December 30th, P.M.
I was in bed, and hardly recovered from the delirious1 fever which had kept me for so long between life and death. My weakened brain was making efforts to recover its activity; my thoughts, like rays of light struggling through the clouds, were still confused and imperfect; at times I felt a return of the dizziness which made a chaos2 of all my ideas, and I floated, so to speak, between alternate fits of mental wandering and consciousness.
Sometimes everything seemed plain to me, like the prospect3 which, from the top of some high mountain, opens before us in clear weather. We distinguish water, woods, villages, cattle, even the cottage perched on the edge of the ravine; then suddenly there comes a gust4 of wind laden5 with mist, and all is confused and indistinct.
Thus, yielding to the oscillations of a half-recovered reason, I allowed my mind to follow its various impulses without troubling myself to separate the real from the imaginary; I glided6 softly from one to the other, and my dreams and waking thoughts succeeded closely upon one another.
Now, while my mind is wandering in this unsettled state, see, underneath7 the clock which measures the hours with its loud ticking, a female figure appears before me!
At first sight I saw enough to satisfy me that she was not a daughter of Eve. In her eye was the last flash of an expiring star, and her face had the pallor of an heroic death-struggle. She was dressed in a drapery of a thousand changing colors of the brightest and the most sombre hues8, and held a withered9 garland in her hand.
After having contemplated10 her for some moments, I asked her name, and what brought her into my attic11. Her eyes, which were following the movements of the clock, turned toward me, and she replied:
“You see in me the year which is just drawing to its end; I come to receive your thanks and your farewell.”
I raised myself on my elbow in surprise, which soon gave place to bitter resentment12.
“Ah! you want thanks,” cried I; “but first let me know what for?
“When I welcomed your coming, I was still young and vigorous: you have taken from me each day some little of my strength, and you have ended by inflicting13 an illness upon me; already, thanks to you, my blood is less warm, my muscles less firm, and my feet less agile14 than before! You have planted the germs of infirmity in my bosom15; there, where the summer flowers of life were growing, you have wickedly sown the nettles16 of old age!
“And, as if it were not enough to weaken my body, you have also diminished the powers of my soul; you have extinguished her enthusiasm; she is become more sluggish17 and more timid. Formerly18 her eyes took in the whole of mankind in their generous survey; but you have made her nearsighted, and now she hardly sees beyond herself! That is what you have done for my spiritual being: then as to my outward existence, see to what grief, neglect, and misery19 you have reduced it! For the many days that the fever has kept me chained to this bed, who has taken care of this home in which I placed all my joy? Shall I not find my closets empty, my bookcase, stripped, all my poor treasures lost through negligence20 or dishonesty? Where are the plants I cultivated, the birds I fed? All are gone! my attic is despoiled21, silent and solitary22! As it is only for the last few moments that I have returned to a consciousness of what surrounds me, I am even ignorant who has nursed me during my long illness! Doubtless some hireling, who will leave when all my means of recompense are exhausted23! And what will my masters, for whom I am bound to work, have said to my absence? At this time of the year, when business is most pressing, can they have done without me, will they even have tried to do so? Perhaps I am already superseded24 in the humble25 situation by which I earned my daily bread! And it is thou-thou alone, wicked daughter of Time — who hast brought all these misfortunes upon me: strength, health, comfort, work — thou hast taken all from me. I have only received outrage26 and loss from thee, and yet thou darest to claim my gratitude27!”
“Ah! die then, since thy day is come; but die despised and cursed; and may I write on thy tomb the epitaph the Arabian poet inscribed28 upon that of a king:
“‘Rejoice, thou passer-by: he whom we have buried here cannot live again.’”
I was wakened by a hand taking mine; and opening my eyes, I recognized the doctor.
After having felt my pulse, he nodded his head, sat down at the foot of the bed, and looked at me, rubbing his nose with his snuffbox. I have since learned that this was a sign of satisfaction with the doctor.
