Mynheer Bendien was obviously just a business man, a kind of Dutch Babbitt. He was, indeed, a hard-bargaining, shrewd importer who plied4 a constant traffrc between England and Holland, and was intimately familiar with the markets and business practices of both countries. His occupation had left its mark upon him, that same mark which is revealed in a coarsening of perception and a blunting of sensitivity among people of his kind the world over.
As George observed the signs that betrayed what Bendien was beyond any mistaking, he felt confirmed in an opinion that had been growing on him of late. He had begun to see that the true races of mankind are not at all what we are told in youth that they are. They are not defined either by national frontiers or by the characteristics assigned to them by the subtle investigations6 of anthropologists. More and more George was coming to believe that the real divisions of humanity cut across these barriers and arise out of differences in the very souls of men.
George had first had his attention called to this phenomenon by an observation of H. L. Mencken. In his extraordinary work on the American language, Mencken gave an example of the American sporting writers’ jargon7 —“Babe Smacks8 Forty-second with Bases Loaded”— and pointed9 out that such a headline would be as completely meaningless to an Oxford10 don as the dialect of some newly discovered tribe of Eskimos. True enough; but what shocked George to attention when he read it was that Mencken drew the wrong inference from his fact. The headline would be meaningless to the Oxford don, not because it was written in the American language, but because the Oxford don had no knowledge of baseball. The same headline might be just as meaningless to a Harvard professor, and for the same reason.
It seemed to George that the Oxford don and the Harvard professor had far more kinship with each other — a far greater understanding of each other’s ways of thinking, feeling, and living — than either would have with millions of people of his own nationality. This observation led George to realise that academic life has created its own race of men who are set apart from the rest of humanity by the affinity12 of their souls. This academic race, it seemed to him, had innumerable peculiar13 characteristics of its own, among them the fact that, like the sporting gentry14, they had invented their own private languages for communication with one another. The internationalism of science was another characteristic: there is no such thing as English chemistry or American physics or (Stalin to the contrary notwithstanding) Russian biology, but only chemistry, physics and biology. So, too, it follows that one tells a good deal more about a man when one says he is a chemist than when one says he is an Englishman.
In the same way, Babe Ruth would probably feel more closely akin5 to the English professional cricketer, Jack15 Hobbs, than to a professor of Greek at Princeton. This would be true also among prize-fighters. George thought of that whole world that is so complete within itself — the fighters, the trainers, the managers, the promoters, the touts16, the pimps, the gamblers, the grafters, the hangers-on, the newspaper “experts” in New York, London, Paris, Berlin, Rome, and Buenos Aires. These men were not really Americans, Englishmen, Frenchmen, Germans, Italians, and Argentines. They were simply citizens of the world of prize-fighting, more at home with one another than with other men of their respective nations.
Throughout all the years of his life, George Webber had been soaking up experience like a sponge. This process never ceased with him, but within the last few years he had noticed a change in it. Formerly17, in his insatiable hunger to know everything — to see all the faces in a crowd at once, to remember every face that passed him on a city street, to hear all the voices in a room and through the vast, perplexing blur18 to distinguish what each was saying — he had often felt that he was drowning in some vast sea of his own sensations and impressions. But now he was no longer so overwhelmed by Amount and Number. He was growing up, and out of the very accumulation of experience he was gaining an essential perspective and detachment. Each new sensation and impression was no longer a single, unrelated thing: it took its place in a pattern and sifted19 down to form certain observable cycles of experience. Thus his incessantly20 active mind was free to a much greater degree than ever before to remember, digest, meditate22, and compare, and to seek relations between all the phenomena24 of living. The result was an astonishing series of discoveries as his mind noted25 associations and resemblances, and made recognitions not only of surface similarities but of identities of concept and of essence.
