They numbered exactly eleven, three women and eight men; and they addressed each other by their stage names: names which denoted their several types, and never — or only very slightly — varied14, no matter what might be the play that they performed.
“We are,” Pantaloon informed him, “one of those few remaining staunch bands of real players, who uphold the traditions of the old Italian Commedia dell’ Arte. Not for us to vex15 our memories and stultify16 our wit with the stilted phrases that are the fruit of a wretched author’s lucubrations. Each of us is in detail his own author in a measure as he develops the part assigned to him. We are improvisers — improvisers of the old and noble Italian school.”
“I had guessed as much,” said Andre–Louis, “when I discovered you rehearsing your improvisations.”
Pantaloon frowned.
“I have observed, young sir, that your humour inclines to the pungent17, not to say the acrid18. It is very well. It is I suppose, the humour that should go with such a countenance19. But it may lead you astray, as in this instance. That rehearsal20 — a most unusual thing with us — was necessitated21 by the histrionic rawness of our Leandre. We are seeking to inculcate into him by training an art with which Nature neglected to endow him against his present needs. Should he continue to fail in doing justice to our schooling22 . . . But we will not disturb our present harmony with the unpleasant anticipation23 of misfortunes which we still hope to avert24. We love our Leandre, for all his faults. Let me make you acquainted with our company.”
And he proceeded to introduction in detail. He pointed25 out the long and amiable26 Rhodomont, whom Andre–Louis already knew.
“His length of limb and hooked nose were his superficial qualifications to play roaring captains,” Pantaloon explained. “His lungs have justified27 our choice. You should hear him roar. At first we called him Spavento or Epouvapte. But that was unworthy of so great an artist. Not since the superb Mondor amazed the world has so thrasonical a bully28 been seen upon the stage. So we conferred upon him the name of Rhodomont that Mondor made famous; and I give you my word, as an actor and a gentleman — for I am a gentleman, monsieur, or was — that he has justified us.”
His little eyes beamed in his great swollen29 face as he turned their gaze upon the object of his encomium30. The terrible Rhodomont, confused by so much praise, blushed like a schoolgirl as he met the solemn scrutiny31 of Andre–Louis.
“Then here we have Scaramouche, whom also you already know. Sometimes he is Scapin and sometimes Coviello, but in the main Scaramouche, to which let me tell you he is best suited — sometimes too well suited, I think. For he is Scaramouche not only on the stage, but also in the world. He has a gift of sly intrigue32, an art of setting folk by the ears, combined with an impudent33 aggressiveness upon occasion when he considers himself safe from reprisals34. He is Scaramouche, the little skirmisher, to the very life. I could say more. But I am by disposition35 charitable and loving to all mankind.”
“As the priest said when he kissed the serving-wench,” snarled36 Scaramouche, and went on eating.
“His humour, like your own, you will observe, is acrid,” said Pantaloon. He passed on. “Then that rascal37 with the lumpy nose and the grinning bucolic38 countenance is, of course, Pierrot. Could he be aught else?”
“I could play lovers a deal better,” said the rustic39 cherub40.
“That is the delusion41 proper to Pierrot,” said Pantaloon, contemptuously. “This heavy, beetle-browed ruffian, who has grown old in sin, and whose appetite increases with his years, is Polichinelle. Each one, as you perceive, is designed by Nature for the part he plays. This nimble, freckled42 jackanapes is Harlequin; not your spangled Harlequin into which modern degeneracy has debased that first-born of Momus, but the genuine original zany of the Commedia, ragged43 and patched, an impudent, cowardly, blackguardly clown.”
“Each one of us, as you perceive,” said Harlequin, mimicking44 the leader of the troupe45, “is designed by Nature for the part he plays.”
“Physically46, my friend, physically only, else we should not have so much trouble in teaching this beautiful Leandre to become a lover. Then we have Pasquariel here, who is sometimes an apothecary47, sometimes a notary48, sometimes a lackey49 — an amiable, accommodating fellow. He is also an excellent cook, being a child of Italy, that land of gluttons50. And finally, you have myself, who as the father of the company very properly play as Pantaloon the roles of father. Sometimes, it is true, I am a deluded51 husband, and sometimes an ignorant, self-sufficient doctor. But it is rarely that I find it necessary to call myself other than Pantaloon. For the rest, I am the only one who has a name — a real name. It is Binet, monsieur.