“Well! so we wanted old snub-nose to carry us off?” said M. Lambert, in his half-joking, half-scolding way. “What the deuce of a hurry we were in! It was necessary to hold you back with both arms at least!”
“Then you had given me up, doctor?” asked I, rather alarmed.
“Not at all,” replied the old physician. “We can’t give up what we have not got; and I make it a rule never to have any hope. We are but instruments in the hands of Providence29, and each of us should say, with Ambroise Pare: ‘I tend him, God cures him!"’
“May He be blessed then, as well as you,” cried I; “and may my health come back with the new year!”
M. Lambert shrugged30 his shoulders.
“Begin by asking yourself for it,” resumed he, bluntly. “God has given it you, and it is your own sense, and not chance, that must keep it for you. One would think, to hear people talk, that sickness comes upon us like the rain or the sunshine, without one having a word to say in the matter. Before we complain of being ill we should prove that we deserve to be well.”
I was about to smile, but the doctor looked angry.
“Ah! you think that I am joking,” resumed he, raising his voice; “but tell me, then, which of us gives his health the same attention that he gives to his business? Do you economize31 your strength as you economize your money? Do you avoid excess and imprudence in the one case with the same care as extravagance or foolish speculations32 in the other? Do you keep as regular accounts of your mode of living as you do of your income? Do you consider every evening what has been wholesome33 or unwholesome for you, with the same care that you bring to the examination of your expenditure34? You may smile; but have you not brought this illness on yourself by a thousand indiscretions?”
I began to protest against this, and asked him to point out these indiscretions. The old doctor spread out his fingers, and began to reckon upon them one by one.
“Primo,” cried he, “want of exercise. You live here like a mouse in a cheese, without air, motion, or change. Consequently, the blood circulates badly, the fluids thicken, the muscles, being inactive, do not claim their share of nutrition, the stomach flags, and the brain grows weary.
“Secundo. Irregular food. Caprice is your cook; your stomach a slave who must accept what you give it, but who presently takes a sullen35 revenge, like all slaves.
“Tertio. Sitting up late. Instead of using the night for sleep, you spend it in reading; your bedstead is a bookcase, your pillows a desk! At the time when the wearied brain asks for rest, you lead it through these nocturnal orgies, and you are surprised to find it the worse for them the next day.
“Quarto. Luxurious36 habits. Shut up in your attic, you insensibly surround yourself with a thousand effeminate indulgences. You must have list for your door, a blind for your window, a carpet for your feet, an easy-chair stuffed with wool for your back, your fire lit at the first sign of cold, and a shade to your lamp; and thanks to all these precautions, the least draught37 makes you catch cold, common chairs give you no rest, and you must wear spectacles to support the light of day. You have thought you were acquiring comforts, and you have only contracted infirmities.
“Quinto”
“Ah! enough, enough, doctor!” cried I. “Pray, do not carry your examination farther; do not attach a sense of remorse39 to each of my pleasures.”
The old doctor rubbed his nose with his snuffbox.
“You see,” said he, more gently, and rising at the same time, “you would escape from the truth. You shrink from inquiry40 — a proof that you are guilty. ‘Habemus confitentem reum’! But at least, my friend, do not go on laying the blame on Time, like an old woman.”
Thereupon he again felt my pulse, and took his leave, declaring that his function was at an end, and that the rest depended upon myself.
When the doctor was gone, I set about reflecting upon what he had said.
Although his words were too sweeping41, they were not the less true in the main. How often we accuse chance of an illness, the origin of which we should seek in ourselves! Perhaps it would have been wiser to let him finish the examination he had begun.
But is there not another of more importance — that which concerns the health of the soul? Am I so sure of having neglected no means of preserving that during the year which is now ending? Have I, as one of God’s soldiers upon earth, kept my courage and my arms efficient? Shall I be ready for the great review of souls which must pass before Him WHO IS in the dark valley of Jehoshaphat?
Darest thou examine thyself, O my soul! and see how often thou hast erred42?
