“Sit down, sit down!” McHarg gasped2, and fell into a chair. He crossed his bony legs with a curiously3 pathetic and broken attitude. “Christ!” he said, letting out a long sigh, “I’m tired. I feel as if I’ve been run through a sausage grinder. That damned Dutchman! I went out with him in Amsterdam, and we’ve been going it ever since. God, I can’t remember having eaten since I left Cologne. That was four days ago.”
He looked it, too. George was sure that he had spoken the literal truth and that he had not paused to eat for days. He was a wreck5 of jangled nerves and utterly6 exhausted7 weariness. As he sat there with his bony shanks crossed like two pieces of limp string, his gaunt figure had the appearance of being broken in two at the waist. He looked as if he would never be able to get out of that chair again without assistance. Just at that moment, however, the telephone rang sharply, and McHarg leaped up as if he had received an electric shock.
“Jesus Christ!” he shrilled8. “What’s that?” He darted10 for the phone, snatched it up savagely11, and snapped: “Hello, who’s there?” Then feverishly12 but very cordially: “Oh, hello; hello, Rick — you bastard14, you! Where the hell have you been, anyway? I’ve been trying to reach you all morning . . . No! No! I just got here last night . . . Of course I’m going to see you. That’s one of the reasons I’m here . . . No, no, you don’t need to come for me. I’ve got my own car here. We’ll drive down. I’m bringing someone with me . . . Who?” he cackled suddenly in his shrill9 falsetto. “You’ll see, you’ll see. Wait till we get there . . . For dinner? Sure, I’ll make it. How long does it take? . . . Two hours and a half? Seven o’clock. We’ll be there with time to spare. Wait a minute. Wait a minute. What’s the address? Wait till I get it down.”
He seated himself abruptly15 at the writing-desk, fumbled16 for a moment with pen and paper, and then passed them impatiently towards George, saying: “Write it down, George, as I give it to you.” The address was in Surrey, a farm on a country road several miles away from a small town. The directions for finding it were quite complicated, involving detours17 and cross-roads, but George finally got it all down correctly. Then McHarg, feverishly assuring his host that they would be there for dinner, with time to spare, hung up.
“Well, now,” he said impatiently, springing to his feet with another exhibition of that astounding18 vitality19 which seemed to burn in him all the time, “come on, Georgie! Let’s snap out of it! We’ll have to get going!”
“W-w-w-we?” George stammered20. “Y-y-y-you mean me, Mr. McHarg?”
“Sure, sure!” McHarg said impatiently. “Rick’s expecting us to dinner. We can’t keep him waiting. Come on! Come on! Let’s get started! We’re getting out of London! We’re going places!”
“P-p-p-places?” George stammered again, dumbfounded. “But w-w-w-where are we going, Mr. McHarg?”
“West of England,” he barked out instantly. “We’ll go down to Rick’s and spend the night. But tomorrow — tomorrow,” he muttered, pacing up and down and speaking with ominous22 decision, “we’ll be on our way. West of England,” he muttered again, pacing and hanging to his coat lapels with bony fingers. “Cathedral towns,” he said. “Bath, Bristol, Wells, Exeter, Salisbury, Devonshire, coast of Cornwall,” he cried feverishly, getting his geography and his cathedrals hopelessly confused, but covering, nevertheless, a large portion of the kingdom in a single staccato sentence. “Keep out of cities,” he went on. “Stay away from swank hotels — joints24 like this one. Hate them. Hate all of them. Want the country — the English countryside,” he said with relish25.
George’s heart sank. He had not bargained for anything like this. He had come to England to finish his new book. The work had been going well. He had established the beat and cadence26 of daily hours at his writing, and the prospect27 of breaking the rhythm of it just when he was going at full swing was something that he dreaded28. Moreover, God only knew where such a jaunt29 as McHarg spoke4 of would end. McHarg, meanwhile, was still talking, pacing nervously30 back and forth31 and letting his enthusiasm mount as his mind built up the idyllic32 picture of what he had suddenly taken it into his head to do.
“Yes, the English countryside — that’s the thing,” he said with relish. “We’ll put up at night by the side of the road and cook our own meals, or stay at some old inn — some real English country inn,” he said with deliberate emphasis. “Tankards of musty ale,” he muttered. “A well-done chop by the fireside. A bottle of old port, eh Georgie?” he cried, his scorched33 face lighting34 up with great glee. “Did it all before one time. Toured the whole country several years ago with my wife. Used a trailer. Went from place to place. Slept in our trailer at night and did our own cooking. Wonderful! Marvellous!” he barked. “The real way to see the country. The only way.”
George said nothing. At the moment he was unable to say anything. For weeks he had looked forward to his meeting with McHarg. He had leaped to his bidding when McHarg had summoned him to get out of bed instantly and come to lunch. But he had never dreamed of being abducted35 as a travelling and talking companion on an expedition that might last for days and even weeks, and end up almost anywhere. He had no desire or intention of going with McHarg if he could avoid it. And yet — his mind groped frantically36 for a way out — what was he to do? He did not want to offend him. He had too great an admiration37 and respect for McHarg to do anything that might, wittingly or unwittingly, hurt him or wound his feelings. And how could he reject the invitation of a man who, with the most generous and unselfish enthusiasm, had used the power and elevation38 of his high place to try to lift him out of the lower channel in which his own life ran?