“And now for the ladies . . . First in order of seniority we have Madame there.” He waved one of his great hands towards a buxom52, smiling blonde of five-and-forty, who was seated on the lowest of the steps of the travelling house. “She is our Duegne, or Mother, or Nurse, as the case requires. She is known quite simply and royally as Madame. If she ever had a name in the world, she has long since forgotten it, which is perhaps as well. Then we have this pert jade53 with the tip-tilted nose and the wide mouth, who is of course our soubrette Columbine, and lastly, my daughter Climene, an amoureuse of talents not to be matched outside the Comedie Francaise, of which she has the bad taste to aspire54 to become a member.”
The lovely Climene — and lovely indeed she was — tossed her nut-brown curls and laughed as she looked across at Andre–Louis. Her eyes, he had perceived by now, were not blue, but hazel.
“Do not believe him, monsieur. Here I am queen, and I prefer to be queen here rather than a slave in Paris.”
“Mademoiselle,” said Andre–Louis, quite solemnly, “will be queen wherever she condescends55 to reign56.”
Her only answer was a timid — timid and yet alluring57 — glance from under fluttering lids. Meanwhile her father was bawling58 at the comely59 young man who played lovers —“You hear, Leandre! That is the sort of speech you should practise.”
Leandre raised languid eyebrows60. “That?” quoth he, and shrugged61. “The merest commonplace.”
Andre–Louis laughed approval. “M. Leandre is of a readier wit than you concede. There is subtlety62 in pronouncing it a commonplace to call Mlle. Climene a queen.”
Some laughed, M. Binet amongst them, with good-humoured mockery.
“You think he has the wit to mean it thus? Bah! His subtleties63 are all unconscious.”
The conversation becoming general, Andre–Louis soon learnt what yet there was to learn of this strolling band. They were on their way to Guichen, where they hoped to prosper64 at the fair that was to open on Monday next. They would make their triumphal entry into the town at noon, and setting up their stage in the old market, they would give their first performance that same Saturday night, in a new canevas — or scenario65 — of M. Binet’s own, which should set the rustics66 gaping67. And then M. Binet fetched a sigh, and addressed himself to the elderly, swarthy, beetle-browed Polichinelle, who sat on his left.
“But we shall miss Felicien,” said he. “Indeed, I do not know what we shall do without him.”
“Oh, we shall contrive68,” said Polichinelle, with his mouth full.
“So you always say, whatever happens, knowing that in any case the contriving69 will not fall upon yourself.”
“He should not be difficult to replace,” said Harlequin.
“True, if we were in a civilized70 land. But where among the rustics of Brittany are we to find a fellow of even his poor parts?” M. Binet turned to Andre–Louis. “He was our property-man, our machinist, our stage-carpenter, our man of affairs, and occasionally he acted.”
“The part of Figaro, I presume,” said Andre–Louis, which elicited71 a laugh.
“So you are acquainted with Beaumarchais!” Binet eyed the young man with fresh interest.
“He is tolerably well known, I think.”
“In Paris, to be sure. But I had not dreamt his fame had reached the wilds of Brittany.”
“But then I was some years in Paris — at the Lycee of Louis le Grand. It was there I made acquaintance with his work.”
“A dangerous man,” said Polichinelle, sententiously.
“Indeed, and you are right,” Pantaloon agreed. “Clever — I do not deny him that, although myself I find little use for authors. But of a sinister72 cleverness responsible for the dissemination73 of many of these subversive74 new ideas. I think such writers should be suppressed.”
“M. de La Tour d’Azyr would probably agree with you — the gentleman who by the simple exertion75 of his will turns this communal76 land into his own property.” And Andre–Louis drained his cup, which had been filled with the poor vin gris that was the players’ drink.
It was a remark that might have precipitated77 an argument had it not also reminded M. Binet of the terms on which they were encamped there, and of the fact that the half-hour was more than past. In a moment he was on his feet, leaping up with an agility78 surprising in so corpulent a man, issuing his commands like a marshal on a field of battle.