First, thou hast erred through pride! for I have not duly valued the lowly. I have drunk too deeply of the intoxicating43 wines of genius, and have found no relish44 in pure water. I have disdained45 those words which had no other beauty than their sincerity46; I have ceased to love men solely47 because they are men — I have loved them for their endowments; I have contracted the world within the narrow compass of a pantheon, and my sympathy has been awakened48 by admiration49 only. The vulgar crowd, which I ought to have followed with a friendly eye because it is composed of my brothers in hope or grief, I have let pass by with as much indifference50 as if it were a flock of sheep. I am indignant with him who rolls in riches and despises the man poor in worldly wealth; and yet, vain of my trifling51 knowledge, I despise him who is poor in mind — I scorn the poverty of intellect as others do that of dress; I take credit for a gift which I did not bestow52 on myself, and turn the favor of fortune into a weapon with which to attack others.
Ah! if, in the worst days of revolutions, ignorance has revolted and raised a cry of hatred53 against genius, the fault is not alone in the envious54 malice55 of ignorance, but comes in part, too, from the contemptuous pride of knowledge.
Alas56! I have too completely forgotten the fable57 of the two sons of the magician of Bagdad.
One of them, struck by an irrevocable decree of destiny, was born blind, while the other enjoyed all the delights of sight. The latter, proud of his own advantages, laughed at his brother’s blindness, and disdained him as a companion. One morning the blind boy wished to go out with him.
“To what purpose,” said he, “since the gods have put nothing in common between us? For me creation is a stage, where a thousand charming scenes and wonderful actors appear in succession; for you it is only an obscure abyss, at the bottom of which you hear the confused murmur58 of an invisible world. Continue then alone in your darkness, and leave the pleasures of light to those upon whom the day-star shines.”
With these words he went away, and his brother, left alone, began to cry bitterly. His father, who heard him, immediately ran to him, and tried to console him by promising59 to give him whatever he desired.
“Can you give me sight?” asked the child.
“Fate does not permit it,” said the magician.
“Then,” cried the blind boy, eagerly, “I ask you to put out the sun!”
Who knows whether my pride has not provoked the same wish on the part of some one of my brothers who does not see?
But how much oftener have I erred through levity60 and want of thought! How many resolutions have I taken at random61! how many judgments62 have I pronounced for the sake of a witticism63! how many mischiefs64 have I not done without any sense of my responsibility! The greater part of men harm one another for the sake of doing something. We laugh at the honor of one, and compromise the reputation of another, like an idle man who saunters along a hedgerow, breaking the young branches and destroying the most beautiful flowers.
And, nevertheless, it is by this very thoughtlessness that the fame of some men is created. It rises gradually, like one of those mysterious mounds66 in barbarous countries, to which a stone is added by every passerby67; each one brings something at random, and adds it as he passes, without being able himself to see whether he is raising a pedestal or a gibbet. Who will dare look behind him, to see his rash judgments held up there to view?
Some time ago I was walking along the edge of the green mound65 on which the Montmartre telegraph stands. Below me, along one of the zigzag68 paths which wind up the hill, a man and a girl were coming up, and arrested my attention. The man wore a shaggy coat, which gave him some resemblance to a wild beast; and he held a thick stick in his hand, with which he described various strange figures in the air. He spoke69 very loud, and in a voice which seemed to me convulsed with passion. He raised his eyes every now and then with an expression of savage70 harshness, and it appeared to me that he was reproaching and threatening the girl, and that she was listening to him with a submissiveness which touched my heart. Two or three times she ventured a few words, doubtless in the attempt to justify71 herself; but the man in the greatcoat began again immediately with his loud and angry voice, his savage looks, and his threatening evolutions in the air. I followed him with my eyes, vainly endeavoring to catch a word as he passed, until he disappeared behind the hill.
I had evidently just seen one of those domestic tyrants72 whose sullen tempers are excited by the patience of their victims, and who, though they have the power to become the beneficent gods of a family, choose rather to be their tormentors.
I cursed the unknown savage in my heart, and I felt indignant that these crimes against the sacred peace of home could not be punished as they deserve, when I heard his voice approaching nearer. He had turned the path, and soon appeared before me at the top of the slope.