In spite of the brevity of their acquaintance, George had already seen dearly and unmistakably what a good and noble human being McHarg really was. He knew how much integrity and courage and honesty was contained in that tormented39 tenement40 of fury and lacerated hurts. Regardless of all that was jangled, snarled41, and twisted in his life, regardless of all that had become bitter, harsh, and acrid42, McHarg was obviously one of the truly good, the truly high, the truly great people of the world. Anyone with an atom of feeling and intelligence, George thought, must have seen this at once. And as he continued to watch and study McHarg, and took in again the shock of his appearance — the inflamed43 face, the poached blue eyes, the emaciated44 figure and nervously shaking hands — an image flashed into his mind which seemed to represent the essential quality of the man, and this, curiously, was the image of Abraham Lincoln. Save for McHarg’s tallness and gauntness, there was no physical similarity to Lincoln. The resemblance came, George thought, from a certain homely46 identity, from a kind of astonishing ugliness which was so marked that it was hard to see how it escaped the grotesque47, and yet it was not grotesque. It was an ugliness which somehow, no matter what extravagances of gesture, tone, and manner McHarg indulged in, never lost its quality of enormous, latent dignity. This strange and troubling resemblance became strikingly evident in repose48.
For now, his decision having been arrived at with explosive violence, McHarg sat quietly in a chair, his bony legs crossed lankly49, and with the fingers of one freckled51 and large-knuckled hand fumbled in the breast pocket of his coat for his cheque-book and his wallet. He got them out at last, his hands still shaking as with palsy, but even that did not disturb the suggestion of quiet dignity and strength. He put wallet and cheque-book on his knees, fumbled in a pocket of his vest, took out an old, worn spectacle-case, snapped it open, and deliberately52 extracted a pair of spectacles. They were the most extraordinary spectacles George had ever seen. They looked as if they might have belonged to Washington, or to Franklin, or to Lincoln himself. The rims53, the nose clasp, and the handles were of plain old silver. McHarg opened them carefully, and then, using both hands, slowly adjusted them and settled the handles over his large and freckled ears. This done, he bent54 his head, took up the wallet, opened it, and very carefully began to count the contents. The transforming effect of this simple act was astonishing. The irritable55, rasping, overwrought man of a few minutes before was gone completely. This lank50 and ugly figure in the chair, with its silver-rimmed spectacles, its wry56 and puckered57 face lowered in calculation, its big bony hands deliberately fingering each note inside the wallet, was an image of Yankee shrewdness, homely strength, plain dignity, and assured power. His very tone had changed. Still counting his money, without lifting his head, he spoke to George, saying quietly:
“Ring that bell over there, George. We’ll have to get some more money. I’ll send John out to the bank.”
George rang, and shortly the young man with buttons rapped at the door and entered. McHarg glanced up and, opening his chequebook and, taking out his fountain pen, said quietly:
“I need some money, John. Will you take this cheque round to the bank and cash it?”
“Very good, sir,” said John. “And ‘Enry is ’ere, sir, with the car. ‘E wants to know if ‘e should wait.”
“Yes,” said McHarg, still writing out the cheque. “Tell him I’ll need him. Tell him we’ll be ready in twenty minutes.” He tore out the cheque and handed it to the man. “And by the way,” he said, “when you come back will you pack some things — shirts, underwear, socks, and so on — in a small bag? We’re going out of town.”
“Very good, sir,” John said quietly, and went out.
McHarg was silent and thoughtful for a moment. Then he capped his fountain pen, restored it to his pocket, put away his wallet and cheque-book, took off his old spectacles with the same grave and patient movement, folded them and laid them in the case, snapped it to and put it in the pocket of his vest, and then, with a much quieter and more genial58 friendliness59 than he had yet displayed, brought one hand down smartly on the arm of his chair and said:
“Well, George, what are you doing now? Working on another book?”
Webber told him that he was.
“Going to be good?” he demanded.
Webber said he hoped so.
“A nice, big, fat one like the first? Lots of meat on it, is there? Lots of people?”
Webber told him that there would be.
“That’s the stuff,” he said. “Go to it and give ’em people,” he said quietly. “You’ve got the feeling for ‘ern. You know how to make ’em live. Go on and put ’em in. You’ll hear a lot of bunk,” he went on. “You’ve probably heard it already. There’ll be a lot of bright young men who will tell you how to write, and tell you that what you do is wrong. They’ll tell you that you have no style, no sense of form. They’ll tell you that you don’t write like Virginia Woolf, or like Proust, or like Gertrude Stein, or like someone else that you ought to write like. Take it all in, as much of it as you can. Believe all of it that you’re able to believe. Try to get all the help from it you can, but if you know it’s not true, don’t pay too much attention to it.”
“Will you be able to know whether it’s true or not?”
“Oh, yes,” he said quietly. “You always know if it’s true. Christ, man, you’re a writer, you’re not a bright young man. If you were a bright young man you wouldn’t know whether it was true or not. You’d only say you did. But a writer always knows. The bright young men don’t think he does. That’s the reason they’re bright young men. They think a writer is too dumb or too pig-headed to listen to what they say, but the real truth of the matter is that the writer knows much more about it than they can ever know. Once in a while they say something that hits the nail on the head. But that’s only one time in a thousand. When they do, it hurts, but it’s worth listening to. It’s probably something that you knew about yourself, that you knew you’d have to look at finally, but that you’ve been trying to dodge60 and that you hoped no one else would discover. When they punch one of those raw nerves, listen to them, even though its hurts like hell. But usually you’ll find that you’ve known everything they say a long time before they say it, and that what they think is important doesn’t amount to a damn.”
