If at such a time you walk down this narrow street, between the mean and shabby houses, past the eyes of all the men who lean there quietly at their open windows in their shirt-sleeves, and turn in at the alley3 here and follow the two-foot strip of broken concrete pavement that skirts the alley on one side, and go to the very last shabby house down at the end, and climb up the flight of worn steps to the front entrance and knock loudly at the door with your bare knuckles4 (the bell is out of order) and then wait patiently until someone comes, and ask whether Mr. George Webber lives here, you will be informed that he most certainly does, and that if you will just come in and go down this stairway to the basement and knock at the door there on your right, you will probably find him in. So you go down the stairway to the damp and gloomy basement hall, thread your way between the dusty old boxes, derelict furniture, and other lumber5 stored there in the passage, rap on the door that has been indicated to you, and Mr. Webber himself will open it and usher6 you right into his room, his home, his castle.
The place may seem to you more like a dungeon7 than a room that a man would voluntarily elect to live in. It is long and narrow, running parallel to the hall from front to rear, and the only natural light that enters it comes through two small windows rather high up in the wall, facing each other at the opposite ends, and these are heavily guarded with iron bars, placed there by some past owner of the house to keep the South Brooklyn thugs from breaking in.
The room is furnished adequately but not so luxuriously9 as to deprive it of a certain functional10 and Spartan11 simplicity12. In the back half there is an iron bed with sagging13 springs, a broken-down dresser with a cracked mirror above it, two kitchen chairs, and a steamer trunk and some old suitcases that have seen much use. At the front end, under the yellow glow of an electric light suspended from the ceiling by a cord, there is a large desk, very much scarred and battered14, with the handles missing on most of the drawers, and in front of it there is a straight-backed chair made out of some old, dark wood. In the centre, ranged against the walls, where they serve to draw the two ends of the room together into aesthetic15 unity16, stand an ancient gate-legged table, so much of its dark green paint flaked17 off that the dainty pink complexion18 of its forgotten youth shows through all over, a tier of book-shelves, unpainted, and two large crates19 or packing-cases, their thick top boards pried20 off to reveal great stacks of ledgers21 and of white and yellow manuscript within. On top of the desk, on the table, on the book-shelves, and all over the floor are scattered22, like fallen leaves in autumn woods, immense masses of loose paper with writing on every sheet, and everywhere are books, piled up on their sides or leaning crazily against each other.
This dark cellar is George Webber’s abode24 and working quarters. Here, in winter, the walls, which sink four feet below the level of the ground, sweat continuously with clammy drops of water. Here, in summer, it is he who does the sweating.
His neighbours, he will tell you, are for the most part Armenians, Italians, Spaniards, Irishmen, and Jews — in short, Americans. They live in all the shacks25, tenements26, and slums in all the raw, rusty streets and alleys28 of South Brooklyn.
And what is that you smell?
Oh, that! Well, you see, he shares impartially29 with his neighbours a piece of public property in the vicinity; it belongs to all of them in common, and it gives to South Brooklyn its own distinctive30 atmosphere. It is the old Gowanus Canal, and that aroma32 you speak of is nothing but the huge symphonic stink33 of it, cunningly compacted of unnumbered separate putrefactions. It is interesting sometimes to try to count them. There is in it not only the noisome34 stenches of a stagnant35 sewer36, but also the smells of melted glue, burned rubber, and smouldering rags, the odours of a boneyard horse, long dead, the incense37 of putrefying offal, the fragrance38 of deceased, decaying cats, old tomatoes, rotten cabbage, and prehistoric39 eggs.
And how does he stand it?
Well, one gets used to it. One can get used to anything, just as all these other people do. They never think of the smell, they never speak of it, they’d probably miss it if they moved away.
To this place, then, George Webber has come, and here “holed in” with a kind of dogged stubbornness touched with desperation. And you will not be far wrong if you surmise40 that he has come here deliberately41, driven by a resolution to seek out the most forlorn and isolated42 hiding spot that he could find.
Mr. Marple, a gentleman who has a room on the second floor, comes stumbling down the darkened basement stairway with a bottle in his hand and knocks upon George Webber’s door.
“Come in!”
Mr. Marple comes in, introduces himself, does the right thing with the bottle, sits down, and begins to make talk.
“Well, now, Mr. Webber, how d’yah like that drink I mixed for yah?”
“Oh, I like it, I like it.”
“Well, now, if yah don’t, I want yah t’come right out an’ say so.”
“Oh, I would, I would.”
“I mean I’d like to know. I’d appreciate yah tellin’ me. What I mean is, I made that stuff myself from a little private formuler I got — I wouldn’t buy no stuff from a bootlegger — I wouldn’t take no chance wit’ the bastards43. I buy the alcohol that goes into that drink from a place I know, an’ I always know what I’m gettin’— d’yah know what I mean?”
“Yes, I certainly do.”
“But I’d like to know what yah think of it, I’d appreciate yah tellin’ me.”
“Oh, it’s fine, it couldn’t be better.”
“I’m glad yah like it, an’ you’re sure I didn’t disturb yah?”
“Oh, no, not at all.”
“Because I was on my way in when I sees your light there in the winder, so I says to myself, now that guy may think I’ve got an orful nerve buttin’ in like this but I’m gonna stop an’ get acquainted an’ ast him if he’d like a little drink.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“But if I disturbed yah I wantcha t’say so.”
“Oh, no, not at all.”
“Because here’s the way it is wit’ me. I’m interested in youman nature — I’m a great student of psychology45 — I can read faces the minute I look at a guy — it’s somethin’ that I always had — I guess that’s why I’m in the insurance game. So when I sees a guy that interests me I wanta get acquainted wit’ him an’ get his reactions to things. So when I sees your light I says to myself, he may tell me to get the hell outa there but there ain’t no harm in tryin’.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“Now Mr. Webber, I think I’m a pretty good judge of character ——”
“Oh, I’m sure you are.”
“— an’ I been lookin’ at yah an’ sorta sizin’ yah up while yah been sittin’ there. Yah didn’t know I was sizin’ yah up but that’s what I been doin’ all the time yah been sittin’ there because I’m a great student of youman nature, Mr. Webber, an’ I gotta size up all grades an’ classes every day in my business —you know — I’m in the insurance game. An’ I wanna ast yah a question. Now if it’s too personal I wantcha t’come right out an’ say so, but if yah don’t mind answerin’ I’m gonna ast it to yah.”
“Not at all. What is it?”
“Well, Mr. Webber, I already reached my own conclusions, but I’m gonna ast it to yah just t’see if it don’t bear me out. Now what I’m gonna ast yah — an’ yah don’t have to answer if yah don’t want to — is — What’s your line? — What business are yah in? Now yah don’t need to tell me if it’s too personal.”
“Not at all. I’m a writer.”
“A what?”
“A writer. I wrote a book once. I’m trying to write another one now.”
“Well now, it may surprise yah but that’s just what I figgered out myself. I says to myself, now there’s a guy, I says, that’s in some kind of intelleckshul work where he’s got t’use his head. He’s a writer or a newspaperman or in the advertisin’ business. Y’see I’ve always been a great judge of youman nature — that’s my line.”
“Yes, I see.”
“An’ now I wanna tell yah somethin’ else, Mr. Webber. You’re doin’ the thing yah was cut out for, you’re doin’ the thing yah was born to do, it’s what yah been preparin’ to do all your life sinct yah was a kid — am I right or wrong?”
“Oh, I guess you’re right.”
“An’ that’s the reason you’re gonna be a big success at it. Stick to writin’, Mr. Webber. I’m a great judge of youman nature an’ I know what I’m talkin’ about. Just stick to the thing yah always wanted to be an’ yah’ll get there. Now some guys never find theirselves. Some guys never know what they wanna be. That’s the trouble wit’ some guys. Now wit’ me it’s different. I didn’t find myself till I was a grown man. You’d have t’laugh, Mr. Webber, if I told yah what it was I wanted t’be when I was a kid.”
“What was it, Mr. Marple?”
“Say, Mr. Webber — y’know it’s funny — yah won’t believe me — but up to the time I was about twenty years old, a grown man, I was crazy to be a railway engineer. No kiddin’. I was nuts about it. An’ I’d a-been just crazy enough to’ve gone ahead an’ got a job on the railway if the old man hadn’t yanked me by the collar an’ told me t’snap out of it. Yah know I’m a Down–Easter by birth — don’t talk like it any more — I been here too long — but that’s where I grew up. My old man was a plumber46 in Augusta, Maine. So when I tells him I’m gonna be a locomotive engineer he boots me one in the seat of the pants an’ tells me I ain’t no such thing. ‘I’ve sent yah to school,’ he says, ‘you’ve had ten times the schoolin’ that I had, an’ now yah tell me that you’re gonna be a railway hogger47. Well, you’re not,’ the old man says, ‘you’re gonna be one member of the fambly that’s comin’ home at night wit’ clean hands an’ a white collar. Now you get the hell outa here an’ hunt yah up a job in some decent high-class business where yah’ll have a chanct t’advance an’ associate wit’ your social ekals.’ Jesus! It was a lucky thing for me he took that stand or I’d never a-got where I am today. But I was good an’ sore about it at the time. An’ say, Mr. Webber — you’re gonna laugh when I tell yah this one — I ain’t actually over the darn thing yet. No kiddin’. When I see one of these big engines bargin’ down the track I still get that funny crawly feelin’ I usta have when I was a kid an’ looked at ’em. The guys at the office had t’laugh about it when I told ’em, an’ now when I come in they call me Casey Jones. — Well, what d’yah say yah have another little snifter before I go?”