In this way he had become aware of the world of waiters, who, more than any other class of men, seemed to him to have created a special universe of their own which had almost obliterated26 nationality and race in the ordinary sense of those words. For some reason George had always been especially interested in waiters. Possibly it was because his own beginnings had been small-town middle class, and because he had been accustomed from birth to the friendship of working people, and because the experience of being served at table by a man in uniform had been one of such sensational27 novelty that its freshness had never worn off. Whatever the reason, he had known hundreds of waiters in many different countries, had talked to them for hours at a time, had observed them intimately, and had gathered tremendous stores of knowledge about their lives — and out of all this had discovered that there are not really different nationalities of waiters but rather a separate race of waiters, whole and complete within itself. This seemed to be true even among the French, the most sharply defined, the most provincial28, and the most unadaptive nationality George had ever known. It surprised him to observe that even in France the waiters seemed to belong to the race of waiters rather than to the race of Frenchmen.
This universe of waiterdom has produced a type whose character is as precisely29 distinguished30 as that of the Mongolian. It has a spiritual identity that unites it as no mere31 feelings of patriotism32 could ever do. And this spiritual identity — a unity33 of thought, of purpose, and of conduct — has produced unmistakable physical characteristics. After George became aware of this, he got so that he could recognise a waiter no matter where he saw him, whether in the New York subway or on a Paris bus or in the streets of London. He tested his observation many times by accosting34 men he suspected of being waiters and engaging them in conversation, and nine times out of ten he found that his guess had been right. Something in the feet and legs gave them away, something in the way they moved and walked and stood. It was not merely that these men had spent most of their lives standing11 on their feet and hurrying from kitchen to table in the execution of their orders. Other classes of men, such as policemen, also lived upon their feet, and yet no one could mistake a policeman in mufti for a waiter. (The police of all countries, George discovered, formed another separate race.)
The gait of an old waiter can best be described as gingery35. It is a kind of gouty shuffle36, painful, rheumatic, and yet expertly nimble, too, as if the man has learned by every process of experience to save his feet. It is the nimbleness that comes from years of “Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” or of “Oui, monsieur. Je viens. Toute de suite37.” It is the gait of service, of despatch38, of incessant21 haste to be about one’s orders, and somehow the whole soul and mind and character of the waiter is in it.
If one wishes an instant insight into the emotional and spiritual differences between the race of waiters and the race of policemen, all one needs to do is to observe the gaits of each. Compare a waiter as he approaches a table at the peremptory39 command of an impatient customer, and a policeman, whether in New York, London, Paris, or Berlin, as he approaches the scene of a disorder40 or accident. A man is lying stretched out on the pavement, let us say: he has had a heart attack, or has been struck by a motor-car, or has been assaulted and beaten by thugs. People are standing round in a circle. Watch the policeman as he comes up. Does he hurry? Does he rush to the scene? Does he come forward with the quick, shuffling41, eager, and solicitous42 movement of the waiter? He does not. He advances deliberately43, ponderously44, with a heavy and flat-footed tread, taking the scene in slowly as he approaches, with an appraising46 and unrelenting look. He is coming not to take orders but to give them. He is coming to assume command of the situation, to investigate, to disperse47 the crowd, to do the talking, and not to be talked to. His whole bearing expresses a certain primitive49 brutality50 of vested authority, as well as all the other related mental and spiritual qualities that proceed from the exercise of licensed51 power. And in all these things which issue from his own peculiar vision of life and of the world, he is almost the exact reverse of the waiter.
Since this is true, can anyone doubt that waiters and policemen belong to separate races? Does it not follow that a French waiter is more closely akin to a German waiter than to a French gendarme52?
Mynheer Bendien had attracted George’s interest from the first. It was not merely that he was Dutch. That fact was unmistakable. He had a Halsian floridity, a Halsian heartiness53 and gusto, a Halsian heaviness — a kind of Dutch grossness that is quite different from German grossness in that it is mixed with a certain delicacy54, or rather smallness. This delicacy or smallness is most often evident in the expression and shape of the mouth. So, now, with Mynheer Bendien. His lip was full and pouting55, but also a little prim48 and smug. It was the characteristic Dutch lip — the lip of a small and cautious people, with a very good notion about which side their bread is buttered on. In any town throughout Holland one can see them behind the shuttered windows of their beautiful and delicate houses — see them quietly and privily56 enjoying the very best of everything and smacking57 those full, pouting, sensual little lips together.