“Then what’s a man to do?” Webber said. “It looks pretty much as if he’s got to be his own doctor, doesn’t it? It looks as if he’s got to find the answer for himself.”
“I never found any other way,” said McHarg. “I don’t think you will, either. So get going. Keep busy. For Christ’s sake, don’t freeze up. Don’t stall around. I’ve known a lot of young fellows who froze up after their first book, and it wasn’t because they had only that one book in them, either. That’s what the bright young men thought. That’s what they always think, but it just ain’t true. Good God, man, you’ve got a hundred books in you! You can keep on turning them out as long as you live. There’s no danger of your drying up. The only danger is of freezing up.”
“How do you mean? Why should a man freeze up?”
“Usually,” said McHarg, “because he loses his nerve. He listens to the bright young men. His first book gets him pretty good reviews. He takes them seriously. He begins to worry about every little bit of criticism that’s sandwiched in with the praise. He begins to wonder if he can do it again. His next book is really going to be ‘as good as his first, maybe better. He has been a natural slugger to begin with, with a one-ton punch. Now he begins to shadow-box. He listens to everything they tell him. How to jab and how to hook. How to counter with his right. How to keep out of the way. How to weave and how to bob. How to take care of his feet. He learns to skip the rope, but forgets to use that paralysing punch that he was born with, and the first thing you know some palooka comes along and knocks him for a row of ash-cans. For God’s sake, don’t let it happen to you. Learn all you can. Improve all you can. Take all the instruction you can absorb. But remember that no amount of instruction can ever take the place of the wallop in the old right hand. If you lose that, you may learn all the proper ways that other men have used to do the job, but you’ll have forgotten your own way. As a writer, you’ll be through. So for God’s sake, get going and keep going. Don’t let them slow you down. Make your mistakes, take your chances, look silly, but keep on going. Don’t freeze up.”
“You think that can happen? Do you think a man can freeze up if he really has talent?”
“Yes,” McHarg said quietly, “that can happen. I’ve seen it happen. You’ll find out, as you go on, that most of the things they say, most of the dangers that they warn you of, do not exist. They’ll talk to you, for instance, about prostituting your talent. They’ll warn you not to write for money. Not to sell your soul to Hollywood. Not to do a dozen other things that have nothing whatever to do with you or with your life. You won’t prostitute yourself. A man’s talent doesn’t get prostituted just because someone waves a fat cheque in his face. If your talent is prostituted, it is because you are a prostitute by nature. The number of writers in this world who weep into their Scotch61 and tell you of the great books they would have written if they hadn’t sold out to Hollywood or to the Saturday Evening Post is astonishingly large. But the number of great writers who have sold out is not large. In fact, I don’t believe there are any at all. If Thomas Hardy62 had been given a contract to write stories for the Saturday Evening Post, do you think he would have written like Zane Grey or like Thomas Hardy? I can tell you the answer to that one. He would have written like Thomas Hardy. He couldn’t have written like anyone else but Thomas Hardy. He would have kept on writing like Thomas Hardy whether he wrote for the Saturday Evening Post or Captain Billy’s Whizbang. You can’t prostitute a great writer, because a great writer will inevitably63 be himself. He couldn’t sell himself out if he wanted to. And a good many of them, I suppose, have wanted to, or thought they did. But he can freeze up. He can listen too much to the bright young men. He can learn to shadow-box, to feint and jab and weave, and he can lose his punch. So whatever you do, don’t freeze up.”
There was a rap at the door, and in response to McHarg’s summons John came in, carrying in his hand a bundle of crisp, brand-new Bank of England notes.
“I think you will find these right, sir,” he said, as he handed the money to McHarg. “I counted them. One ‘undred pounds, sir.”
McHarg took the notes, folded them into a wad, and thrust it carelessly into his pocket. “All right, John,” he said. “And now will you pack a few things?”
He got up, looked about him absently, and then, with a sudden resumption of his former feverish13 manner, he barked out:
“Well, George, get on your coat! We’ve got to be on our way!”
“B-b-but”— George began to temporise —“don’t you think we’d better get some lunch before we start out, Mr. McHarg? If you haven64’t eaten for so long, you’ll need food. Let’s go somewhere now and get something to eat.”
George spoke with all the persuasiveness66 he could put into his voice. By this time he was beginning to feel very hungry, and thought longingly67 of the “prime bit” of gammon and peas that Mrs. Purvis had prepared for him. Also he hoped that if he could only get McHarg to have lunch before starting, he could use the occasion diplomatically to dissuade69 him from his intention of departing forthwith, and taking him along willy-nilly, on a tour that was apparently70 designed to embrace a good portion of the British Isles72. But McHarg, as if he foresaw Webber’s design, and also feared, perhaps, the effect of further delay upon his almost exhausted energies, snapped curtly73, with inflexible74 decision:
“We’ll eat somewhere on the road. We’re getting out of town at once.”
George saw that it was useless to argue, so he said nothing more. He decided75 to go along, wherever McHarg was going, and to spend the night, if need be, at his friend’s house in the country, trusting in the hope that the restorative powers of a good meal and a night’s sleep would help to alter McHarg’s purpose. Therefore he put on his coat and hat, descended76 with McHarg in the lift, waited while he left some instructions at the desk, and then went out with him to the automobile77 that was standing78 at the kerb.