“Thanks, I’d like to, but maybe I’d better not. I’ve still got a little work I ought to do before I turn in.”
“Well now, Mr. Webber, I know just how it is. An’ that’s the way I had yah sized up from the first. That guy’s a writer, I says, or in some sort of intelleckshul occupation where he’s got to use his head — was I right or wrong?”
“Oh, you were right.”
“Wel!, I’m glad to’ve metcha, Mr. Webber. Don’t make yourself a stranger round here. Yah know, a guy gets sorta lonely sometimes. My wife died four years ago so I been livin’ upstairs here ever sinct — sorta figgered that a single guy didn’t need no more room than I got here. Come up to see me. I’m interested in youman nature an’ 1 like to talk to people an’ get their different reactions. So any time yah feel like chewin’ the rag a bit, drop in.”
“Oh, I will, I will.”
“Good night, Mr. Webber.”
“Good night, Mr. Marple.”
Good night. Good night. Good night.
Across the basement hall, in another room similar to George Webber’s, lived an old man by the name of Wakefield. He had a son somewhere in New York who paid his rent, but Mr. Wakefield rarely saw his son. He was a brisk and birdy little man with a chirping48, cheerful voice; and, although he was almost ninety, he always seemed to be in good health and was still immensely active. His son had provided him with a room to live in, and he had a little money of his own — a few dollars a month from a pension — enough to supply his meagre wants; but he lived a life of utter loneliness, seeing his son only on the occasion of a holiday or a rare visit, and the rest of the time living all by himself in his basement room.
Yet he had as brave and proud a spirit as any man on earth. He longed desperately49 for companionship, but he would have died rather than admit he was lonely. So independent was he, and so sensitive, that, while he was always courteous50 and cheerful, his tone when he responded to a greeting was a little cold and distant, lest anyone should think he was too forward and eager. But, once satisfied of one’s friendliness51, no one could respond more warmly or more cordially than old man Wakefield.
George grew fond of him and liked to talk with him, and the old man would invite him eagerly into his part of the basement and proudly display his room, which he kept with a soldierlike neatness. He was a veteran of the union Army in the Civil War, and his room was filled with books, records, papers, and old clippings bearing on the war and on the part his regiment52 had played in it. Although he was alert and eager towards the life round him, and much too brave and hopeful a spirit to live mournfully in the past, the Civil War had been the great and central event in old man Wakefield’s life. Like many of the men of his generation, both North and South, it had never occurred to him that the war was not the central event in everyone’s life. Because it was so with him, he believed that people everywhere still lived and thought and talked about the war all the time.
He was a leading figure in the activities of his Grand Army Post, and was always bustling53 about with plans and projects for the coming year. It seemed to him that the Grand Army organisation54, whose thinning ranks of old and feeble men he still saw with the proud eyes of forty or fifty years before, was the most powerful society in the nation, and that its word of warning or stern reproof55 was enough to make all the kings of the earth quake and tremble in their boots. He was bitterly scornful and would bristle56 up immediately at mention of the American Legion: he fancied slights and cunning trickery on the part of this body all the time, and he would ruffle58 up like a rooster when he spoke59 of the Legionnaires, and say in an angry, chirping voice:
“It’s jealousy60! Nothing in the world but sheer tar-nation jealousy— that’s what it is!”
“But why, Mr. Wakefield? Why should they be jealous of you?”
“Because we reely did some soldierin’— that’s why!” he chirped61 angrily. “Because they know we fit the Rebels — yes! and fit ’em good — and licked ’em, too!” he cackled triumphantly63 —“in a war that was a war! . . . Pshaw!” he said scornfully, in a lowered voice, looking out the window with a bitter smile and with eyes that had suddenly grown misty64. “What do these fellows know about a war? — Some bob-tail — raggedy — two-by-two— little jackleg feller — of a Legionnary!” He spat66 the words out with a malignant67 satisfaction, breaking at the end into a vindictive68 cackle. “Standin’ to their necks all day in some old trench69 and never gettin’ within ten miles of the enemy!” he sneered70. “If they ever saw a troop of cavalry71, I don’t know what they’d make of it! I reckon they’d think it was the circus come to town!” he cackled. “A war! A war! Hell-fire, that warn’t no war!” he cried derisively72. “If they wanted to see a war, they should’ve been with us at the Bloody73 Angle! But, pshaw!” he said. “They’d a-run like rabbits if they’d been there! The only way you could a-kept ’em would’ve been to tie ’em to a tree!”
“Don’t you think they could have beaten the Rebels, Mr. Wakefield?”
“Beat ’em?” he shrilled74. “Beat ’em! Why, boy, what are you talkin’ about? . . . Hell! If Stonewall Jackson ever started for that gang, he’d run ’em ragged65! Yes, sir! They’d light out so fast they’d straighten out all the bends of the road as they went by!” cried old man Wakefield, cackling. “Pshaw!” he said quietly and scornfully again. “They couldn’t do it! It ain’t in ’em! . . . But I’ll tell you this much!” he cried suddenly in an excited voice. “We’re not goin’ to put up with it much longer! The boys have had just about as much of it as they can stand! If they try to do us like they done last year — pshaw!” he broke off again, and looked out the window shaking his head —“Why it’s all as plain as the nose on your face! It’s jealousy — just plain, confounded jealousy— that’s all in the world it is!”
“What is, Mr. Wakefield?”
“Why, the way they done us last year!” he cried. “Puttin’ us way back there at the tail-end of the pee-rade, when by all the rights — as everybody knows — we should’ve come first! But we’ll fix ’em!” he cried warningly. “We’ve got a way to fix ’em!” he said with a triumphant62 shake of the head. “I know the thing we’re goin’ to do this year,” he cried, “if they try another trick like that on us!”
“What are you going to do, Mr. Wakefield?”
“Why,” he cackled, “we won’t pee-rade! We simply won’t pee-rade! We’ll tell ’em they can hold their derned pee-rade without us!” he chirped exultantly76. “And I reckon that’ll fix ’em! Oh yes! That’ll bring ’em round, or I miss my guess!” he crowed.
“It ought to, Mr. Wakefield.”
“Why, boy,” he said solemnly, “if we ever did a thing like that, there would be a wave of protest — a wave of protest”— he cried with a sweeping77 gesture of the arm, as his voice rose strongly —“from here to Californy! . . . The people wouldn’t stand for it!” he cried. “They’d make those fellers back down in a hurry!”
And as George left him, the old man would come with him to the door, shake his hand warmly and, with an eager and lonely look in his old eyes, say:
“Come again, boy! I’m always glad to see you! . . . I got stuff in here — photygraphs an’ books, an’ such as that about the war — that you ain’t seen yet. No, nor no one else!” he cackled. “For no one else has got ’em! . . . Just let me know when you’re comin’ an’ I’ll be here.”
Slowly the years crept by and George lived alone in Brooklyn. They were hard years, desperate years, lonely years, years of interminable writing and experimentation78, years of exploration and discovery, years of grey timelessness, weariness, exhaustion79, and self-doubt. He had reached the wilderness80 period of his life and was hacking81 his way through the jungles of experience. He had stripped himself down to the brutal82 facts of self and work. These were all he had.
He saw himself more clearly now than he had ever done before, and, in spite of living thus alone, he no longer thought of himself as a rare and special person who was doomed83 to isolation84, but as a man who worked and who, like other men, was a part of life. He was concerned passionately85 with reality. He wanted to see things whole, to find out everything he could, and then to create out of what he knew the fruit of his own vision.
One criticism that had been made of his first book still rankled87 in his mind. An unsuccessful scribbler turned critic had simply dismissed the whole book as a “barbaric yawp”, accusing Webber of getting at things with his emotions rather than with his brains, and of being hostile towards the processes of the intellect and “the intellectual point of view.” These charges, if they had any truth in them, seemed to George to be the kind of lifeless half-truth that was worse than no truth at all. The trouble with the so-called “intellectuals” was that they were not intellectual enough, and their point of view more often than not had no point, but was disparate, arbitrary, sporadic88, and confused.
To be an “intellectual” was, it seemed, a vastly different thing from being intelligent. A dog’s nose would usually lead him towards what he wished to find, or away from what he wished to avoid: this was intelligent. That is, the dog had the sense of reality in his nose. But the “intellectual” usually had no nose, and was lacking in the sense of reality. The most striking difference between Webber’s mind and the mind of the average “intellectual” was that Webber absorbed experience like a sponge, and made use of everything that he absorbed. He really learned constantly from experience. But the “intellectuals” of his acquaintance seemed to learn nothing. They had no capacity for rumination89 and digestion90. They could not reflect.
He thought over a few of them that he had known:
There was Haythorpe, who when George first knew him was an esthete of the late baroque in painting, writing all the arts, author of one-act costume plays —“Gesmonder! Thy hands pale chalices91 of hot desire!” Later he became an esthete of the primitives94 — the Greek, Italian, and the German; then esthete of the nigger cults95 — the wood sculptures, coon songs, hymnals, dances, and the rest; still later, esthete of the comics — of cartoons, Chaplin, and the Brothers Marx; then of Expressionism; then of the Mass; then of Russia and the Revolution; at length, esthete of homo-sexuality; and finally, death’s esthete — suicide in a graveyard96 in Connecticut.