The first glance, and his first words, explained everything to me: in place of what I had taken for the furious tones and terrible looks of an angry man, and the attitude of a frightened victim, I had before me only an honest citizen, who squinted73 and stuttered, but who was explaining the management of silkworms to his attentive74 daughter.
I turned homeward, smiling at my mistake; but before I reached my faubourg I saw a crowd running, I heard calls for help, and every finger pointed75 in the same direction to a distant column of flame. A manufactory had taken fire, and everybody was rushing forward to assist in extinguishing it.
I hesitated. Night was coming on; I felt tired; a favorite book was awaiting me; I thought there would be no want of help, and I went on my way.
Just before I had erred from want of consideration; now it was from selfishness and cowardice76.
But what! have I not on a thousand other occasions forgotten the duties which bind77 us to our fellowmen? Is this the first time I have avoided paying society what I owe it? Have I not always behaved to my companions with injustice78, and like the lion? Have I not claimed successively every share? If any one is so ill-advised as to ask me to return some little portion, I get provoked, I am angry, I try to escape from it by every means. How many times, when I have perceived a beggar sitting huddled79 up at the end of the street, have I not gone out of my way, for fear that compassion80 would impoverish81 me by forcing me to be charitable! How often have I doubted the misfortunes of others, that I might with justice harden my heart against them.
With what satisfaction have I sometimes verified the vices82 of the poor man, in order to show that his misery is the punishment he deserves!
Oh! let us not go farther — let us not go farther! I interrupted the doctor’s examination, but how much sadder is this one! We pity the diseases of the body; we shudder83 at those of the soul.
I was happily disturbed in my reverie by my neighbor, the old soldier.
Now I think of it, I seem always to have seen, during my fever, the figure of this good old man, sometimes leaning against my bed, and sometimes sitting at his table, surrounded by his sheets of pasteboard.
He has just come in with his glue-pot, his quire of green paper, and his great scissors. I called him by his name; he uttered a joyful84 exclamation85, and came near me.
“Well! so the bullet is found again!” cried he, taking my two hands into the maimed one which was left him; “it has not been without trouble, I can tell you; the campaign has been long enough to win two clasps in. I have seen no few fellows with the fever batter86 windmills during my hospital days: at Leipsic, I had a neighbor who fancied a chimney was on fire in his stomach, and who was always calling for the fire-engines; but the third day it all went out of itself. But with you it has lasted twenty-eight days — as long as one of the Little Corporal’s campaigns.”
“I am not mistaken then; you were near me?”
“Well! I had only to cross the passage. This left hand has not made you a bad nurse for want of the right; but, bah! you did not know what hand gave you drink, and it did not prevent that beggar of a fever from being drowned — for all the world like Poniatowski in the Elster.”
The old soldier began to laugh, and I, feeling too much affected87 to speak, pressed his hand against my breast. He saw my emotion, and hastened to put an end to it.
“By-the-bye, you know that from to-day you have a right to draw your rations88 again,” resumed he gayly; “four meals, like the German meinherrs — nothing more! The doctor is your house steward89.”
“We must find the cook, too,” replied I, with a smile.
“She is found,” said the veteran.
“Who is she?”
“Genevieve.”
“The fruit-woman?”
“While I am talking she is cooking for you, neighbor; and do not fear her sparing either butter or trouble. As long as life and death were fighting for you, the honest woman passed her time in going up and down stairs to learn which way the battle went. And, stay, I am sure this is she.”
In fact we heard steps in the passage, and he went to open the door.
“Oh, well!” continued he, “it is Mother Millot, our portress, another of your good friends, neighbor, and whose poultices I recommend to you. Come in, Mother Millot — come in; we are quite bonny boys this morning, and ready to step a minuet if we had our dancing-shoes.”