McHarg had chartered a Rolls–Royce. When George saw this magnificent car he felt like roaring with laughter, for if this was the vehicle in which he proposed to explore the English countryside, cooking out of a frying-pan and sleeping beside the road at night, then the tour would certainly be the most sumptuous79 and the most grotesque vagabondage England had ever seen. John had already come down and had stowed away a small suitcase on the floor beside the back seat. The driver, a little man dressed appropriately in livery, touched the visor of his cap respectfully, and he and George helped McHarg into the car. He had suddenly gone weak, and almost fell as he got in. Once in, he asked George to give the driver the address in Surrey, and, having said this, he collapsed81: his face sank forward on his chest, and he had again that curious broken-intwo look about the waist. He had one hand thrust through the loop of a strap82 beside the door, and if it had not been for this support he would have slumped83 to the floor. George got in and sat down beside him, still wondering desperately85 what to do, how in the name of God he was going to get out of it.
It was well after one o’clock when they started off. They rolled smoothly86 into St. James’s Street, turned at the bottom into Pall87 Mall, went round St. James’s Palace and into the Mall, and headed towards Buckingham Palace and Webber’s own part of town. Coming out of the Mall and wheeling across the great place before the palace, McHarg roused himself with a jerk, peered through the drizzle88 and the reek89 — it was a dreary90 day — at the magnificent sentries91 stamping up and down in front of the palace, stamping solemnly, facing at the turns, and stamping back again, and was just about to slump84 back when George caught him up sharply.
At that moment Ebury Street was very near, and it seemed very dear to him. George thought with desire and longing68 of his bed, of Mrs. Purvis, and of his untouched gammon and peas. That morning’s confident departure already seemed to be something that had happened long ago. He smiled bitterly as he remembered his conversation with Mrs. Purvis and their speculations92 about whether Mr. McHarg would take him to lunch at the Ritz, or at Stone’s in Panton Street, or at Simpson’s in the Strand93. Gone now were all these Lucullan fantasies. At that point he would joyfully94 have compromised on a pub and a piece of cheese and a pint95 of bitter beer.
As the car wheeled smoothly past the palace, he felt his last hope slipping away. Desperately he jogged his companion by the elbow before it should be too late and told him he lived just round the corner in Ebury Street, and could he please stop off a moment there to get a tooth-brush and a safety-razor, that it would take only a minute. McHarg meditated96 this request gravely and finally mumbled97 that he could, but to “make it snappy”. Accordingly, George gave the driver the address, and they drove down round the palace, turned into Ebury Street, and slowed down as they approached his modest little house. McHarg was beginning to look desperately ill. He hung on grimly to his strap, but when the car stopped he swayed in his seat and would have gone down if George had not caught him.
“Mr. McHarg,” George said, “you ought to have something to eat before we go on farther. Won’t you come upstairs with me and let the woman give you something? She has fixed98 me a good lunch. It’s all ready. We could eat and be out again in twenty minutes.”
“No food,” he muttered and glared at George suspiciously. “What are you trying to do — run out on me?”
“No, of course not.”
“Well, get your tooth-brush then, and hurry up. We’re going to get out of town.”
“All right. Only I think you’re making a mistake not to eat first. It’s there waiting for you if you’ll take it.”
George made it as persuasive65 as he could. He stood at the open door, with one foot upon the running-board. McHarg made no answer; he lay back against the seat with his eyes closed. But a moment later he tugged99 on the strap, pulled himself partly erect100, and, with just a shade of obstinate101 concession102, said:
“You got a cup of tea up there?”
“Of course. She’ll have it for you in two minutes.”
He pondered this information for a moment, then half unwillingly103 said: “Well, I don’t know. I might take a cup of tea. Maybe it would brace71 me up.”
“Come on,” George said quickly, and took him by the arm.
The driver and George helped him out of the car. George told the man to wait for them, that they would be back within thirty minutes, which McHarg quickly amended104 to fifteen. Then George opened the street door with his key and, slowly, carefully, helping105 the exhausted man, began to propel the tall and angular form up the narrow stairs. They finally got there. George opened the door, led him through into his sitting-room106, and seated McHarg in his most comfortable chair, where he immediately let his head slump forward on his breast again. George lit the little open gas radiator107 which provided the room with the only heat it had, called Mrs. Purvis, who had heard them and was already coming from the kitchen, whispered quickly to her the circumstance of his being there and the identity of his distinguished108 visitor, and dispatched her at once to make the tea.
When she left the sitting-room McHarg roused himself a little and said: “Georgie, I fell all shot to hell. God, I could sleep a month.”
“I’ve just sent Mrs. Purvis for the tea,” George answered. “She’ll have it ready in a minute. That’ll make you feel better.”
But almost instantly, as if the effort to speak had used up his last energies, McHarg sank back in the chair and collapsed completely. By the time Mrs. Purvis entered with her tray and teapot, he no longer needed tea. He was buried in comatose109 oblivion — past tea or travel now, past everything.
She saw instantly what had happened. She put the tray down quietly and whispered to George: “‘E’s not goin’ anywhere just yet. ‘E will be needin’ sleep.”
“Yes,” George said. “That’s what he does need, badly.”
“It’s a shame to leave ’im in that chair. If we could only get ’im up, sir,” she whispered, “and into your room, ‘e could lie down in your bed. It’d be more comfortable for ’im.”