“Come, come, my lads! Are we to sit guzzling79 here all day? Time flees, and there’s a deal to be done if we are to make our entry into Guichen at noon. Go, get you dressed. We strike camp in twenty minutes. Bestir, ladies! To your chaise, and see that you contrive to look your best. Soon the eyes of Guichen will be upon you, and the condition of your interior to-morrow will depend upon the impression made by your exterior80 to-day. Away! Away!”
The implicit81 obedience82 this autocrat83 commanded set them in a whirl. Baskets and boxes were dragged forth84 to receive the platters and remains85 of their meagre feast. In an instant the ground was cleared, and the three ladies had taken their departure to the chaise, which was set apart for their use. The men were already climbing into the house on wheels, when Binet turned to Andre–Louis.
“We part here, sir,” said he, dramatically, “the richer by your acquaintance; your debtors86 and your friends.” He put forth his podgy hand.
Slowly Andre–Louis took it in his own. He had been thinking swiftly in the last few moments. And remembering the safety he had found from his pursuers in the bosom87 of this company, it occurred to him that nowhere could he be better hidden for the present, until the quest for him should have died down.
“Sir,” he said, “the indebtedness is on my side. It is not every day one has the felicity to sit down with so illustrious and engaging a company.”
Binet’s little eyes peered suspiciously at the young man, in quest of irony88. He found nothing but candour and simple good faith.
“I part from you reluctantly,” Andre–Louis continued. “The more reluctantly since I do not perceive the absolute necessity for parting.”
“How?” quoth Binet, frowning, and slowly withdrawing the hand which the other had already retained rather longer than was necessary.
“Thus,” Andre–Louis explained himself. “You may set me down as a sort of knight89 of rueful countenance in quest of adventure, with no fixed90 purpose in life at present. You will not marvel91 that what I have seen of yourself and your distinguished92 troupe should inspire me to desire your better acquaintance. On your side you tell me that you are in need of some one to replace your Figaro — your Felicien, I think you called him. Whilst it may be presumptuous93 of me to hope that I could discharge an office so varied and so onerous94 . . . ”
“You are indulging that acrid humour of yours again, my friend,” Binet interrupted him. “Excepting for that,” he added, slowly, meditatively95, his little eyes screwed up, “we might discuss this proposal that you seem to be making.”
“Alas! we can except nothing. If you take me, you take me as I am. What else is possible? As for this humour — such as it is — which you decry96, you might turn it to profitable account.”
“How so?”
“In several ways. I might, for instance, teach Leandre to make love.”
Pantaloon burst into laughter. “You do not lack confidence in your powers. Modesty97 does not afflict98 you.”
“Therefore I evince the first quality necessary in an actor.”
“Can you act?”
“Upon occasion, I think,” said Andre–Louis, his thoughts upon his performance at Rennes and Nantes, and wondering when in all his histrionic career Pantaloon’s improvisations had so rent the heart of mobs.
M. Binet was musing99. “Do you know much of the theatre?” quoth he.
“Everything,” said Andre–Louis.
“I said that modesty will prove no obstacle in your career.”
“But consider. I know the work of Beaumarchais, Eglantine, Mercier, Chenier, and many others of our contemporaries. Then I have read, of course, Moliere, Racine, Corneille, besides many other lesser100 French writers. Of foreign authors, I am intimate with the works of Gozzi, Goldoni, Guarini, Bibbiena, Machiavelli, Secchi, Tasso, Ariosto, and Fedini. Whilst of those of antiquity101 I know most of the work of Euripides, Aristophanes, Terence, Plautus . . . ”
“Enough!” roared Pantaloon.
“I am not nearly through with my list,” said Andre–Louis.
“You may keep the rest for another day. In Heaven’s name, what can have induced you to read so many dramatic authors?”
“In my humble102 way I am a student of man, and some years ago I made the discovery that he is most intimately to be studied in the reflections of him provided for the theatre.”
