, the other English militiaman. She was a gentle, dark-eyed, intensely feminine creature who looked as though her life — work was to rock a cradle, but who as a matter of fact had fought bravely in the street-battles of July. At this time she was carrying a baby which was born just ten months after the outbreak of war and had perhaps been begotten92 behind a barricade93.
The train was due to leave at eight, and it was about ten past eight when the harassed, sweating officers managed to marshal us in the barrack square. I remember very vividly the torchlit scene — the uproar94 and excitement, the red flags flapping in the torchlight, the massed ranks of militiamen with their knapsacks on their backs and their rolled blankets worn bandolier-wise across the shoulder; and the shouting and the clatter95 of boots and tin pannikins, and then a tremendous and finally successful hissing96 for silence; and then some political commissar standing beneath a huge rolling red banner and making us a speech in Catalan. Finally they marched us to the station, taking the longest route, three or four miles, so as to show us to the whole town. In the Ramblas they halted us while a borrowed band played some revolutionary tune or other. Once again the conquering-hero stuff — shouting and enthusiasm, red flags and red and black flags everywhere, friendly crowds thronging97 the pavement to have a look at us, women waving from the windows. How natural it all seemed then; how remote and improbable now! The train was packed so tight with men that there was barely room even on the floor, let alone on the seats. At the last moment Williams’s wife came rushing down the platform and gave us a bottle of wine and a foot of that bright red sausage which tastes of soap and gives you diarrhoea. The train crawled out of Catalonia and on to the plateau of Aragon at the normal wartime speed of something under twenty kilometres an hour.
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militia
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| n.民兵，民兵组织 | |
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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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efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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anarchist
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| n.无政府主义者 | |
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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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illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；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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obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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anarchists
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| 无政府主义者( anarchist的名词复数 ) | |
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scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sickle
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| n.镰刀 | |
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gutted
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| adj.容易消化的v.毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的过去式和过去分词 )；取出…的内脏 | |
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systematically
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| adv.有系统地 | |
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demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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artery
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| n.干线，要道；动脉 | |
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bellowing
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的现在分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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overalls
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| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
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variant
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| adj.不同的，变异的；n.变体，异体 | |
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bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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naivest
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| naive（幼稚的）的最高级形式 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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militias
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| n.民兵组织，民兵( militia的名词复数 ) | |
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cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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fascist
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| adj.法西斯主义的；法西斯党的；n.法西斯主义者，法西斯分子 | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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spurts
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| 短暂而突然的活动或努力( spurt的名词复数 )； 突然奋起 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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piecemeal
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| adj.零碎的；n.片，块；adv.逐渐地；v.弄成碎块 | |
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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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zipper
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| n.拉链；v.拉上拉链 | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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sentries
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| 哨兵，步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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plaza
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| n.广场，市场 | |
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contingents
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| （志趣相投、尤指来自同一地方的）一组与会者( contingent的名词复数 )； 代表团； （军队的）分遣队； 小分队 | |
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squads
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| n.（军队中的）班( squad的名词复数 )；（暗杀）小组；体育运动的运动（代表）队；（对付某类犯罪活动的）警察队伍 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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strutted
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| 趾高气扬地走，高视阔步( strut的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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enlistment
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| n.应征入伍，获得，取得 | |
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smuggle
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| vt.私运；vi.走私 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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straightforwardness
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| n.坦白，率直 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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demurred
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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inefficiency
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| n.无效率，无能；无效率事例 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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tumults
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| 吵闹( tumult的名词复数 )； 喧哗； 激动的吵闹声； 心烦意乱 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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barricade
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| n.路障，栅栏，障碍；vt.设路障挡住 | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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