George nodded, stooped beside the chair, got one of McHarg’s long, dangling110 arms round his neck and his own arm round McHarg’s waist, and, heaving, said encouragingly: “Come on, Mr. McHarg. You’ll feel better if you lie down and stretch out.” He made a manful effort and got out of the chair, and took the few steps necessary to enter the bedroom and reach the bed, where he again collapsed, this time face downwards111. George rolled him over on his back, straightened him out, undid112 his collar, and took off his shoes. Then Mrs. Purvis covered him from the raw chill and cold, which seemed to soak right into the little bedroom from the whole clammy reek of fog and drizzle outside. They piled a number of blankets and comforters upon him, brought in a small electric heat reflector and turned it on in such a way that its warmth would reach him, the they pulled the curtains together at the window, darkened the room, closed the doors, and left him.
Mrs. Purvis was splendid.
“Mr. McHarg is very tired,” George said to her. “A little sleep will do him good.”
“Ah, yes,” she said, and nodded wisely and sympathetically. “You can see it’s the strain ‘e’s been under. Meetin’ all them people. And then ‘avin’ to travel so much. It’s easy to see,” she went on loftily, “that ‘e’s still sufferin’ from the fatigue113 of the journey. But you,” she said quickly —“should think you’d feel tired yourself, what with the excitement and ‘avin’ no lunch and all. Do come,” she said persuasively114, “and ‘ave a bite to eat. The gammon is nice, sir. I could ‘ave it for you in a minute.”
Her proposal had George’s enthusiastic endorsement115. She hastened to the kitchen, and soon came in again and told him lunch was ready. He went at once to the little dining-room and ate a hearty116 meal — gammon, peas, boiled potatoes, a crusty apple tart21 with a piece of cheese, and a bottle of Bass117 ale.
After that he returned to the sitting-room and decided to stretch out on the sofa. It was a small sofa and much too short for him, but he had had no sleep for more than twenty-four hours and it looked inviting118. He lay down with his legs dangling over the end, and almost instantly fell asleep.
Later he was faintly conscious that Mrs. Purvis had come softly in, had put his feet upon a chair, and had spread a blanket over him. He was also dimly aware that she had drawn119 the curtains, darkened the room, and gone softly out.
Later still, as she prepared to leave for the day, George heard her open the door and listen for a moment; then, very quietly, she tiptoed across the floor and opened the bedroom door and peered in. Evidently satisfied that all was well, she tiptoed out again, closing the doors gently as she went. He heard her creep softly down the stairs, and presently the street door closed. He fell asleep again and slept soundly for some time.
When George woke again it had grown completely dark outside, and McHarg was up and stirring about in the bedroom, evidently looking for the light. George got up and switched the light on in the sitting-room, and McHarg came in.
Again there was an astonishing transtormation in him. His short sleep seemed to have restored his vitality, and restored it to a degree and in a direction George had not wanted. He had hoped that a few hours of sleep would calm McHarg and make him see the wisdom of getting a really sound rest before proceeding120 farther on his travels. Instead, the man had wakened like a raging lion, and was now pacing back and forth like a caged beast, fuming121 at their delay and demanding with every breath that George get ready to depart instantly.
“Are you coming?” he said. “Or are you trying to back out of it? What are you going to do, anyway?”
George had waked up in a semi-daze, and he now became conscious that the door-bell was ringing, and had been ringing for some time. It was probably this sound which had aroused them both. Telling McHarg that he’d be back in a moment, George ran down the stairs and opened the door. It was, of course, McHarg’s chauffeur122. In the excitement and fatigue of the afternoon’s event he had completely forgotten him, and the poor fellow had been waiting all this time there in his glittering chariot drawn up before Webber’s modest door. It was not yet quite five o’clock in the afternoon, but dark comes early in the dismal123 wintry days of London’s ceaseless fog and drizzle, and it was black as midnight outside. The street lights were on, and the shop fronts were shining out into the fog with a blurred124 and misty126 radiance. The street itself was still and deserted127, but high up over the roof-tops the wind was beginning to swoop128 in fitful gusts129, howling faintly in a way that promised a wild night.
The little chauffeur stood patiently before George when he opened the door, holding his visored cap respectfully in his hands, but he had an air of restrained anxiety about him which he could not conceal130. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, “but I wonder if you know whether Mr. Mc’Arg ‘as changed ‘is plans?”
“Plans? Plans?” George stammered, still not quite awake, and he shook his head like a dog coming out of the water in an effort to compose himself and bring order to his own bewilderment. “What plans?”
“About going to Surrey, sir,” the little man said gently, yet giving George a quick and rather startled look. Already the painful suspicion, which later in the evening was to become a deep-rooted conviction, that he was alone and under the criminal direction of two dangerous maniacs131, had begun to shape itself in the chauffeur’s consciousness, but as yet he betrayed his apprehension132 only by an attitude of solicitous133 and somewhat tense concern. “You know, sir,” he continued quietly, in a tone of apologetic reminder134, “that’s where we started for hearlier in the hafternoon.”
“Oh, yes, yes. Yes, I remember,” George said, running his fingers through his hair and speaking rather distractedly. “Yes, we did, didn’t we?”
“Yes, sir,” he said gently. “And you see,” he went on, almost like a benevolent135 elder speaking to a child —“you see, sir, one is not supposed to park ’ere in the street for so long a time as we’ve been ’ere. The bobby,” he coughed apologetically behind his hand, “‘as just spoken to me, sir, and ‘as told me that I’ve been ’ere too long and will ‘ave to move. So I thought it best to tell you, sir, and to find out if you know what Mr. Mc’Arg intends to do.”