“That is a very original and profound discovery,” said Pantaloon, quite seriously. “It had never occurred to me. Yet is it true. Sir, it is a truth that dignifies103 our art. You are a man of parts, that is clear to me. It has been clear since first I met you. I can read a man. I knew you from the moment that you said ‘good-morning.’ Tell me, now: Do you think you could assist me upon occasion in the preparation of a scenario? My mind, fully104 engaged as it is with a thousand details of organization, is not always as clear as I would have it for such work. Could you assist me there, do you think?”
“I am quite sure I could.”
“Hum, yes. I was sure you would be. The other duties that were Felicien’s you would soon learn. Well, well, if you are willing, you may come along with us. You’d want some salary, I suppose?”
“If it is usual,” said Andre–Louis.
“What should you say to ten livres a month?”
“I should say that it isn’t exactly the riches of Peru.”
“I might go as far as fifteen,” said Binet, reluctantly. “But times are bad.”
“I’ll make them better for you.”
“I’ve no doubt you believe it. Then we understand each other?”
“Perfectly,” said Andre–Louis, dryly, and was thus committed to the service of Thespis.
点击收听单词发音
1 itinerant | |
adj.巡回的;流动的 | |
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2 pervaded | |
v.遍及,弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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3 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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4 tribulations | |
n.苦难( tribulation的名词复数 );艰难;苦难的缘由;痛苦 | |
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5 nomadic | |
adj.流浪的;游牧的 | |
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6 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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7 amiably | |
adv.和蔼可亲地,亲切地 | |
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8 stilted | |
adj.虚饰的;夸张的 | |
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9 planks | |
(厚)木板( plank的名词复数 ); 政纲条目,政策要点 | |
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10 cynically | |
adv.爱嘲笑地,冷笑地 | |
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11 emulation | |
n.竞争;仿效 | |
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12 preclude | |
vt.阻止,排除,防止;妨碍 | |
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13 amity | |
n.友好关系 | |
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14 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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15 vex | |
vt.使烦恼,使苦恼 | |
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16 stultify | |
v.愚弄;使呆滞 | |
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17 pungent | |
adj.(气味、味道)刺激性的,辛辣的;尖锐的 | |
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18 acrid | |
adj.辛辣的,尖刻的,刻薄的 | |
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19 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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20 rehearsal | |
n.排练,排演;练习 | |
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21 necessitated | |
使…成为必要,需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22 schooling | |
n.教育;正规学校教育 | |
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23 anticipation | |
n.预期,预料,期望 | |
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24 avert | |
v.防止,避免;转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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25 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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26 amiable | |
adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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27 justified | |
a.正当的,有理的 | |
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28 bully | |
n.恃强欺弱者,小流氓;vt.威胁,欺侮 | |
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29 swollen | |
adj.肿大的,水涨的;v.使变大,肿胀 | |
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30 encomium | |
n.赞颂;颂词 | |
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31 scrutiny | |
n.详细检查,仔细观察 | |
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32 intrigue | |
vt.激起兴趣,迷住;vi.耍阴谋;n.阴谋,密谋 | |
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33 impudent | |
adj.鲁莽的,卑鄙的,厚颜无耻的 | |
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34 reprisals | |
n.报复(行为)( reprisal的名词复数 ) | |
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35 disposition | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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36 snarled | |
v.(指狗)吠,嗥叫, (人)咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 );咆哮着说,厉声地说 | |
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37 rascal | |
n.流氓;不诚实的人 | |
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38 bucolic | |
adj.乡村的;牧羊的 | |
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39 rustic | |
adj.乡村的,有乡村特色的;n.乡下人,乡巴佬 | |
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40 cherub | |
n.小天使,胖娃娃 | |
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41 delusion | |
n.谬见,欺骗,幻觉,迷惑 | |
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42 freckled | |
adj.雀斑;斑点;晒斑;(使)生雀斑v.雀斑,斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43 ragged | |
adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
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44 mimicking | |
v.(尤指为了逗乐而)模仿( mimic的现在分词 );酷似 | |
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45 troupe | |
n.剧团,戏班;杂技团;马戏团 | |
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46 physically | |
adj.物质上,体格上,身体上,按自然规律 | |
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47 apothecary | |
n.药剂师 | |