There was Collingswood, who, fresh out of Harvard, was not so much the esthete of the arts as of the mind. First, a Bolshevik from Beacon97 Hill, practitioner98 of promiscuous99, communal100 love as the necessary answer to “bourgeois morality”; then back to Cambridge for post-graduate study at the feet of Irving Babbitt — Collingswood is now a Humanist, the bitter enemy of Rousseau, Romanticism, and of Russia (which is, he now thinks, Rousseau in modern form); the playwright101, next — New Jersey102, Beacon Hill, or Central Park seen in the classic unities103 of the Greek drama; at length, disgusted realist —“all that’s good in modern art or letters is to be found in advertisements”; then a job as a scenario104 writer and two years in Hollywood — all now is the moving picture, with easy money, easy love affairs, and drunkenness; and finally, back to Russia, but with his first love lacking — no sex triflings now, my comrades — we who serve the Cause and wait upon the day lead lives of Spartan abstinence — what was the free life, free love, enlightened pleasure of the proletariat ten years ago is now despised as the contemptible105 debauchery of “bourgeois decadence”.
There was Spurgeon from the teaching days at the School for Utility Cultures — good Spurgeon — Chester Spurgeon of the Ph.D. — Spurgeon of “the great tradition”— thin-lipped Spurgeon, exstudent of Professor Stuart Sherman, and bearer-onwards of the Master’s Torch. Noble-hearted Spurgeon, who wrote honeyed flatteries of Thornton Wilder and his Bridge—“The tradition of the Bridge is Love, just as the tradition of America and of Democracy is Love. Hence”— Spurgeon hences — Love grows Wilder as the years Bridge on across America. Oh, where now, good Spurgeon, “intellectual” Spurgeon — Spurgeon whose thin lips and narrowed eyes were always so glacial prim93 on Definitions? Where now, brave intellect, by passion uninflamed? Spurgeon of the flashing mind, by emotion unimpulsed, is now a devoted107 leader of the intellectual Communists (See Spurgeon’s article entitled: “Mr. Wilder’s Piffle”, in the New Masses). — So, Comrade Spurgeon, hail! Hail, Comrade Spurgeon — and most heartily108, my bright-eyed Intellectual, farewell!
Whatever George Webber was, he knew he was not an “intellectual”. He was just an American who was looking hard at the life round him, and sorting carefully through all the life he had ever seen and known, and trying to extract some essential truth out of this welter of his whole experience. But, as he said to his friend and editor, Fox Edwards:
“What is truth? No wonder jesting Pilate turned away. The truth, it has a thousand faces — show only one of them, and the whole truth flies away! But how to show the whole? That’s the question . . .
“Discovery in itself is not enough. It’s not enough to find out what things are. You’ve also got to find out where they come from, where each brick fits in the wall.”
He always came back to the wall.
“I think it’s like this,” he said. “You see a wall, you look at it so much and so hard that one day you see clear through it. Then, of course, it’s not just one wall any longer. It’s every wall that ever was.”
He was still spiritually fighting out the battle of his first book, and all the problems it had raised. He was still searching for a way. At times he felt that his first book had taught him nothing — not even confidence. His feelings of hollow desperation and self-doubt seemed to grow worse instead of better, for he had now torn himself free from almost every personal tie which had ever bound him, and which formerly109 had sustained him in some degree with encouragement and faith. He was left, therefore, to rely almost completely on his own resources.
There was also the insistent111, gnawing112 consciousness of work itself, the necessity of turning towards the future and the completion of a new book. He was feeling, now as never before, the inexorable pressure of time. In writing his first book, he had been unknown And obscure, and there had been a certain fortifying113 strength in that, for no one had expected anything of him. But now the spotlight114 of publication had been turned upon him, and he felt it beating down with merciless intensity115. He was pinned beneath the light — he could not crawl out of it. Though he had not won fame, still he was known now. He had been examined, probed, and talked about. He felt that the world was looking at him with a critic eye.
It had been easy in his dreams to envision a long and fluent sequence of big books, but now he was finding it a different matter to accomplish them. His first book had been more an act of utterance116 than an act of labour. It was an impassioned expletive of youth — something that had been pent up in him, something felt and seen and imagined and put down at white-hot heat. The writing of it had been a process of spiritual and emotional evacuation. But that was behind him now, and he knew he should never try to repeat it. Henceforth his writing would have to come from unending labour and preparation.
In his effort to explore his experience, to extract the whole, essential truth of it, and to find a way to write about it, he sought to recapture every particle of the life he knew down to its minutest details. He spent weeks and months trying to put down on paper the exactitudes of countless117 fragments — what he called: “the dry, caked colours of America”— how the entrance to a subway looked, the design and webbing of the elevated structure, the look and feel of an iron rail, the particular shade of rusty green with which so many things are painted in America. Then he tried to pin down the foggy colour of the brick of which so much of London is constructed, the look of an English doorway118, of a French window, of the roofs and chimney-pots of Paris, of a whole street in Munich — and each of these foreign things he then examined in contrast to its American equivalent.
It was a process of discovery in its most naked, literal, and primitive92 terms. He was just beginning really to see thousands of things for the first time, to see the relations between them, to see here and there whole series and systems of relations. He was like a scientist in some new field of chemistry who for the first time realises that he has stumbled upon a vast new world, and who will then pick out identities, establish affiliations120, define here and there the outlines of sub-systems in crystalline union, without yet being aware what the structure of the whole is like, or what the final end will be.
The same processes now began to inform his direct observation of the life round him. Thus, on his nocturnal ramblings about New York, he would observe the homeless men who prowled in the vicinity of restaurants, lifting the lids of garbage cans and searching round inside for morsels121 of rotten food. He saw them everywhere, and noticed how their numbers increased during the hard and desperate days of 1932. He knew what kind of men they were, for he talked to many of them; he knew what they had been, where they had come from, and even what kind of scraps122 they could expect to dig out of the garbage cans. He found out the various places all over the city where such men slept at night. A favourite rendezvous123 was a corridor of the subway station at Thirty-third Street and Park Avenue in Manhattan. There one night he counted thirty-four huddled124 together on the cold concrete, wrapped up in sheathings of old newspaper.
It was his custom almost every night, at one o’clock or later, to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, and night after night, with a horrible fascination125, he used to go to the public latrine or “comfort station” which was directly in front of the New York City Hall. One descended126 to this place down a steep flight of stairs from the street, and on bitter nights he would find the place crowded with homeless men who had sought refuge there. Some were those shambling hulks that one sees everywhere, in Paris as well as New York, in good times as well as bad — old men, all rags and bags and long white hair and bushy beards stained dirty yellow, wearing tattered127 overcoats in the cavernous pockets of which they carefully stored away all the little rubbish they lived on and spent their days collecting in the streets — crusts of bread, old bones with rancid shreds128 of meat still clinging to them, and dozens of cigarette-butts. Some were the “stumble bums” from the Bowery, criminal, fumed129 with drink or drugs, or half insane with “smoke”. But most of them were just flotsam of the general ruin of the time — honest, decent, middle-aged130 men with faces seamed by toil131 and want, and young men, many of them mere132 boys in their teens, with thick, unkempt hair. These were the wanderers from town to town, the riders of freight trains, the thumbers of rides on highways, the uprooted133, unwanted male population of America. They drifted across the land and gathered in the big cities when winter came, hungry, defeated, empty, hopeless, restless, driven by they knew not what, always on the move, looking everywhere for work, for the bare crumbs134 to support their miserable135 lives, and finding neither work nor crumbs. Here in New York, to this obscene meeting-place, these derelicts came, drawn136 into a common stew137 of rest and warmth and a little surcease from their desperation.
George had never before witnessed anything to equal the indignity138 and sheer animal horror of the scene. There was even a kind of devil’s comedy in the sight of all these filthy140 men squatting141 upon those open, doorless stools. Arguments and savage142 disputes and fights would sometimes break out among them over the possession of these stools, which all of them wanted more for rest than for necessity. The sight was revolting, disgusting, enough to render a man forever speechless with very pity.
He would talk to the men and find out all he could about them, and when he could stand it no more he would come out of this hole of filth139 and suffering, and there, twenty feet above it, he would see the giant hackles of Manhattan shining coldly in the cruel brightness of the winter night. The Woolworth Building was not fifty yards away, and, a little farther down were the silvery spires143 and needles of Wall Street, great fortresses144 of stone and steel that housed enormous hanks. The blind injustice145 of this contrast seemed the most brutal part of the whole experience, for there, all round him in the cold moonlight, only a few blocks away from this abyss of human wretchedness and misery146, blazed the pinnacle147 of power where a large portion of the entire world’s wealth was locked in mighty148 vaults149.
They were now dosing up the restaurant. The tired waitresses were racking the chairs upon the tables, completing the last formalities of their hard day’s work in preparation for departure. At the cash register the proprietor150 was totting up the figures of the day’s take, and one of the male waiters hovered151 watchfully152 near the table, in a manner politely indicating that while he was not in a hurry he would be glad if the last customer would pay his bill and leave.
George called for his check and gave the man some money. He took it and in a moment returned with the change. He pocketed his tip and said: “Thank you, sir.” Then as George said good night and started to get up and leave, the waiter hesitated and hung round uncertainly as if there was something he wanted to say but scarcely knew whether he ought to say it or not.
George looked at him inquiringly, and then, in a rather embarrassed tone, the waiter said:
“Mr. Webber . . . there’s . . . something I’d like to talk over with you sometime . . . I— I’d like to get your advice about something — that is, if you have time,” he added hastily and almost apologetically.