The portress came in, quite delighted. She brought my linen90, washed and mended by herself, with a little bottle of Spanish wine, the gift of her sailor son, and kept for great occasions. I would have thanked her, but the good woman imposed silence upon me, under the pretext91 that the doctor had forbidden me to speak. I saw her arrange everything in my drawers, the neat appearance of which struck me; an attentive hand had evidently been there, and day by day put straight the unavoidable disorder92 consequent on sickness.
As she finished, Genevieve arrived with my dinner; she was followed by Mother Denis, the milk-woman over the way, who had learned, at the same time, the danger I had been in, and that I was now beginning to be convalescent. The good Savoyard brought me a new-laid egg, which she herself wished to see me eat.
It was necessary to relate minutely all my illness to her. At every detail she uttered loud exclamations93; then, when the portress warned her to be less noisy, she excused herself in a whisper. They made a circle around me to see me eat my dinner; each mouthful I took was accompanied by their expressions of satisfaction and thankfulness. Never had the King of France, when he dined in public, excited such admiration among the spectators.
As they were taking the dinner away, my colleague, the old cashier, entered in his turn.
I could not prevent my heart beating as I recognized him. How would the heads of the firm look upon my absence, and what did he come to tell me?
I waited with inexpressible anxiety for him to speak; but he sat down by me, took my hand, and began rejoicing over my recovery, without saying a word about our masters. I could not endure this uncertainty94 any longer.
“And the Messieurs Durmer,” asked I, hesitatingly, “how have they taken — the interruption to my work?”
“There has been no interruption,” replied the old clerk, quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“Each one in the office took a share of your duty; all has gone on as usual, and the Messieurs Durmer have perceived no difference.”
This was too much. After so many instances of affection, this filled up the measure. I could not restrain my tears.
Thus the few services I had been able to do for others had been acknowledged by them a hundredfold! I had sown a little seed, and every grain had fallen on good ground, and brought forth95 a whole sheaf. Ah! this completes the lesson the doctor gave me. If it is true that the diseases, whether of the mind or body, are the fruit of our follies96 and our vices, sympathy and affection are also the rewards of our having done our duty. Every one of us, with God’s help, and within the narrow limits of human capability97, himself makes his own disposition98, character, and permanent condition.
Everybody is gone; the old soldier has brought me back my flowers and my birds, and they are my only companions. The setting sun reddens my half-closed curtains with its last rays. My brain is clear, and my heart lighter99. A thin mist floats before my eyes, and I feel myself in that happy state which precedes a refreshing100 sleep.
Yonder, opposite the bed, the pale goddess in her drapery of a thousand changing colors, and with her withered garland, again appears before me; but this time I hold out my hand to her with a grateful smile.
“Adieu, beloved year! whom I but now unjustly accused. That which I have suffered must not be laid to thee; for thou wast but a tract38 through which God had marked out my road — a ground where I had reaped the harvest I had sown. I will love thee, thou wayside shelter, for those hours of happiness thou hast seen me enjoy; I will love thee even for the suffering thou hast seen me endure. Neither happiness nor suffering came from thee; but thou hast been the scene for them. Descend101 again then, in peace, into eternity102, and be blest, thou who hast left me experience in the place of youth, sweet memories instead of past time, and gratitude as payment for good offices.”
The End
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1
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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despoiled
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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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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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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economize
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| v.节约，节省 | |
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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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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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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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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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52
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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witticism
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| n.谐语，妙语 | |
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mischiefs
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| 损害( mischief的名词复数 )； 危害； 胡闹； 调皮捣蛋的人 | |
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mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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passerby
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| n.过路人，行人 | |
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zigzag
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| n.曲折，之字形；adj.曲折的，锯齿形的；adv.曲折地，成锯齿形地；vt.使曲折；vi.曲折前行 | |
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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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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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squinted
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| 斜视( squint的过去式和过去分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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impoverish
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| vt.使穷困，使贫困 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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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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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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batter
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| v.接连重击；磨损；n.牛奶面糊；击球员 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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rations
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| 定量( ration的名词复数 )； 配给量； 正常量； 合理的量 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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capability
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| n.能力；才能；(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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98
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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99
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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101
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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102
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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