Holland is a wonderful little country, and the Dutch are a wonderful little people. Just the same it is a little country, they are a little people, and George did not like little countries or little people. For in the look of those little, fat, wet, pouting mouths there is also something cautious and self-satisfied, something that kept nicely out of war in 1914 while its neighbours were bleeding to death, something that feathered its nest and fattened58 its purse at the expense of dying men, something that maintained itself beautifully clean, beautifully prim, and beautifully content to live very quietly and simply in those charming, beautiful houses, without any show or fuss whatever upon the best of everything.
In all these respects Mynheer Bendien was indubitably Dutch. But he was also something else as well, and this was what made George observe him with fascinated interest. For, alongside his Dutchness, he also wore that type look which George had come to recognise as belonging to the race of small business men. It was a look which he had discovered to be common to all members of this race whether they lived in Holland, England, Germany, France, the United States, Sweden, or Japan. There was a hardness and grasping quality in it that showed in the prognathous jaw59. There was something a little sly and tricky60 about the eyes, something a little amoral in the sleekness61 of the flesh, something about the slightly dry concavity of the face and its vacuous62 expression in repose63 which indicated a grasping self-interest and a limited intellectual life. It was the kind of face that is often thought of as American. But it was not American. It belonged to no nationality. It belonged simply and solely64 to the race of small business men everywhere.
He was obviously the kind of man who would have found an instant and congenial place for himself among his fellow business men in Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland, St. Louis, or Kalamazoo. He would have felt completely at home at one of the weekly luncheons65 of the Rotary66 Club. He would have chewed his cigar with the best of them, wagged his head approvingly as the president spoke67 of some member as having “both feet on the ground”, entered gleefully into all the horseplay, the heavy-handed kind of humour known as “kidding”, and joined in the roars of laughter that greeted such master-strokes of wit as collecting all the straw hats in the cloak-room, bringing them in, throwing them on the floor, and gleefully stamping them to pieces. He would also have nodded his red face in bland68 agreement as the speaker aired again all the quackery69 about “service”, “the aims of Rotary”, and its “plans for world peace”.
George could easily imagine Mynheer Bendien pounding across the continental70 breadth of the United States in one of the crack trains, striking up a conversation with other men of substance in the smoking room of the pullman car, pulling fat cigars from his pocket and offering them to his new-found companions, chewing on his own approvingly and nodding with ponderous45 affirmation as someone said: “I was talking to a man in Cleveland the other day, one of the biggest glue and mucilage producers in the country, a fellow who has learned his business from the ground up and knows what he’s talking about ——” Yes, Mynheer Bendien would have recognised his brother, his kinsman71, his twin spirit wherever he found him,, and would instantly have established a connection and a footing of proper familiarity with him, as McHarg and Webber could never have done, even though the stranger might be an American like themselves.
George knew McHarg’s antipathy72 for this kind of man. It was an antipathy which he had savagely73 expressed in swingeing and satiric74 fiction — an antipathy which, George had felt, had a quality of almost affectionate concern in its hatred75, but which was hatred nonetheless. Why, then, had McHarg invited this man to his room? Why had he sought out his companionship?
The reason became plain enough as he thought about it. Although McHarg and Webber could never belong to Bendien’s world, there was something of Bendien in both of them — more in McHarg, perhaps, than in himself. Though they belonged to separate worlds, there was still another world to which each of them could find a common entry. This was the world of natural humanity, the world of the earthly, eating, drinking, companionable, and company-loving man. Every artist feels the need of this world desperately76. His nature is often torn between opposing poles of loneliness and gregariousness77. Isolation78 he must have to do his work. But fellowship is also a necessity without which he is lost, since the lack of it removes him from all the naturalness of life which he demands more than any other man alive, and which he must share in if he is to grow and prosper79 in his art. But his need for companionship often betrays him through its very urgency. His hunger and thirst for life often lay him open to the stupidity of fools and the trickery and dishonesty of Philistines80 and rascals81.