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48 notary | |
n.公证人,公证员 | |
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49 lackey | |
n.侍从;跟班 | |
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50 gluttons | |
贪食者( glutton的名词复数 ); 贪图者; 酷爱…的人; 狼獾 | |
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51 deluded | |
v.欺骗,哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52 buxom | |
adj.(妇女)丰满的,有健康美的 | |
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53 jade | |
n.玉石;碧玉;翡翠 | |
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54 aspire | |
vi.(to,after)渴望,追求,有志于 | |
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55 condescends | |
屈尊,俯就( condescend的第三人称单数 ); 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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56 reign | |
n.统治时期,统治,支配,盛行;v.占优势 | |
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57 alluring | |
adj.吸引人的,迷人的 | |
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58 bawling | |
v.大叫,大喊( bawl的现在分词 );放声大哭;大声叫出;叫卖(货物) | |
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59 comely | |
adj.漂亮的,合宜的 | |
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60 eyebrows | |
眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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61 shrugged | |
vt.耸肩(shrug的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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62 subtlety | |
n.微妙,敏锐,精巧;微妙之处,细微的区别 | |
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63 subtleties | |
细微( subtlety的名词复数 ); 精细; 巧妙; 细微的差别等 | |
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64 prosper | |
v.成功,兴隆,昌盛;使成功,使昌隆,繁荣 | |
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65 scenario | |
n.剧本,脚本;概要 | |
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66 rustics | |
n.有农村或村民特色的( rustic的名词复数 );粗野的;不雅的;用粗糙的木材或树枝制作的 | |
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67 gaping | |
adj.口的;张口的;敞口的;多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 );张开,张大 | |
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68 contrive | |
vt.谋划,策划;设法做到;设计,想出 | |
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69 contriving | |
(不顾困难地)促成某事( contrive的现在分词 ); 巧妙地策划,精巧地制造(如机器); 设法做到 | |
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70 civilized | |
a.有教养的,文雅的 | |
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71 elicited | |
引出,探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72 sinister | |
adj.不吉利的,凶恶的,左边的 | |
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73 dissemination | |
传播,宣传,传染(病毒) | |
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74 subversive | |
adj.颠覆性的,破坏性的;n.破坏份子,危险份子 | |
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75 exertion | |
n.尽力,努力 | |
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76 communal | |
adj.公有的,公共的,公社的,公社制的 | |
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77 precipitated | |
v.(突如其来地)使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 );促成;猛然摔下;使沉淀 | |
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78 agility | |
n.敏捷,活泼 | |
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79 guzzling | |
v.狂吃暴饮,大吃大喝( guzzle的现在分词 ) | |
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80 exterior | |
adj.外部的,外在的;表面的 | |
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81 implicit | |
a.暗示的,含蓄的,不明晰的,绝对的 | |
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82 obedience | |
n.服从,顺从 | |
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83 autocrat | |
n.独裁者;专横的人 | |
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84 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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85 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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86 debtors | |
n.债务人,借方( debtor的名词复数 ) | |
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87 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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88 irony | |
n.反语,冷嘲;具有讽刺意味的事,嘲弄 | |
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89 knight | |
n.骑士,武士;爵士 | |
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90 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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91 marvel | |
vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异;n.令人惊异的事 | |
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92 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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93 presumptuous | |
adj.胆大妄为的,放肆的,冒昧的,冒失的 | |
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94 onerous | |
adj.繁重的 | |
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95 meditatively | |
adv.冥想地 | |
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96 decry | |
v.危难,谴责 | |
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97 modesty | |
n.谦逊,虚心,端庄,稳重,羞怯,朴素 | |
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98 afflict | |
vt.使身体或精神受痛苦,折磨 | |
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99 musing | |
n. 沉思,冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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100 lesser | |
adj.次要的,较小的;adv.较小地,较少地 | |
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101 antiquity | |
n.古老;高龄;古物,古迹 | |
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102 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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103 dignifies | |
使显得威严( dignify的第三人称单数 ); 使高贵; 使显赫; 夸大 | |
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104 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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