George regarded the waiter with another inquiring look,-in which the man evidently read encouragement, for now he went on quickly, in a manner of almost beseeching153 entreaty154:
“It’s — it’s about a story.”
The familiar phrase awakened155 countless weary echoes in Webber’s memory. It also resolved that hard and honest patience with which any man who ever sweated to write a living line and to earn his bread by the hard, uncertain labour of his pen will listen, as an act of duty and understanding, to any other man who says he has a tale to tell. His mind and will wearily composed themselves, his face set in a strained smile of mechanical anticipation157, and the poor waiter, thus encouraged, went on eagerly:
“It’s — it’s a story a guy told me several years ago. I’ve been thinking about it ever since. The guy was a foreigner,” said the waiter impressively, as if this fact was enough to guarantee the rare colour and fascinating interest of what he was about to reveal. “He was an Armenian,” said the waiter very earnestly. “Sure! He came from over there!” He nodded his head emphatically. “And this story that he told me was an Armenian story,” said the waiter with solemn emphasis, and then paused to let this impressive fact sink in. “It was a story that he knew about — he told it to me — and I’m the only other guy that knows about it,” said the waiter, and paused again, looking at his patron with a very bright and feverish158 eye.
George continued to smile with wan31 encouragement, and in a moment the waiter, after an obvious struggle with his soul, a conflict between his desire to keep his secret and to tell it, too, went on:
“Gee! You’re a writer, Mr. Webber, and you know about these things. I’m just a dumb guy working in a restaurant — but if I could put it into words — if I could get a guy like you who knows how it’s done to tell the story for me — why — why”— he struggled with himself, then burst out enthusiastically —“there’d be a fortune in it for the both of us!”
George felt his heart sink still lower. It was turning out just as he knew it would. But he still continued to smile pallidly159. He cleared his throat in an undecided fashion, but then said nothing. And the waiter, taking silence for consent, now pressed on impetuously:
“Honest, Mr. Webber — if I could get somebody like you to help me with this story — to write it down for me the way it ought to beI’d — I’d”— for a moment the waiter struggled with his lower nature, then magnanimity got the better of him and he cried out with t he decided160 air of a man who is willing to make a generous bargain and stick to it —“I’d go fifty-fifty with him! I’d — I’d be willing to give him half! . . . And there’s a fortune in it!” he cried. “I go to the movies and I read True Story Magazine— and I never seen a story like it! It’s got ’em all beat! I’ve thought about it for years, ever since the guy told it to me — and I know I’ve got a gold mine here if I could only write it down! . . . It’s — it’s ——”
Now, indeed, the waiter’s struggle with his sense of caution became painful to watch. He was evidently burning with a passionate86 desire to reveal his secret, but he was also obviously tormented161 by doubts and misgivings162 lest he should recklessly give away to a comparative stranger a treasure which the other might appropriate to his own use. I I is manner was very much that of a man who has sailed strange seas and seen, in some unknown coral island, the fabulous163 buried cache of forgotten pirates’ plundering164, and who is now being torn between two desperate needs — his need of partnership165, of outward help, and his imperative166 need of secrecy167 and caution. The fierce interplay of these two powers discrete168 was waged there on the open battlefield of the waiter’s countenance169. And in the end he took the obvious way out. Like an explorer who will take from his pocket an uncut gem110 of tremendous size and value and cunningly hint that in a certain place he knows of there are many more like it, the waiter decided to tell a little part of his story without revealing it.
“I— I can’t tell you the whole thing to-night,” he said apologetically. “Some other night, maybe, when you’ve got more time. But just to give you an idea of what’s in it”— he looked round stealthily to make sure he was in no danger of being overheard, then bent170 over and lowered his voice to an impressive whisper —“just to give you an idea, now — there’s one scene in the story where a woman puts an advertisement in the paper that she will give a ten-dollar gold piece and as much liquor as he can drink to any man who comes round to see her the next day!” After imparting this sensational171 bit of information, the waiter regarded his patron with glittering eyes. “Now!” said the waiter, straightening up with a gesture of finality. “You never heard of anything like that, did you? You ain’t never seen that in a story!”
George, after a baffled pause, admitted feebly that he had not. Then, when the waiter continued to regard him feverishly172, with a look that made it plain that he was supposed to say something more, he inquired doubtfully whether this interesting event had really happened in Armenia.
“Sure!” cried the waiter, nodding vigorously. “That’s what I’m telling you! The whole thing happens in Armenia!” He paused again, torn fiercely between his caution and his desire to go on, his feverish eyes almost burning holes through his questioner. “It’s — it’s —” he struggled for a moment more, then surrendered; abjectly173 —“well, I’ll tell you,” he said quietly, leaning forward, with his hands resting on the table in an attitude of confidential174 intimacy175. “The idea of the story runs like this. You got this rich dame176 to begin with, see?”
He paused and looked at George inquiringly. George did not: know what was expected of him, so he nodded to show that his min had grasped this important fact, and said hesitatingly:
“In Armenia?”
“Sure! Sure!” The waiter nodded. “This dame comes from over there — she’s got a big pile of dough177 — I guess she’s the richest dame in Armenia. And then she falls for this guy, see?” he went on. “He’s nuts about her, and he comes to see her every night. The way the guy told it to me, she lives up at the top of this big house — so every night the guy comes and climbs up there to see her — oh, a hell of a long ways up”— the waiter said —“thirty floors or more!”
“In Armenia?” George asked feebly.
“Sure!” cried the waiter, a little irritably178. “That’s where it all takes place! That’s what I’m telling you!”
He paused and looked searchingly at George, who finally asked, with just the proper note of hesitant thoughtfulness, why the lover had had to climb up so far.
“Why,” said the waiter impatiently, “because the dame’s old man wouldn’t let him in! That was the only way the guy could get to her! The old man shut her up way up there at the top of the house because he didn’t want the dame to get married! . . . But then,” he went on triumphantly, “the old man dies, see? He dies and leaves all his dough to this dame — and then she ups and marries this guy!”
Dramatically, with triumph written in his face, the waiter paused to let this startling news soak into the consciousness of his listener. Then he continued:
“They lived together for a while — the dame’s in love with him — and for a year or two they’re sitting pretty. But then the guy begins to drink — he’s a booze hound, see? — only she don’t know it — she’s been able to hold him down for a year or two after they get married . . . Then he begins to step out again . . . The first thing you know he’s staying out all night and running round with a lot of hot blondes, see? . . . Well, then, you see what’s coming now, don’t you?” said the waiter quickly and eagerly.
George had no notion, but he nodded his head wisely.
“Well, that’s what happens,” said the waiter. “The first thing you know the guy ups and leaves the dame and takes with him a lot of her dough and joolry . . . He just disappears — just like the earth had opened and swallowed him up!” the waiter declared, evidently pleased with his poetic179 simile180. “He leaves her cold, and the poor dame’s almost out of her head. She does everything — she hires detectives — she offers rewards — she puts ads in the paper begging him to come back . . . But it’s no use — she can’t find him — the guy’s lost . . . Well, then,” the waiter continued, “three years go by while the poor dame sits and eats her heart out about this guy . . . And then”— here he paused impressively, and it was evident that he was now approaching the crisis —“then she has an idea!” He paused again, briefly181, to allow this extraordinary accomplishment182 on the part of his heroine to be given due consideration, and in a moment, very simply and quietly, he concluded: “She opens up a night club.”
The waiter fell silent now, and stood at ease with his hands clasped quietly before him, with the modest air of a man who has given his all and is reasonably assured it is enough. It now became compellingly apparent that his listener was supposed to make some appropriate comment, and that the narrator could not continue with his tale until this word had been given. So George mustered183 his failing strength, moistened his dry lips with the end of his tongue, and finally said in a halting voice:
“In — in Armenia?”
The waiter now took the question, and the manner of its utterance, as signs of his listener’s paralyzed surprise. He nodded his head victoriously184 and cried:
“Sure! You see, the dame’s idea is this — she knows the guy’s a booze hound and that sooner or later he’ll come to a place where there’s lots of bar-flies and fast women. That kind always hang together — sure they do! . . . So she opens up this joint185 — she sinks a lot of dough in it — it’s the swellest joint they got over there. And then she puts this ad in the paper.”
George was not sure that he had heard aright, but the waiter was looking at him with an expression of such exuberant187 elation119 that he took a chance and said:
“What ad?”
“Why,” said the waiter, “this come-on ad that I was telling you about. You see, that’s the big idea — that’s the plan the dame dopes out to get him back. So she puts this ad in the paper saying that any man who comes to her joint the next day will be given a ten-dollar gold piece and all the liquor he can drink. She figures that will bring him. She knows the guy is probably down and out by this time and when he reads this ad he’ll show up . . . And that’s just what happens. When she comes down next morning she finds a line twelve blocks long outside, and sure enough, here’s this guy the first one in the line. Well, she pulls him out of the line and tells the cashier to give all the rest of ’em their booze and their ten bucks188, but she tells this guy he ain’t gonna get nothing. ‘What’s the reason I ain’t?’ he says — you see, the dame is wearing a heavy veil so he don’t recognise her. Well, she tells him she thinks there’s something phoney about him — gives him the old line, you know — tells him to come upstairs with her so she can talk to him and find out if he’s O.K . . . Do you get it?”
George nodded vaguely189. “And then what?” he said.
“Why,” the waiter cried, “she gets him up there — and then”— he leaned forward again with fingers resting on the table, and his voice sank to an awed190 whisper —“she — takes — off — her — veil!”
