MASSACRE2 IN ODESSA.
DISCOVERY OF HUMAN REMAINS3 AT CHERTSEY.
SHOCKING LYNCHING OUTRAGE4 IN NEW YORK STATE.
GERMAN INTRIGUES5 GET A SET-BACK.
THE BIRTHDAY HONOURS. — FULL LIST.
Dear old familiar world!
An angry parent in conversation with a sympathetic friend jostles against us. “I’ll knock his blooming young ‘ed orf if ‘e cheeks me again. It’s these ’ere brasted Board Schools ——”
An omnibus passes, bearing on a board beneath an incorrectly drawn6 union Jack7 an exhortation8 to the true patriot9 to “Buy Bumper’s British-Boiled Jam.” . . .
I am stunned10 beyond the possibility of discussion for a space. In this very place it must have been that the high terrace ran with the gardens below it, along which I came from my double to our hotel. I am going back, but now through reality, along the path I passed so happily in my dream. And the people I saw then are the people I am looking at now — with a difference.
The botanist11 walks beside me, white and nervously12 jerky in his movements, his ultimatum13 delivered.
We start to cross the road. An open carriage drives by, and we see a jaded14, red-haired woman, smeared15 with paint, dressed in furs, and petulantly16 discontented. Her face is familiar to me, her face, with a difference.
Why do I think of her as dressed in green?
Of course! — she it was I saw leading her children by the hand!
Comes a crash to our left, and a running of people to see a cab-horse down on the slippery, slanting17 pavement outside St. Martin’s Church.
We go on up the street.
A heavy-eyed young Jewess, a draggled prostitute — no crimson18 flower for her hair, poor girl! — regards us with a momentary19 speculation20, and we get a whiff of foul21 language from two newsboys on the kerb.
“We can’t go on talking,” the botanist begins, and ducks aside just in time to save his eye from the ferule of a stupidly held umbrella. He is going to treat our little tiff22 about that lady as closed. He has the air of picking up our conversation again at some earlier point.
He steps into the gutter23, walks round outside a negro hawker, just escapes the wheel of a hansom, and comes to my side again.
“We can’t go on talking of your Utopia,” he says, “in a noise and crowd like this.”
We are separated by a portly man going in the opposite direction, and join again. “We can’t go on talking of Utopia,” he repeats, “in London. . . . Up in the mountains — and holiday-time — it was all right. We let ourselves go!”
“I’ve been living in Utopia,” I answer, tacitly adopting his tacit proposal to drop the lady out of the question.
“At times,” he says, with a queer laugh, “you’ve almost made me live there too.”
He reflects. “It doesn’t do, you know. No! And I don’t know whether, after all, I want ——”
We are separated again by half-a-dozen lifted flagstones, a burning brazier, and two engineers concerned with some underground business or other — in the busiest hour of the day’s traffic.
“Why shouldn’t it do?” I ask.
“It spoils the world of everyday to let your mind run on impossible perfections.”
“I wish,” I shout against the traffic, “I could smash the world of everyday.”
My note becomes quarrelsome. “You may accept this as the world of reality, you may consent to be one scar in an ill-dressed compound wound, but so — not I! This is a dream too — this world. Your dream, and you bring me back to it — out of Utopia ——”
The crossing of Bow Street gives me pause again.
The face of a girl who is passing westward24, a student girl, rather carelessly dressed, her books in a carrying-strap, comes across my field of vision. The westward sun of London glows upon her face. She has eyes that dream, surely no sensuous25 nor personal dream.
After all, after all, dispersed26, hidden, disorganised, undiscovered, unsuspected even by themselves, the samurai of Utopia are in this world, the motives27 that are developed and organised there stir dumbly here and stifle28 in ten thousand futile29 hearts. . . .
I overtake the botanist, who got ahead at the crossing by the advantage of a dust-cart.
“You think this is real because you can’t wake out of it,” I say. “It’s all a dream, and there are people — I’m just one of the first of a multitude — between sleeping and waking — who will presently be rubbing it out of their eyes.”
A pinched and dirty little girl, with sores upon her face, stretches out a bunch of wilting30 violets, in a pitifully thin little fist, and interrupts my speech. “Bunch o’ vi’lets — on’y a penny.”
“No!” I say curtly31, hardening my heart.
A ragged32 and filthy33 nursing mother, with her last addition to our Imperial People on her arm, comes out of a drinkshop, and stands a little unsteadily, and wipes mouth and nose comprehensively with the back of a red chapped hand. . . .
点击收听单词发音
1 hoarding | |
n.贮藏;积蓄;临时围墙;囤积v.积蓄并储藏(某物)( hoard的现在分词 ) | |
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2 massacre | |
n.残杀,大屠杀;v.残杀,集体屠杀 | |
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3 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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4 outrage | |
n.暴行,侮辱,愤怒;vt.凌辱,激怒 | |
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5 intrigues | |
n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 );神秘气氛;引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 );激起…的好奇心 | |
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6 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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7 jack | |
n.插座,千斤顶,男人;v.抬起,提醒,扛举;n.(Jake)杰克 | |
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8 exhortation | |
n.劝告,规劝 | |
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9 patriot | |
n.爱国者,爱国主义者 | |
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10 stunned | |
adj. 震惊的,惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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11 botanist | |
n.植物学家 | |
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12 nervously | |
adv.神情激动地,不安地 | |
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13 ultimatum | |
n.最后通牒 | |
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14 jaded | |
adj.精疲力竭的;厌倦的;(因过饱或过多而)腻烦的;迟钝的 | |
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15 smeared | |
弄脏; 玷污; 涂抹; 擦上 | |
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16 petulantly | |
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17 slanting | |
倾斜的,歪斜的 | |
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18 crimson | |
n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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19 momentary | |
adj.片刻的,瞬息的;短暂的 | |
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20 speculation | |
n.思索,沉思;猜测;投机 | |
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21 foul | |
adj.污秽的;邪恶的;v.弄脏;妨害;犯规;n.犯规 | |
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22 tiff | |
n.小争吵,生气 | |
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23 gutter | |
n.沟,街沟,水槽,檐槽,贫民窟 | |
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24 westward | |
n.西方,西部;adj.西方的,向西的;adv.向西 | |
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25 sensuous | |
adj.激发美感的;感官的,感觉上的 | |
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26 dispersed | |
adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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27 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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28 stifle | |
vt.使窒息;闷死;扼杀;抑止,阻止 | |
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29 futile | |
adj.无效的,无用的,无希望的 | |
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30 wilting | |
萎蔫 | |
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31 curtly | |
adv.简短地 | |
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32 ragged | |
adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
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33 filthy | |
adj.卑劣的;恶劣的,肮脏的 | |
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