“I— I think he intends to go on with it,” George said. “That is, to go on to Surrey as we started out to do. But — you say the bobby has ordered you to move?”
“Yes, sir,” the chauffeur said patiently, and held his visored cap and looked up at George and waited.
“Well, then —” George thought desperately for a moment, and then burst out: “Look here, I’ll tell you what you do. Drive round the block — drive round the block ——”
“Yes, sir,” the chauffeur said, and waited.
“And come back here in five minutes. I’ll be able to tell you then what we’re going to do.”
“Very good, sir.” He inclined his head in a brief nod of agreement, put on his cap, and got into his car.
George closed the door and went back up the stairs. When he entered the sitting-room, McHarg had on his overcoat and hat and was pacing restlessly up and down.
“It was your driver,” George said. “I forgot about him, but he’s been waiting there all afternoon. He wants to know what we’re going to do.”
“What we’re going to do?” McHarg shrilled. “We’re going to get a move on! Christ Almighty136, man, we’re four hours late already! Come on, come on, George!” he rasped. “Let’s get going!”
George saw that he meant it and that it was useless to try to change his purpose. He took his brief-case, crammed137 tooth-brush, toothpaste, razor, shaving cream and brush, and a pair of pyjamas138 into it, put on his hat and coat, switched off the lights, ands led the way into the hall, saying: “All right. I’m ready if you are. Let’s go.”
When they got out into the foggy drizzle of the street, the car was just wheeling to a halt at the kerb. The chauffeur jumped out and opened the door for them. McHarg and Webber got in. The chauffeur climbed back into his seat, and they drove swiftly away, down the wet street, with a smooth, cupped hissing139 of the tyres. They reached Chelsea, skirted the Embankment, crossed Battersea Bridge, and began to roll south-westward through the vast, interminable ganglia of outer London.
It was a journey that Webber remembered later with nightmare vividness. McHarg had begun to collapse80 again before they crossed the Thames at Battersea. And no wonder! For weeks, in the letdown and emptiness that had come upon him as a sequel to his great success, he had lashed45 about in a frenzy140 of seeking for he knew not what, going from place to place, meeting new people, hurling141 himself into fresh adventures. From this impossible quest he had allowed himself no pause or rest. And at the end of it he had found exactly nothing. Or, to be more exact, he had found Mynheer Bendien in Amsterdam. It was easy to see just what had happened to McHarg after that. For if, at the end of the trail, there was nothing but a red-faced Dutchman, then, by God, he’d at least find out what kind of stuff a red-faced Dutchman was made of. Then for several days more, in his final fury of exasperation142, he had put the Dutchman to the test, driving him even harder than he had driven himself, not even stopping to eat, until at last the Dutchman, sustained by gin and his own phlegmatic143 constitution, had used up what remained of McHarg’s seemingly inexhaustible energies. So now he was all in. The flare144 of new vitality with which he had awakened145 from his nap had quickly burnt itself out: he lay back in the seat of the car, drained and emptied of the fury which had possessed146 him, too exhausted even to speak, his eyes closed, his head rolling gently with the motion of the car, his long legs thrust out limply before him. George sat beside him, helpless, not knowing what to do or where he was going or how and when it would end, his gaze fixed upon the head of the little driver, who was hunched147 up behind the wheel, intent upon the road, steering148 the car skilfully149 through the traffic and the fog-bound night.
The enormous ganglia of unending London rolled past them — street after street wet with a dull gleam of rain-fogged lamps, mile after mile of brick houses, which seemed steeped in the fog and soot150 and grime of uncounted days of dismal weather, district after district in the interminable web, a giant congeries of uncounted villages, all grown together now into this formless, monstrous151 sprawl152. They would pass briefly153 through the high streets of these far-flung warrens. For a moment there would be the golden nimbus of the fog-blurred lights, the cheerful radiance of butcher shops, with the red brawn154 of beef, the plucked plumpness and gangling155 necks of hung fowls156, and the butchers in their long white aprons157; then the wine and liquor stores, and the beer-fogged blur125 and warmth and murmur158 of the pubs, with the dull gleam of the rain-wet pavement stretching out in front; then pea-soup darkness again, and again the endless rows of fog-cheat houses.
At last they began to come to open country. There was the darkness of the land, the smell of the wet fields, the strung spare lights of night across the countryside. They began to feel the force of the wind as it swooped159 down at them across the fields and shivered against the sides of the car. It was blowing the fog away and the sky was lifting. And now, against the damp, low, thick, and dismal ceiling of the clouds, there was an immense corrupted160 radiance, as if all the swelter, smoke, and fury of London’s unending life had been caught up and resumed there. With every revolution of the wheels the glow receded161 farther behind them.
And now, with the lonely countryside all round him, George became conscious of the mysterious architecture of night. As he felt the abiding162 strength and everlastingness163 of the earth, he began to feel also a sense of exultation164 and release. It was a feeling he had had many times before, a feeling that every man who lives in a vast modern city must feel when, after months within the hive of the city’s life — months of sweat and noise and violence, months of grimy brick and stone, months of the incessant165 thrust and intershift and weaving of the endless crowd, months of tainted166 air and tainted life, of treachery, fear, malice167, slander168, blackmail169, envy, hatred170, conflict, fury, and deceit, months of frenzy and the tension of wire-taut nerves and the changeless change — he leaves the city and is free at last, out beyond the remotest filament171 of that tainted and tormented web. He that has known only a jungle of mortared brick and stone where no birds sing, where no blade grows, has now found earth again. And yet, unfathomable enigma172 that it is, he has found earth and, finding it, has lost the world. He has found the washed cleanliness of vision and of soul that comes from earth. He feels himself washed free of all the stains of ancient living, its evil and its lust173, its filth174 and cruelty, its perverse175 and ineradicable pollution, But curiously, somehow, the wonder and the mystery of it all remains176, its beauty and its magic, its richness and its joy, and as he looks back upon that baleful glow that lights the smoky blanket of the sky, a feeling of loss and loneliness possesses him, as if in gaining earth again he has relinquished177 life.