There was a reverential silence as the waiter, still leaning forward with his fingers arched upon the table, regarded his listener with bright eyes and a strange little smile. Then he straightened up slowly, stood erect191, still smiling quietly, and a long, low sigh like the coming on of evening came from his lips, and he was still. The silence drew itself out until it became painful, and at length George squirmed wretchedly in his chair and asked:
“And then — then what?”
The waiter was plainly taken aback. He stared in frank astonishment192, stunned193 speechless by the realisation that anybody could be stupid.
“Why”— he finally managed to say with an expression of utter disillusion194 —“that’s all! Don’t you see? That’s all there is! The dame takes off her veil — he recognises her — and there you are! . . . She’s found him! . . . She’s got him back! . . . They’re together again! . . . That’s the story!” He was hurt, impatient, almost angry as he went on: “Why, anybody ought to be able to see ——”
“Good night, Joe.”
The last waitress was just going out and had spoken to the waiter as she passed the table. She was a blonde, slender girl, neatly195 dressed Her voice was quiet and full of the casual familiarity of her daily work and association; it was a pleasant voice, and it was a little tired. Her face, as she paused a moment, was etched in light and shadow, and there were little pools of violet beneath her clear grey eyes. Her face had the masklike fragility and loveliness, the almost hair-drawn fine-MSS, that one often sees in young people who have lived in the great city and who have never had wholly enough of anything except work and their own hard youth. One felt instantly sorry for the girl, because one knew that her face would not long be what it was now.
The waiter, interrupted in the flood of his impassioned argument, had been alittle startled by the casual intrusion of the girl’s low voice turned towards her. When he saw who it was, his manner changed at once, and his own seamed face softened196 a little with instinctive197 and unconscious friendliness.
“Oh, hello, Billie. Good night, kid.”
She went out, and the sound of her brisk little heels clacked away on the hard pavement. For a moment more the waiter continued to look after her, and then, turning back to his sole remaining customer with a queer, indefinable little smile hovering198 in the hard lines about his mouth, he said very quietly and casually199, in the tone men use to speak of things done and known and irrecoverable:
“Did you see that kid? . . . She came in here about two years ago and got a job. I don’t know where she came from, but it was some little hick town somewhere. She’d been a chorus girl — a hoofer in some cheap road show — until her legs gave out . . . You find a lot of ’em in this game — the business is full of ’em . . . Well, she worked here for about a year, and then she began going with a cheap gigolo who used to come in here. You know the kind — you can smell ’em a mile off — they stink. I could’ve told her! But, hell, what’s the use? They won’t listen to you — you only get yourself in dutch all round — they got to find out for themselves — you can’t teach ’em. So I left it alone — that’s the only way . . . Well, six or eight months ago, some of the girls found out she was pregnant. The boss let her out. He’s not a bad guy — but, hell, what can you expect? You can’t keep ’em round a place like this when they’re in that condition, can you? . . . She had the kid three months ago, and then she got her job back. I understand she’s put the kid in a home somewhere. I’ve never seen it, but they say it’s a swell186 kid, and Billie’s crazy about it — goes out there to see it every Sunday . . . She’s a swell kid, too.”
The waiter was silent for a moment, and there was a far-off look of tragic but tranquil200 contemplation in his eyes. Then, quietly, wearily, he said:
“Hell, if I could tell you what goes on here every day — the things you see and hear — the people you meet and all that happens. Jesus, I get sick and tired of it. Sometimes I’m so fed up with the whole thing that I don’t care if I never see the joint again. Sometimes I get to thinking how swell it would be not to have to spend your whole life waiting on a lot of mugs — just standing156 round and waiting on ’em and watching ’em come in and out . . . and feeling sorry for some little kid who’s fallen for some dope you wouldn’t wipe your feet on . . . and wondering just how long it’ll be before she gets the works . . . Jesus, I’m fed up with it!”
Again he was silent. His eyes looked off into the distance, and his face was set in that expression of mildly cynical201 regret and acceptance that one often notices in people who have seen much of life, and experienced its hard and seamy side, and who know that there is very little they can do or say. At last he sighed deeply, shook himself, threw off the mood, and resumed his normal manner.
“Gee, Mr. Webber,” he said with a return of his former eagerness, “it must be great to be able to write books and stories — to have the gift of gab202 — all that flow of language — to go anywhere you like — to work when you want to! Now, take that story I was telling you about,” he said earnestly. “I never had no education — but if I could only get some guy like you to help me — to write it down the way it ought to be-honest, Mr. Webber, it’s a great chance for somebody — there’s a fortune in it — I’d go fifty-fifty!” His voice was pleading now. “A guy I knew one time, he told it to me — and me and him are the only two that knows it. The guy was an Armenian, like I said, and the whole thing happened over there . . . There’d be a gold mine in it if I only knew how to do it.”
It was long after midnight, and the round disc of the moon was sinking westward203 over the cold, deserted204 streets of slumbering205 Manhattan.
The party was in full swing now.
The gold and marble ballroom206 of the great hotel had been converted into a sylvan207 fairyland. In the centre a fountain of classic nymphs and fauns sent up its lighted sprays of water, and here and there about the floor were rustic208 arbors with climbing roses trailing over them, heavy with scented209 blossoms. Flowering hot-house trees in tubs were banked round the walls, the shining marble pillars were wreathed about with vines and garlands, and overhead gay lanterns had been strung to illuminate210 the scene with their gentle glow. The whole effect was that of an open clearing in a forest glade211 upon Midsummer Night where Queen Titania had come to hold her court and revels212.
It was a rare, exotic spectacle, a proper setting for the wealthy, carefree youth for whom it had been planned. The air was heavy with the fragrance of rich perfumes, and vibrant213 with the throbbing214, pulsing rhythms of sensuous215 music. Upon the polished floor a hundred lovely girls in brilliant evening gowns danced languidly in the close embrace of pink-cheeked boys from Yale and Harvard, their lithe216 young figures accentuated217 smartly by the black and white of faultless tailoring.
This was the coming-out party of a fabulously218 rich young lady, and the like of it had not been seen since the days before the market crashed. The papers had been full of it for weeks. It was said that her father had lost millions in the debacle, but it was apparent that he still had a few paltry219 dollars left. So now he was doing the right thing, the expected thing, the necessary and inescapable thing, for his beautiful young daughter, who would one day inherit all that these ruinous times had left him of his hard-earned savings220. To-night she was being “presented to Society” (whose members had known her since her birth), and all “Society” was there.
And from this night on, the girl’s smiling face would turn up with monotonous221 regularity222 in all the rotogravure sections of the Sunday papers, and daily the nation would be kept posted on all the momentous223 trivia of her life — what she ate, what she wore, where she went, who went with her, what night clubs had been honoured by her presence, what fortunate young gentleman had been seen accompanying her to what race track, and what benefits she had sponsored and poured tea for. For one whole year, from now until another beautiful and rich young lady from next season’s crop of beautiful and rich young ladies was chosen by the newspaper photographers to succeed her as America’s leading debutante224, this gay and care-free creature would be for Americans very much what a royal princess is for Englishmen, and for very much the same reason — because she was her father’s daughter, and because her father was one of the rulers of America. Millions would read about her every move and envy her, and thousands would copy her as far as their means would let them. They would buy cheap imitations of her costly225 dresses, hats, and underclothes, would smoke the same cigarettes, use the same lipsticks226, eat the same soups, sleep on the same mattresses227 that she had allowed herself to be pictured wearing, smoking, using, eating, and sleeping on in the handsome coloured advertisements on the back covers of magazines — and they would do it, knowing full well that the rich young lady had set these fashions for a price — was she not her father’s daughter? — all, of course, for the sake of sweet charity and commerce.
Outside the great hotel, on the Avenue in front of it and on all the side streets in the near vicinity, sleek228 black limousines229 were parked. In some of them the chauffeurs230 slouched dozing232 behind their wheels. Others had turned on their inside lights and sat there reading the pages of the tabloids233. But most of them had left their cars and were knotted together in little groups, smoking, talking, idling the time away until their services should be needed again.
On the pavement near the entrance of the hotel, beside the huge marquee which offered shelter from the wind, the largest group of them, neat in their liveried uniforms, had gathered in debate. They were discussing politics and theories of international economy, and the chief disputants were a plump Frenchman with a waxed moustache, whose sentiments were decidedly revolutionary, and an American, a little man with corky legs, a tough, seamed face, the beady eyes of a bird, and the quick, impatient movements of the city. As George Webber came abreast234 of them, brought thither235 by the simple chance of his nightly wanderings, the argument had reached its furious climax236, and he stopped a while to listen.
The scene, the situation, and the contrast between the two principal debaters made the whole affair seem utterly237 grotesque238. The plump Frenchman, his cheeks glowing with the cold and his own excitement, was dancing about in a frenzy239, talking and gesticulating volubly. He would lean forward with thumb and forefinger240 uplifted and closed daintily in a descriptive circle — a gesture that eloquently241 expressed the man’s conviction that the case he had been presenting for immediate57 and bloody world revolution was complete, logical, unshakable, and beyond appeal. When any of the others interposed an objection, he would only grow more violent and inflamed106.
At last his little English began to break down under the strain imposed upon it. The air about him fairly rang with objurgations, expletives, impassioned cries of “Mais oui! . . . Absolument! . . . C’est la vérité!”— and with laughs of maddened exasperation242, as if the knowledge that anyone could be so obtuse243 as not to see it as he saw it was more than he could endure.