George could see what had happened to McHarg. He himself had gone through the same experience many times. McHarg, it is true, was a great man, a man famous throughout the world, a man who had now attained82 the highest pinnacle83 of success to which a writer could aspire84. But on just this account his disillusionment and disappointment must have been so much the greater and the more crushing.
And what disillusionment, what disappointment, was this? It was a disappointment that all men know — the artist most of all — The disappointment of reaching for the flower and having it fade the moment your fingers touch it. It was the disappointment that comes from the artist’s invincible85 and unlearning youth, from the spirit of indomitable hope and unwavering adventure, the spirit that is defeated and cast down ten thousand times but that is lost beyond redemption never, the spirit that, so far from learning wisdom from despair, acceptance from defeat, cynicism from disillusionment, seems to grow stronger at every rebuff, more passionate86 in its convictions the older it grows, more assured of its ultimate triumphant87 fulfilment the more successive and conclusive88 its defeats.
McHarg had accepted his success and his triumph with the exultant89 elation23 of a boy. He had received the award of his honorary degree, symbolising the consummation of his glory, with blazing images of impossible desire. And then, almost before he knew it, it was over. The thing was his, it had been given to him, he had it, he had stood before the great ones of the earth, he had been acclaimed90 and lauded91, all had happened — and yet, nothing had happened.
Then, of course, he took the inevitable92 next step. With a mind surcharged with frre, with a heart thirsting for some impossible fulfilment, he took his award, and copies of all the speeches, programmes, and tributes, sailed for Europe, and began to go from place to place; looking for something that he had no name for, something that existed somewhere, perhaps — but where he did not know. He went to Copenhagen — wine, women, aquavit, and members of the Press, then women, wine, members of the Press, and aquavit again. He went to Berlin — members of the Press, wine, women, whisky, women, wine, and members of the Press. So then to Vienna — women, wine, whisky, members of the Press. Finally to Baden–Baden for a “cure”— cure, call it, if you will, for wine, women, and members of the Press — cure, really, for life-hunger, for life-thirst, for life-triumph, for life-defeat, life-disillusionment, life-loneliness, and lifeboredom — cure for devotion to men and for disgust of them, cure for love of life and for weariness of it — last of all, cure for the cureless, cure for the worm, for the flame, for the feeding mouth, for the thing that eats and rests not ever till we die. Is there not some medicine for the irremediable? Give us a cure, for God’s sake, for what ails93 us! Take it! Keep it! Give it back again! Oh, let us have it! Take it from us, damn you, but for God’s sake bring it back! And so good night.
Therefore this wounded lion, this raging cat of life, forever prowling past a million portals of desire and destiny, had flung himself against the walls of Europe, seeking, hunting, thirsting, starving, and lashing94 himself into a state of frenzied95 bafflement, and at last had met — a red-faced Dutchman from the town of Amsterdam, and had knocked about with the red-faced Dutchman for three days on end, and now hates red-faced Dutchman’s guts96 and would to God that he could pitch him out of the window, bag and baggage, and wonders how in God’s name the whole thing began, and how he can ever win free from it and be alone again — and so now is here, pacing the carpet of his hotel room in London.
The presence of Mr. Donald Stoat was more puzzling. Mynheer Bendien at least had a certain earthy congeniality to recommend him to McHarg’s interest. Mr. Stoat had nothing. Everything about the man was calculated to rub McHarg the wrong way. He was pompous97 and pretentious98, his judgments99, such as they were, were governed by a kind of moral bigotry100 that was infuriating, and, to cap it all, he was a complete and total fool.
He had inherited from his father a publishing business with a good name and a record of respected accomplishment101. Under his leadership it had degenerated102 into a business largely devoted103 to the fabrication of religious tracts104 and text-books for the elementary grades. Its fiction list was pitiful. Mr. Stoat’s literary and critical standards were derived105 from a pious106 devotion to the welfare of the jeune fille. “Is it a book,” he would whisper hoarsely107 to any aspiring108 new author, at the same time rolling his eyebrows109 about —“is it a book that you would be willing for your young daughter to read?” Mr. Stoat had no young daughter, but in his publishing enterprises he always acted on the hypothesis that he did have, and that no book should be printed which he would be unwilling110 to place in her hands. The result, as may be imagined, was fudge and taffy, slop and goo.