The car sped onwards and still onwards, until finally the last outpost of London was left behind and the glow in the sky was gone. They were driving through dark country and night towards their journey’s end. McHarg had not uttered a word. He still sat with legs sprawled178 out and head thrown back, swaying from the motion of the car but held in position by one limp arm which was hooked in the strap beside him. George was getting more and more alarmed at the thought of bringing him in this exhausted state to the house of an old friend whom he had not seen for years. At last he stopped the car and told the driver to wait while he pleaded with his master.
He switched on the overhead light and shook him, and to his surprise McHarg opened his eyes right away and by his responses showed that his mind was completely clear and alert. George told him that, worn out as he must be, he could not possibly enjoy a visit with his friend. He begged him to change his mind, to return to London for the night, to let him telephone his friend from the nearest town to say that he had been delayed and would see him in a day or two, but by all means to defer179 his visit until he felt better able to make it. After McHarg’s former display of obstinate determination, George had little hope of success, but to his amazement180 McHarg now proved most reasonable. He agreed to everything George said, confessed that he himself thought it would be better not to see his friend that night, and said he was prepared to embrace any alternative George might propose, except — on this he was most blunt and flat — he would not go back to London. All day his desire to get out of London had had the force and urgency of an obsession181, so George pressed no further on that point. He agreed that they should not turn back, but asked McHarg if he had any preference about where they should go. McHarg said he didn’t care, but after meditating182 with chin sunk forward on breast for several moments, he said suddenly that he would like the sea.
This remark did not seem at all astonishing to George at the time. It became astonishing only as he thought of it later. He accepted the proposal of going to the sea as naturally as a New Yorker might accept a suggestion of riding on a Fifth Avenue bus to see Grant’s tomb. If McHarg had said he wanted to go to Liverpool or to Manchester or to Edinburgh, it would have been the same — George would have felt no astonishment183 whatever. Once out of London, both of these Americans, in their unconscious minds, were as little impressed by the dimensions of England as they would have been by a half-acre lot. When McHarg said he’d like the sea, George thought to himself: “Very well. We’ll just drive over to the other side of the island and take a look at it.”
So George thought the idea an excellent one and fell in with it enthusiastically, remarking that the salt air, the sound of the waves, and a good night’s sleep would do them both a world of good, and would make them fit and ready for further adventures in the morning. McHarg, too, began to show whole-hearted warmth for the plan. George asked him if he had any special place in mind. He said no, that it didn’t matter, that any place was good as long as it was on the sea. In rapid order they named over seacoast towns which they had either heard of or at one time or another had visited — Dover, Folkestone, Bournemouth, Eastbourne, Blackpool, Torquay, Plymouth.
“Plymouth! Plymouth!” cried McHarg with enthusiastic decision. “That’s the very place! I’ve been in there in ships dozens of times, but never stopped off. True, it’s in the harbour, but that doesn’t matter. It always looked like a nice little town. Let’s go there for the night.”
“Oh, sir,” spoke up the chauffeur, who till now had sat quietly at his wheel, listening to two maniacs dismember the geography of the British Isles. “Oh, sir,” he repeated, with an intonation184 of quite evident alarm, “you can’t do that, you know. Not to-night, sir. It’s quite himpossible to make Plymouth to-night.”
“What’s the reason it is?” McHarg demanded truculently185.
“Because, sir,” said the driver, “it’s a good two ‘undred and fifty miles, sir. In this weather, what with rain and never knowing when the fog may close in again, it would take ite all of eight hours, sir, to do it. We should not arrive there, sir, until the small hours of the morning.
“Well, then, all right,” McHarg cried impatiently. “We’ll go somewhere else. How about Blackpool? Blackpool, eh, Georgie?” he said, turning to Webber feverishly, his lips lifting in a grimace186 of puckered nervousness. “Let’s try Blackpool. Never been there. Like to see the place.”
“But, sir”— the driver was now obviously appalled187 —“Blackpool — Blackpool, sir, is in the north of England. Why, sir,” he whispered, “Blackpool is even farther away than Plymouth is. It must be all of three ‘undred miles, sir,” he whispered, and the awe188 in his tone could not have been greater if they had just proposed an overnight drive from Philadelphia to the Pacific coast. “We couldn’t reach Blackpool, sir, before tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, well, then,” said McHarg in disgust. “Have it your own way. You name a place, George,” he demanded.
Webber thought earnestly for a long minute, then, fortified189 with memories of scenes from Thackeray and Dickens, he said hopefully: “Brighton. How about Brighton?”
Instantly he knew that he had hit it. The driver’s voice vibrated with a tone of unspeakable relief. He turned round in his seat and whispered with almost fawning190 eagerness:
“Yes, sir! Yes, sir! Brighton! We can do that very nicely, sir.”
“How long will it take?” McHarg demanded.
“I should think, sir,” said the driver, “I could do it from ’ere in about two and a ‘arf hours. A bit late for dinner, sir, but still, it is within reach.”