“Mais non! Mais non!” he would shout. “Vous avez tort! . . . Mais c’est stupide!” he would cry, throwing his plump arms up in a gesture of defeat, and turning away as if he could stand it no longer and was departing — only to return immediately and begin all over again.
Meanwhile, the chief target of this deluge244, the little American with the corky legs and the birdy eyes, let him go on. He just leaned up against the building, took an occasional puff245 at his cigarette, and gave the Frenchman a steady look of cynical impassivity. At last he broke in to say:
“O.K . . . O.K., Frenchy . . . When you get through spoutin’, maybe I’ll have somethin’ to say.”
“Seulement un mot!” replied the Frenchman, out of breath. “One vord!” he cried impressively, drawing himself up to his full five feet three and holding one finger in the air as if he were about to deliver Holy Writ23 —“I ‘ave to say one vord more!”
“O.K.! O.K.!” said the corky little American with cynical weariness. “Only don’t take more than an hour and a half to say it!”
Just then another chauffeur231, obviously a German, with bright blue eyes and a nut-cracker face, rejoined the group with an air of elated discovery.
“Noos! I got noos for you!” he said. “I haf been mit a drifer who hass in Rooshia liffed, and he says that conditions there far worser are ——”
“Non! Non!” the Frenchman shouted, red in the face with anger and protest. “Pas vrai! . . . Ce n’est par8 possible!”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” the American said, tossing his cigarette away with a gesture of impatience246 and disgust. “Why don’t you guys wake up? This ain’t Russia! You’re in America! The trouble with you guys,” he went on, “is that you’ve been over there all your life where you ain’t been used to nothin’— and just as soon as you get over here where you can live like a human bein’ you want to tear it all down.”
At this, others broke in, and the heated and confused dialogue became more furious than ever. But the talk just went round and round in circles.
George walked away into the night.
The lives of men who have to live in our great cities are often tragically247 lonely. In many more ways than one, these dwellers249 in the hive are modern counterparts of Tantalus. They are starving to death in the midst of abundance. The crystal stream flows near the lips but always falls away when they try to drink of it. The vine, rich-weighted with its golden fruit, bends down, comes near, but springs back when they reach to touch it.
Melville, at the beginning of his great fable250, Moby Dick, tells how the city people of his time would, on every occasion that was afforded them, go down to the dock, to the very edges of the wharf251, and stand there looking out to sea. In the great city of today, however, there is no sea to look out to, or, if there is, it is so far away, so inaccessible252, walled in behind such infinite ramifications253 of stone and steel, that the effort to get to it is disheartening. So now, when the city man looks out, he looks out on nothing but crowded vacancy254.
Does this explain, perhaps, the desolate255 emptiness of city youth — those straggling bands of boys of sixteen or eighteen that one can always see at night or on a holiday, going along a street, filling the air with raucous256 jargon257 and senseless cries, each trying to outdo the others with joyless catcalls and mirthless quips and jokes which are so feeble, so stupidly inane258, that one hears them with strong mixed feelings of pity and of shame? Where here, among these lads, is all the merriment, high spirits, and spontaneous gaiety of youth? These creatures, millions of them, seem to have been born but half-made up, without innocence259, born old and stale and dull and empty.
Who can wonder at it? For what a world it is that most of them were born into! They were suckled on darkness, and weaned on violence and noise. They had to try to draw out moisture from the cobble-stones, their true parent was a city street, and in that barren universe no urgent sails swelled260 out and leaned against the wind, they rarely knew the feel of earth beneath their feet and no birds sang, t heir youthful eyes grew hard, unseeing, from being stopped for ever by a wall of masonry261.
In other times, when painters tried to paint a scene of awful desolation, they chose the desert or a heath of barren rocks, and there would try to picture man in his great loneliness — the prophet in the desert, Elijah being fed by ravens262 on the rocks. But for a modern painter, the most desolate scene would be a street in almost any one of our great cities on a Sunday afternoon.
Suppose a rather drab and shabby street in Brooklyn, not quite tenement27 perhaps, and lacking therefore even the gaunt savagery263 of I overty, but a street of cheap brick buildings, warehouses264, and garages, with a cigar store or a fruit stand or a barber shop on the corner. Suppose a Sunday afternoon in March — bleak265, empty, slaty266 grey. And suppose a group of men, Americans of the working class, dressed in t heir “good” Sunday clothes — the cheap machine-made suits, the new cheap shoes, the cheap felt hats stamped out of universal grey. Just suppose this, and nothing more. The men hang round the corner before the cigar store or the closed barber shop, and now and then, through the bleak and empty street, a motor-car goes flashing past, and in the distance they hear the cold rumble267 of an elevated train. For hours they hang round the corner, waiting — waiting — waiting ——
For what?
Nothing. Nothing at all. And that is what gives the scene its special quality of tragic loneliness, awful emptiness, and utter desolation. Every modern city man is familiar with it. And yet — and yet ——
It is also true — and this is a curious paradox268 about America — that these same men who stand upon the corner and wait around on Sunday afternoons for nothing are filled at the same time with an almost quenchless270 hope, an almost boundless271 optimism, an almost indestructible belief that something is bound to turn up, something is sure to happen. This is a peculiar272 quality of the American soul, and it contributes largely to the strange enigma273 of our life, which is so incredibly mixed of harshness and of tenderness, of innocence and of crime, of loneliness and of good fellowship, of desolation and of exultant75 hope, of terror and of courage, of nameless fear and of soaring conviction, of brutal, empty, naked, bleak, corrosive274 ugliness, and of beauty so lovely and so overwhelming that the tongue is stopped by it, and the language for it has not yet been uttered.
How explain this nameless hope that seems to lack all reasonable foundation? I cannot. But if you were to go up to this fairly intelligent-looking truck-driver who stands and waits there with his crowd, and if you put to him your question, and if he understood what you were talking about (he wouldn’t), and if he were articulate enough to frame in words the feelings that are in him (he isn’t)— he might answer you with something such as this:
“Now is duh mont’ of March, duh mont’ of March — now it is Sunday afternoon in Brooklyn in duh mont’ of March, an’ we stand upon cold corners of duh day. It’s funny dat dere are so many corners in duh mont’ of March, here in Brooklyn where no corners are. Jesus! On Sunday in duh mont’ of March we sleep late in duh mornin’ den44 we get up an’ read duh papers — dub275 funnies an’ duh sportin’ news. We eat some chow. An’ den we dress up in duh afternoon, we leave our wives, we leave dub funnies littered on duh floor, an’ go outside in Brooklyn in duh mont’ of March an’ stand around upon ten t’ousand corners of duh day. We need a corner in, duh mont’ of March, a wall to stand to, a shelter an’ a door. Dere must be some place inside in duh mont’ of March, but we never found it. So we stand around on corners where duh sky is cold an’ ragged still wit’ winter, in our good clothes we stand around wit’ a lot of udder guys we know, before dub, barber shop, just lookin’ for a door.”
Ah, yes, for in summer:
It is so cool and sweet to-night, a million feet are walking here across the jungle web of Brooklyn in the dark, and it’s so hard now to remember that it ever was the month of March in Brooklyn and that we couldn’t find a door. There are so many million doors tonight. There’s a door for everyone to-night, all’s open to the air, all’s interfused to-night: remote the thunder of the elevated trains on Fulton Street, the rattling276 of the cars along Atlantic Avenue, the glare of Coney Island seven miles away, the mob, the racket, and the barkers shouting, the cars swift-shuttling through the quiet streets, the people swarming277 in the web, lit here and there with livid blurs278 of light, the voices of the neighbours leaning at their windows, harsh, soft, all interfused. All’s illusive279 in the liquid air to-night, all mixed in with the radios that blare from open windows. And there is something over all to-night, something fused, remote, and trembling, made of all of this, and yet not of it, upon the huge and weaving ocean of the night in Brooklyn — something that we had almost quite forgotten in the month of March. What’s this? — a sash raised gently? — a window? — a near voice on the air? — something swift and passing, almost captured, there below? — there in the gulf280 of night the mournful and yet thrilling voices of the tugs281? — the liner’s blare? Herethere — some otherwhere — was it a whisper? — a woman’s call? — a sound of people talking behind the screens and doors in Flatbush? It trembles in the air throughout the giant web to-night, as fleeting282 as a step — near — as soft and sudden as a woman’s laugh. The liquid air is living with the very whisper of the thing that we are looking for to-night throughout America — the very thing that seemed so bleak, so vast, so cold, so hopeless, and so lost as we waited in out good clothes on ten thousand corners of the day in Brooklyn in the month of March.
If George Webber had never gone beyond the limits of the neighbourhood in which he lived, the whole chronicle of the earth would have been there for him just the same. South Brooklyn was a universe.
The people in the houses all round him, whose lives in the cold, raw days of winter always seemed hermetic, sterile283, and remote, as shut out from him as though they were something sealed up in a tin, became in spring and summer so real to him it seemed that he had known them from his birth. For, as the days and nights grew warmer, everybody kept their windows open, and all the dwellers in these houses conducted their most intimate affairs in loud and raucous voices which carried to the street and made the casual passer-by a confidant of every family secret.
God knows he saw squalor and filth and misery and despair enough, violence and cruelty and hate enough, to crust his lips for ever with the hard and acrid284 taste of desolation. He found a sinister285 and demented Italian grocer whose thin mouth writhed286 in a servile smile as he cringed before his customers, and the next moment was twisted in a savage snarl287 as he dug his clawlike fingers into the arm of his wretched little son. And on Saturdays the Irishmen would come home drunk, and then would beat their wives and cut one another’s throats, and the whole course and progress of their murderous rages would be published nakedly from their open windows with laugh, shout, scream, and curse.