George had met Mr. Stoat quite casually111 some years before he had later been invited to his house. He was married to a large, full-bosomed female with a grim jaw who wore a perpetually frozen grin round the edges of her mouth and eyeglasses which were attached to a cord of black silk. This formidable lady was devoted to art and had not let her marriage to Mr. Stoat interfere112 with that devotion. Indeed she had not let marriage interfere even with her name, but had clung to her resounding113 maidenly114 title of Cornelia Fosdick Sprague. She and Mr. Stoat maintained a salon115, to which a great many people who shared Cornelia Fosdick Sprague’s devotion to art repaired at regular intervals116, and it was to one of these meetings of the elect that George had been invited. He still remembered it vividly117. Mr. Stoat had telephoned him a few days after their first casual meeting and had pressed the invitation upon him.
“You must come, my boy,” Mr. Stoat had wheezed118 over the wire. “You can’t afford to miss this, you know. Henrietta Saltonstall Spriggins is going to be there. You must meet her. And Penelope Buchanan Pipgrass is going to give a reading from her poems. And Hortense Delancey McCracken is going to read her latest play. You simply must come, by all means.”
So urged, George accepted and went, and it was quite an occasion. Mr. Stoat met him at the door and with a pontifical119 flourish of the eyebrows led him into the presence of Cornelia Fosdick Sprague. After he had made his obeisances120 Mr. Stoat piloted the young man about the room and with repeated flourishes of the eyebrows introduced him to the other guests. There was an astonishing number of formidable-looking females, and, like the imposing121 Cornelia, most of them had three names. As Mr. Stoat made the introductions he fairly smacked122 his lips over the triple-barrelled sonority123 of their titles.
George noticed with amazement124 that all of these women bore a marked resemblance to Cornelia Fosdick Sprague. Not that they really looked like her in feature. Some were tall, some were short, some were angular, some were fat, but all of them had a certain overwhelming quality in their bearing. This quality became a crushing air of absolute assurance and authority when they spoke of art. And they spoke of art a great deal. Indeed, it was the purpose of these meetings to speak of art. Almost all of these ladies were not only interested in art, but were “artists” themselves. That is to say, they were writers. They wrote one-act plays for the Little Theatre, or they wrote novels, or essays and criticism, or poems and books for children.
Henrietta Saltonstall Spriggins read one of her wee stories for tiny tots about a little girl waiting for Prince Charming. Penelope Buchanan Pipgrass read some of her poems, one about a quaint125 organ-grinder, and another about a whimsical old rag man. Hortense Delancey McCracken read her play, a sylvan126 fantasy laid in Central Park, with two lovers sitting on a bench in the springtime and Pan prancing127 round in the background, playing mad music on his pipes and leering slyly out at the lovers from behind trees. In all of these productions there was not a line that could bring the blush of outraged128 modesty129 to the cheek of the most innocent young girl. Indeed, the whole thing was just too damned delightful130 for words.
After the readings they all sat round and drank pale tea and discussed what they had read in fluty voices. George remembered vaguely131 that there were two or three other men present, but they were pallid132 figures who faded into the mist, hovering133 in the background like wan134 ghosts, submissive and obscure attendants, husbands even, to the possessors of those sonorous135 and triple-barrelled names.
George never went back again to Cornelia Fosdick Sprague’s salon, and had seen nothing more of Mr. Donald Stoat. Yet here he was, the last person in the world he would have expected to find in Lloyd McHarg’s apartment. If Mr. Stoat had ever read any of McHarg’s books — a most improbable circumstance — his moral conscience must have been outraged by the mockery with which, in almost every one of them, McHarg had assaulted the cherished ideals and sacred beliefs that Mr. Stoat held dear. Yet here he was sipping136 his dry sherry in McHarg’s room with all the aplomb137 of one who was accustomed to such familiar intimacy138.
What was he doing here? What on earth did it mean?
George did not have to wait long for an answer. The telephone rang. McHarg snapped his fingers sharply and sprang for the instrument with an exclamation139 of overwrought relief.