But he found beauty in South Brooklyn, too. There was a tree that leaned over into the narrow alley where he lived, and George could stand at his basement window and look up at it and watch it day by day as it came into its moment’s glory of young and magic green. And then towards sunset, if he was tired, he could lie down to rest awhile upon his iron bed and listen to the dying birdsong in the tree. Thus, each spring, in that one tree, he found all April and the earth. He also found devotion, love, and wisdom in a shabby little Jewish tailor and his wife, whose dirty children were always tumbling in and out of the dingy288 suffocation289 of his shop.
In the infinite variety of such common, accidental, oft-unheeded things one can see the web of life as it is spun290. Whether we wake at morning in the city, or lie at night in darkness in the country towns, or walk the streets of furious noon in all the dusty, homely291, and enduring lights of present time, the universe round us is the same. Evil lives for ever — so does good. Man alone has knowledge of these two, and he is such a little thing.
For what is man?
First, a child, soft-boned, unable to support itself on its rubbery legs, befouled with its excrement293, that howls and laughs by turns, cries for the moon but hushes294 when it gets its mother’s teat; a sleeper296, eater, guzzler297, howler, laugher, idiot, and a chewer of its toe; a little tender thing all blubbered with its spit, a reacher into fires, a beloved fool.
After that, a boy, hoarse298 and loud before his companions, but afraid of the dark; will beat the weaker and avoid the stronger; worships strength and savagery, loves tales of war and murder, and violence done to others; joins gangs and hates to be alone; makes heroes out of soldiers, sailors, prize-fighters, football players, cowboys, gunmen, and detectives; would rather die than not out-try and out-dare his companions, wants to beat them and always to win, shows his muscle and demands that it be felt, boasts of his victories and will never own defeat.
Then the youth: goes after girls, is foul292 behind their backs among the drug-store boys, hints at a hundred seductions, but gets pimples299 on his face; begins to think about his clothes, becomes a fop, greases his hair, smokes cigarettes with a dissipated air, reads novels, and writes poetry on the sly. He sees the world now as a pair of legs and breasts; he knows hate, love, and jealousy; he is cowardly and foolish, he cannot endure to be alone; he lives in a crowd, thinks with the crowd, is afraid to be marked off from his fellows by an eccentricity300. He joins clubs and is afraid of ridicule301; he is bored and unhappy and wretched most of the time. There is a great cavity in him, he is dull.
Then the man: he is busy, he is full of plans and reasons, he has work. He gets children, buys and sells small packets of everlasting302 earth, intrigues303 against his rivals, is exultant when he cheats them. He wastes his little three score years and ten in spendthrift and ingloriousliving; from his cradle to his grave he scarcely sees the sun or moon or stars; he is unconscious of the immortal304 sea and earth; he talks of he future and he wastes it as it comes. If he is lucky, he saves money. At the end his fat purse buys him flunkeys to carry him where his shanks no longer can; he consumes rich food and golden wine that his wretched stomach has no hunger for; his weary and lifeless eyeslook out upon the scenery of strange lands for which in youth his heart was panting. Then the slow death, prolonged by costly doctors, and finally the graduate undertakers, the perfumed carrion305, the suave306 ushers307 with palms outspread to leftwards, the fast motor hearses, and the earth again.
This is man: a writer of books, a putter-down of words, a painter of pictures, a maker308 of ten thousand philosophies. He grows passion-site over ideas, he hurls309 scorn and mockery at another’s work, he finds the one way, the true way, for himself, and calls all others false — yet in the billion books upon the shelves there is not one that can tell him how to draw a single fleeting breath in peace and comfort. He makes histories of the universe, he directs the destiny of nations, but he does not know his own history, and he cannot direct his own destiny with dignity or wisdom for ten consecutive310 minutes.
This is man: for the most part a foul, wretched, abominable311 creature, a packet of decay, a bundle of degenerating312 tissues, a creature that gets old and hairless and has a foul breath, a hater of his kind, a cheater, a scorner, a mocker, a reviler313, a thing that kills and murders in a mob or in the dark, loud and full of brag314 surrounded by his fellows, but without the courage of a rat alone. He will cringe for a coin, and show his snarling315 fangs316 behind the giver’s back; he will cheat for two sous, and kill for forty dollars, and weep copiously317 in court to keep another scoundrel out of jail.
This is man, who will steal his friend’s woman, feel the leg of his host’s wife below the table-cloth, dump fortunes on his whores, bow down in worship before charlatans318, and let his poets die. This is man, who swears he will live only for beauty, for art, for the spirit, but will live only for fashion, and will change his faith and his convictions as soon as fashion changes. This is man, the great warrior319 with the flaccid gut320, the great romantic with the barren loins, the eternal knave321 devouring322 the eternal fool, the most glorious of all the animals, who uses his brain for the most part to make himself a stench in the nostrils323 of the Bull, the Fox, the Dog, the Tiger, and the Goat.
Yes, this is man, and it is impossible to say the worst of him, for the record of his obscene existence, his baseness, lust324, cruelty, and treachery, is illimitable. His life is also full of toil, tumult325, and suffering. His days are mainly composed of a million idiot, repetitions — in goings and comings along hot streets, in sweatings and freezings, in the senseless accumulation of fruitless tasks, in decaying and being patched, in grinding out his life so that he may buy bad food, in eating bad food so that he may grind his life out in distressful326 defecations. He is the dweller248 in that ruined tenement who, from one moment’s breathing to another, can hardly forget the bitter weight of his uneasy flesh, the thousand diseases and distresses327 of his body, the growing incubus328 of his corruption329. This is man, who, if he can remember ten golden moments of joy and happiness out of all his years, ten moments unmarked by care, unseamed by aches or itches330, has power to lift himself with his expiring breath and say: “I have lived upon this earth and known glory!”
This is man, and one wonders why he wants to live at all. A third of his life is lost and deadened under sleep; another third is given to a sterile labour; a sixth is spent in all his goings and his comings, in the moil and shuffle331 of the streets, in thrusting, shoving, pawing. How much of him is left, then, for a vision of the tragic stars? How much of him is left to look upon the everlasting earth? How much of him is left for glory and the making of great songs? A few snatched moments only from the barren glut333 and suck of living.
Here, then, is man, this moth295 of time, this dupe of brevity and numbered hours, this travesty334 of waste and sterile breath. Yet if the gods could come here to a desolate, deserted earth where only the ruin of man’s cities remained, where only a few marks and carvings335 of his hand were legible upon his broken tablets, where only a wheel lay rusting332 in the desert sand, a cry would burst out of their hearts and they would say: “He lived, and he was here!”
Behold336 his works:
He needed speech to ask for bread — and he had Christ! He needed songs to sing in battle — and he had Homer! He needed words to curse his enemies — and he had Dante, he had Voltaire, he had Swift! He needed cloth to cover up his hairless, puny337 flesh against the seasons — and he wove the robes of Solomon, he made the garments of great kings, he made the samite for the young knights338! He needed walls and a roof to shelter him — and he made Blois! He needed a temple to propitiate339 his God — and he made Chartres and Fountains Abbey! He was born to creep upon the earth — and he made great wheels, he sent great engines thundering down the rails, he launched great wings into the air, he put great ships upon the angry sea!
Plagues wasted him, and cruel wars destroyed his strongest sons, but fire, flood, and famine could not quench269 him. No, nor the inexorable grave — his sons leaped shouting from his dying loins. The shaggy bison with his thews of thunder died upon the plains; the fabled340 mammoths of the unrecorded ages are vast scaffoldings of dry, insensate loam341; the panthers have learned caution and move carefully among tall grasses to the water-hole; and man lives on amid the senseless nihilism of the universe.
For there is one belief, one faith, that is man’s glory, his triumph, his immortality342 — and that is his belief in life. Man loves life, and, loving life, hates death, and because of this he is great, he is glorious, he is beautiful, and his beauty is everlasting. He lives below the senseless stars and writes his meanings in them. He lives in fear, in toil, in agony, and in unending tumult, but if the blood foamed343 bubbling from his wounded lungs at every breath he drew, he would still love life more dearly than an end of breathing. Dying, his eyes burn beautifully, and the old hunger shines more fiercely in them — he has endured all the hard and purposeless suffering, and still he wants to live.
Thus it is impossible to scorn this creature. For out of his strong belief in life, this puny man made love. At his best, he is love. Without him there can be no love, no hunger, no desire.
So this is man — the worst and best of him — this frail344 and petty thing who lives his day and dies like-all the other animals, and is forgotten. And yet, he is immortal, too, for both the good and evil that he does live after him. Why, then, should any living man ally himself with death, and, in his greed and blindness, batten on his brother’s blood?
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1
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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5
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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functional
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| adj.为实用而设计的，具备功能的，起作用的 | |
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spartan
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| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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flaked
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| 精疲力竭的，失去知觉的，睡去的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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crates
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| n. 板条箱, 篓子, 旧汽车 vt. 装进纸条箱 | |
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pried
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| v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的过去式和过去分词 )；撬开 | |
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ledgers
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| n.分类账( ledger的名词复数 ) | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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shacks
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| n.窝棚，简陋的小屋( shack的名词复数 ) | |
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tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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sewer
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| n.排水沟，下水道 | |
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incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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prehistoric
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| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
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surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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bastards
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| 私生子( bastard的名词复数 )； 坏蛋； 讨厌的事物； 麻烦事 （认为别人走运或不幸时说）家伙 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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45
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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plumber
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| n.(装修水管的)管子工 | |
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hogger
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| n.木材切碎机，火车司机；钻工 | |
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48
chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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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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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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bristle
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| v.（毛发）直立，气势汹汹，发怒；n.硬毛发 | |
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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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ruffle
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| v.弄皱，弄乱；激怒，扰乱；n.褶裥饰边 | |
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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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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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chirped
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的过去式 ) | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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63
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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66
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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67
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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68
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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69
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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70
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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72
derisively
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| adv. 嘲笑地，嘲弄地 | |
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73
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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74
shrilled
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| （声音）尖锐的，刺耳的，高频率的( shrill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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76
exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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77
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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78
experimentation
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| n.实验，试验，实验法 | |
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79
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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80
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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81
hacking
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| n.非法访问计算机系统和数据库的活动 | |
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82
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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83
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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84
isolation
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|
| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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85
passionately
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|
| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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86
passionate
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|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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87
rankled
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
sporadic
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|
| adj.偶尔发生的 [反]regular；分散的 | |
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89
rumination
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| n.反刍，沉思 | |
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90
digestion
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|
| n.消化，吸收 | |
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91
chalices
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|
| n.高脚酒杯( chalice的名词复数 )；圣餐杯；金杯毒酒；看似诱人实则令人讨厌的事物 | |
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92
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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93
prim
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|
| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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94
primitives
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| 原始人（primitive的复数形式） | |
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95
cults
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|
| n.迷信( cult的名词复数 )；狂热的崇拜；（有极端宗教信仰的）异教团体 | |
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96
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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97
beacon
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|
| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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98
practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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99
promiscuous
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|
| adj.杂乱的，随便的 | |
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100
communal
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|
| adj.公有的，公共的，公社的，公社制的 | |
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101
playwright
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|
| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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102
jersey
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|
| n.运动衫 | |
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103
unities
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|
| n.统一体( unity的名词复数 )；（艺术等） 完整；（文学、戏剧） （情节、时间和地点的）统一性；团结一致 | |
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104
scenario
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| n.剧本，脚本；概要 | |
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105
contemptible
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|
| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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106
inflamed
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|
| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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108
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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109
formerly
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|
| adv.从前，以前 | |
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110
gem
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|
| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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111
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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112
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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113
fortifying
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|
| 筑防御工事于( fortify的现在分词 )； 筑堡于； 增强； 强化（食品） | |
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114
spotlight
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| n.公众注意的中心，聚光灯，探照灯，视听，注意，醒目 | |
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115
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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116
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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117
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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118
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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119
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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120
affiliations
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| n.联系( affiliation的名词复数 )；附属机构；亲和性；接纳 | |
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121
morsels
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| n.一口( morsel的名词复数 )；（尤指食物）小块，碎屑 | |
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122
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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123
rendezvous
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|
| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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124
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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125
fascination
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|
| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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126
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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127
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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128
shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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129
fumed
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| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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130
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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131
toil
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|
| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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132
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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133
uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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134
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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135
miserable
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|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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136
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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137
stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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138
indignity
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|
| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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139
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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140
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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141
squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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142
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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143
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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144
fortresses
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| 堡垒，要塞( fortress的名词复数 ) | |
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145
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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146
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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147
pinnacle
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|
| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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148
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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149
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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150
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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151
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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152
watchfully
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| 警惕地，留心地 | |
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153
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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154
entreaty
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|
| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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155
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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156
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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157
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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158
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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159
pallidly
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| adv.无光泽地，苍白无血色地 | |
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160
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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161
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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162
misgivings
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|
| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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163
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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164
plundering
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| 掠夺，抢劫( plunder的现在分词 ) | |
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165
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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166
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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167
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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168
discrete
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| adj.个别的，分离的，不连续的 | |
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169
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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170
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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171
sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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172
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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173
abjectly
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| 凄惨地； 绝望地； 糟透地； 悲惨地 | |
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174
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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175
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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176
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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177
dough
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| n.生面团；钱，现款 | |
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178
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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179
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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180
simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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181
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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182
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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183
mustered
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|
| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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184
victoriously
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| adv.获胜地，胜利地 | |
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185
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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186
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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187
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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188
bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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189
vaguely
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|
| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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190
awed
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|
| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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191
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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192
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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193
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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194
disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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195
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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196
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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197
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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198
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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199
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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200
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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201
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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202
gab
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| v.空谈，唠叨，瞎扯；n.饶舌，多嘴，爱说话 | |
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203
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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204
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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205
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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206
ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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207
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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208
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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209
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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210
illuminate
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| vt.照亮，照明；用灯光装饰；说明，阐释 | |
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211
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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212
revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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213
vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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214
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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215
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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216
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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217
accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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218
fabulously
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| 难以置信地，惊人地 | |
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219
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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220
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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221
monotonous
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|
| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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222
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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223
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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224
debutante
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| n.初入社交界的少女 | |
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225
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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226
lipsticks
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| n.口红，唇膏( lipstick的名词复数 ) | |
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227
mattresses
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| 褥垫，床垫( mattress的名词复数 ) | |
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228
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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229
limousines
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| n.豪华轿车( limousine的名词复数 )；（往返机场接送旅客的）中型客车，小型公共汽车 | |
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230
chauffeurs
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| n.受雇于人的汽车司机( chauffeur的名词复数 ) | |
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231
chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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232
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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233
tabloids
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| n.小报，通俗小报（版面通常比大报小一半，文章短，图片多，经常报道名人佚事）( tabloid的名词复数 )；药片 | |
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234
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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235
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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236
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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237
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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238
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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239
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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240
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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241
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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242
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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243
obtuse
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| adj.钝的；愚钝的 | |
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244
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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245
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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246
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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247
tragically
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|
| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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248
dweller
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| n.居住者，住客 | |
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249
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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250
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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251
wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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252
inaccessible
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|
| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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253
ramifications
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| n.结果，后果( ramification的名词复数 ) | |
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254
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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255
desolate
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|
| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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256
raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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257
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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258
inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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259
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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260
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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261
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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262
ravens
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| n.低质煤；渡鸦( raven的名词复数 ) | |
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263
savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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264
warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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265
bleak
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|
| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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266
slaty
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| 石板一样的，石板色的 | |
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267
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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268
paradox
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|
| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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269
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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270
quenchless
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| 不可熄灭的 | |
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271
boundless
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|
| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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272
peculiar
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|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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273
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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274
corrosive
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|
| adj.腐蚀性的；有害的；恶毒的 | |
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275
dub
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| vt.（以某种称号）授予，给...起绰号，复制 | |
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276
rattling
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|
| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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277
swarming
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|
| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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278
blurs
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| n.模糊( blur的名词复数 )；模糊之物；（移动的）模糊形状；模糊的记忆v.（使）变模糊( blur的第三人称单数 )；（使）难以区分 | |
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279
illusive
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| adj.迷惑人的，错觉的 | |
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280
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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281
tugs
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| n.猛拉( tug的名词复数 )；猛拖；拖船v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的第三人称单数 ) | |
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282
fleeting
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|
| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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283
sterile
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|
| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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284
acrid
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|
| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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285
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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286
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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287
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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288
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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289
suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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290
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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291
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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292
foul
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|
| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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293
excrement
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| n.排泄物，粪便 | |
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294
hushes
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| n.安静，寂静( hush的名词复数 ) | |
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295
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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296
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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297
guzzler
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| n.酒鬼，酒量大的人 | |
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298
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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299
pimples
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| n.丘疹，粉刺，小脓疱( pimple的名词复数 ) | |
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300
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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301
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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302
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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303
intrigues
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| 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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304
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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305
carrion
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| n.腐肉 | |
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306
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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307
ushers
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| n.引座员( usher的名词复数 )；招待员；门房；助理教员v.引，领，陪同( usher的第三人称单数 ) | |
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308
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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309
hurls
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的第三人称单数 )；大声叫骂 | |
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310
consecutive
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|
| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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311
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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312
degenerating
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的现在分词 ) | |
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313
reviler
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| n.谩骂者；辱骂者，谩骂者 | |
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314
brag
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| v./n.吹牛，自夸；adj.第一流的 | |
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315
snarling
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|
| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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316
fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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317
copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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318
charlatans
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| n.冒充内行者，骗子( charlatan的名词复数 ) | |
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319
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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320
gut
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| n.[pl.]胆量；内脏；adj.本能的；vt.取出内脏 | |
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321
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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322
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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323
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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324
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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325
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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326
distressful
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| adj.苦难重重的，不幸的，使苦恼的 | |
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327
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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328
incubus
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| n.负担；恶梦 | |
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329
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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330
itches
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| n.痒( itch的名词复数 )；渴望，热望v.发痒( itch的第三人称单数 ) | |
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331
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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332
rusting
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| n.生锈v.（使）生锈( rust的现在分词 ) | |
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333
glut
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| n.存货过多，供过于求；v.狼吞虎咽 | |
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334
travesty
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| n.歪曲，嘲弄，滑稽化 | |
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335
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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336
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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337
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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338
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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339
propitiate
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| v.慰解，劝解 | |
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340
fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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341
loam
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| n.沃土 | |
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342
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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343
foamed
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| 泡沫的 | |
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344
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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