“Hello, hello!” He waited a moment, his inflamed140 and puckered141 face twisted wryly143 to one side. “Hello, hello, hello!” he said feverishly145 and rattled146 the receiver hook. “Yes, yes. Who? Where?” A brief pause. “Oh, it’s New York,” he cried, and then impatiently: “All right, then! Put them through!”
George had never before seen the transatlantic telephone in operation, and he watched with feelings of wonder and disbelief. A vision of the illimitable seas passed through his mind. He remembered storms that he had been in and the way great ships were tossed about; he thought of the enormous curve of the earth’s surface and of the difference in time; and yet in a moment McHarg, his voice calm now, began to speak quietly as if he were talking to someone in the next room:
“Oh, hello Wilson,” he said. “Yes, I can hear you perfectly147. Of course . . . Yes, yes, it’s true. Of course it is!” he cried, with a return to his former manner of feverish144 annoyance148. “No, I’ve broken with him completely . . . No, I don’t know where I’m going. I haven’t signed up with anyone yet . . . All right, all right,” impatiently. “Wait a minute,” he said curtly149. “Let me do the talking. I won’t do anything until I see you . . . No that’s not a promise to go with you,” he said angrily. “It’s just a promise that I won’t go anywhere else till I see you.” A moment’s pause while McHarg listened intently. “You’re sailing when? . . . Oh, to-night! The Berengaria. Good. I’ll see you here then next week . . . All right. Good-bye, Wilson,” he snapped, and hung up.
Turning away from the phone, he was silent a moment, looking a little rueful in his wry142, puckered way. Then, with a shrug150 of his shoulders and a little sigh, he said:
“Well, cat’s out of the bag, I guess. The news has got round. They all know I’ve left Bradford–Howell. I suppose they’ll all be on my tail now. That was Wilson Fothergill,” he said, mentioning the name of one of America’s largest publishers. “He’s sailing to-night.” Suddenly his face was twisted with demonic glee. He laughed a high, dry cackle. “Christ, Georgie!” he squeaked151, prodding152 Webber in the ribs153. “Isn’t it wonderful? Isn’t it marvellous? Can you beat it?”
Mr. Donald Stoat cleared his throat with premonitory emphasis and arched his eyebrows significantly. “I hope,” he said, “that before you come to any terms with Fothergill, you will talk to me and listen to what I have to say.” There was a weighty pause, then he concluded pontifically154: “Stoat — the House of Stoat — would like to have you on its list.”
“What’s that? What’s that?” said McHarg feverishly. “Stoat!” he cried suddenly. “Stoat?” He winced155 nervously156 in a kind of convulsion of jangled nerves, then paused, trembling and undecided, as if he did not know whether to spring upon Mr. Stoat or to spring out the window. Snapping his bony fingers sharply, he turned to Webber and shrieked157 again in a shrill158, falsetto cackle: “Did you hear it, Georgie? Isn’t it wonderful? K-k-k-k-k — Stoat!” he squeaked, prodding Webber in the ribs again. “The House of Stoat! Can you beat it? Isn’t it marvellous? Isn’t it — All right, all right,” he said, breaking off abruptly159 and turning upon the astounded160 Mr. Stoat. “All right, Mr. Stoat, we’ll talk about it. But some other time. Come in to see me next week,” he said feverishly.
With that he grasped Mr. Stoat by the hand, shook it in farewell, and with his other arm practically lifted that surprised gentleman from his chair and escorted him across the room. “Good-bye, goodbye! Come in next week . . . Good-bye, Bendien!” he now said to the Dutchman, seizing him by the hand, lifting him from the chair, and repeating the process. He herded161 the two before him with his bony arms outstretched as if he were shooing chickens, and finally got them out of the door, talking rapidly all the time, saying: “Goodbye, good-bye. Thanks for coming in. Come back to see me again. Georgie and I have to go to lunch now.”
At last he closed the door on them, turned, and came back in the room. He was obviously unstrung.
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assorted
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| adj.各种各样的，各色俱备的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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jargon
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smacks
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| 掌掴（声）( smack的名词复数 )； 海洛因； （打的）一拳； 打巴掌 | |
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pointed
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Oxford
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standing
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affinity
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peculiar
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gentry
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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touts
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| n.招徕( tout的名词复数 )；（音乐会、体育比赛等的）卖高价票的人；侦查者；探听赛马的情报v.兜售( tout的第三人称单数 )；招揽；侦查；探听赛马情报 | |
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formerly
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blur
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sifted
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| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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20
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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21
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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22
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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23
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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24
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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25
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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26
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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27
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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28
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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29
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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30
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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31
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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32
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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33
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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34
accosting
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的现在分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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35
gingery
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| adj.姜味的 | |
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36
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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37
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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38
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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39
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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40
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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41
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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42
solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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43
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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44
ponderously
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45
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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46
appraising
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| v.估价( appraise的现在分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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47
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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48
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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49
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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50
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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51
licensed
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| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
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52
gendarme
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| n.宪兵 | |
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53
heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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54
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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55
pouting
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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56
privily
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| adv.暗中，秘密地 | |
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57
smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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58
fattened
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| v.喂肥( fatten的过去式和过去分词 )；养肥（牲畜）；使（钱）增多；使（公司）升值 | |
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59
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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60
tricky
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| adj.狡猾的，奸诈的；(工作等)棘手的，微妙的 | |
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61
sleekness
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| 油滑； 油光发亮； 时髦阔气； 线条明快 | |
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62
vacuous
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| adj.空的，漫散的，无聊的，愚蠢的 | |
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63
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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64
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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65
luncheons
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| n.午餐，午宴( luncheon的名词复数 ) | |
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66
rotary
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| adj.(运动等)旋转的；轮转的；转动的 | |
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67
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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68
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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69
quackery
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| n.庸医的医术，骗子的行为 | |
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70
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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71
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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72
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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73
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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74
satiric
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|
| adj.讽刺的，挖苦的 | |
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75
hatred
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|
| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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76
desperately
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|
| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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77
gregariousness
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| 集群性；簇聚性 | |
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78
isolation
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|
| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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79
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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80
philistines
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|
| n.市侩，庸人( philistine的名词复数 )；庸夫俗子 | |
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81
rascals
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|
| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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82
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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83
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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84
aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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85
invincible
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|
| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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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
triumphant
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|
| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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88
conclusive
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|
| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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89
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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90
acclaimed
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|
| adj.受人欢迎的 | |
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91
lauded
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| v.称赞，赞美( laud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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93
ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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94
lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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95
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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96
guts
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| v.狼吞虎咽，贪婪地吃，飞碟游戏（比赛双方每组5人，相距15码，互相掷接飞碟）；毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的第三人称单数 )；取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 )；内脏；消化道的下段；肠 | |
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97
pompous
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|
| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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98
pretentious
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|
| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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99
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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100
bigotry
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| n.偏见，偏执，持偏见的行为[态度]等 | |
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101
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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102
degenerated
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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104
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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105
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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106
pious
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|
| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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107
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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108
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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109
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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110
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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111
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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112
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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113
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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114
maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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115
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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116
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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117
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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118
wheezed
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
pontifical
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| adj.自以为是的，武断的 | |
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120
obeisances
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| n.敬礼，行礼( obeisance的名词复数 )；敬意 | |
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121
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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122
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
sonority
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| n.响亮，宏亮 | |
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124
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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125
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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126
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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127
prancing
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
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128
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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129
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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130
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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131
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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132
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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133
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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134
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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135
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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136
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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137
aplomb
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| n.沉着，镇静 | |
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138
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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139
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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140
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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141
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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143
wryly
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| adv. 挖苦地，嘲弄地 | |
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144
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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145
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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146
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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147
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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148
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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149
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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150
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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151
squeaked
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的过去式和过去分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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152
prodding
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| v.刺，戳( prod的现在分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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153
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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154
pontifically
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| adj.教皇的；大祭司的；傲慢的；武断的 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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157
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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158
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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159
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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160
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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161
herded
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| 群集，纠结( herd的过去式和过去分词 )； 放牧； （使）向…移动 | |
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