“Good. All right,” McHarg said, nodding his head with decision and settling back in his seat. “Go ahead.” He waved one bony hand in a gesture of dismissal. “We’re going to Brighton.”
They started off again, and at the next cross-road charged their course to hunt for the Brighton road.
From that time on, their journey became a nightmare of halts and turnings and changes of direction. The little driver was sure they were headed towards Brighton, but somehow he could not find the road. They twisted this way and that, driving for miles through towns and villages, then out into the open country again, and getting nowhere. At last they came to an intricate and deserted cross-road where the driver stopped the car to look at the signs. But there was none to Brighton, and he finally admitted that he was lost. At these words, McHarg roused and pulled himself wearily forward in his seat, peered out into the dark night, then asked George what he thought they ought to do. The two of them knew even less about where they were than the driver, but they had to go somewhere. When George hazarded a guess that Brighton ought to be off to the left somewhere, McHarg commanded the man to take the first left fork and see where he came out, then sank back in his seat and closed his eyes again. At each intersection191 after that McHarg or Webber would tell the driver what to do, and the little Londoner would obey them dutifully, but it was evident that he harboured increasing misgivings192 at the thought of being lost in the wilds of Surrey and subject to the unpredictable whim193 of two strange Americans. For some inexplicable194 reason it never occurred to either of them to stop and ask their way, so they only succeeded in getting more lost than ever. They shuttled back and forth, first in one direction, then in another, and after a while George had the feeling that they must have covered a good part of the whole complex system of roads in the region south of London.
The driver himself was being rapidly reduced to a nervous wreck. The little man was now plainly terrified. He agreed with frenzied195 eagerness to everything that was said to him, but his voice trembled when he spoke. From his manner, he obviously felt that he had fallen into the clutches of two madmen, that he was now at their mercy in the lonely countryside, and that something dreadful was likely to happen at any moment. George could see him bent over the wheel, his whole figure contracted with the tenseness of his terror. If either of the crazy Americans on the back seat had chosen to let out a bloodcurdling war whoop196, the wretched man would not have been surprised, but he would certainly have died instantly.
Under these special circumstances the very geography of the night seemed sinister197 and was conducive198 to an increase of his terror. As the hours passed, the night grew wilder. It became a stormy and demented kind of night, such as one sometimes finds in England in the winter. A man alone, if he had adventure in his soul, might have found it a thrilling and wildly beautiful night. But to this quiet little man, who was probably thinking bitterly of a glass of beer and the snug199 haven of his favourite pub, the demoniac visage of the night must have been appalling200. It was one of those nights when the beleaguered201 moon drives like a spectral202 ship through the scudding203 storm rack of the sky, and the wind howls and shrieks204 like a demented fiend. They could hear it roaring all round them through the storm-tossed branches of the barren trees. Then it would swoop down on them with an exultant205 scream, and moan and whistle round the car, and sweep away again while gusts of beating rain drove across their vision. Then they would hear it howling far away — remote, demented, in the upper air, rocking the branches of the trees. And the spectral moon kept driving in and out, now casting a wild, wan23 radiance over the stormy landscape, now darting206 in behind a billowing mass of angry-looking clouds and leaving them to darkness and the fiendish howling of the wind. It was a fitting night for the commission of a crime, and the driver, it was plain to see, now feared the worst.
Somewhere along the road, after they had spent hours driving back and forth and getting nowhere, McHarg’s amazing reserves of energy and vitality ran completely out. He was sitting sprawled out as before, with head thrown back, when suddenly he groped blindly with a hand towards George and said:
“I’m done in, George! Stop the car! I can’t go on.”
George stopped the car at once. There by the roadside in the darkness, in stormy wind and scudding rain, they halted. In the van and fitful light of the spectral moon McHarg’s appearance was ghastly. His face now looked livid and deathlike. George was greatly alarmed and suggested that he get out of the car and see if the cold air wouldn’t make him feel better.
McHarg answered very quietly, with the utter finality of despair. “No,” he said. “I just feel as if I’d like to die. Leave me alone.” He slumped back into his corner, dosed his eyes, and seemed to resign himself entirely207 into George’s keeping. He did not speak again during the remainder of that horrible journey.
In the half-darkness, illuminated208 only by the instrument panel of the car and the eerie209 light of the moon, George and the driver looked at each other in mute and desperate interrogation. Presently the driver moistened his dry lips and whispered:
“What are we to do now, sir? Where shall we go?”
George thought for a moment, then answered: “We’ll have to go back to his friend’s house, I think. Mr. McHarg may be very ill. Turn round quickly, and let’s get there as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir! Yes, sir!” the driver whispered. He backed the car round and started off again.
From that point on, the journey was just pure nightmare. The directions they had received were complicated and would have been hard enough to follow if they had kept to the road they had first intended to take. But now they were lost and off their course, and had somehow to find their way back to it. Through what seemed to George nothing less than a miracle, this was finally accomplished210. Then their instructions required them to look carefully for several obscure cross-roads, make the proper turns at each, and at the end of all this find the lonely country lane up which McHarg’s friend lived. In attempting it, they lost their way again and had to go back to a village, where the driver got his bearings and the true directions. It was after ten-thirty before they finally found the lane leading up to the house which was their destination.
And now the prospect was more sinister and weird211 than any they had seen. George could not believe that they were still in England’s Surrey. He had always thought of Surrey as a pleasant and gentle place, a kind of mild and benevolent suburb of London. The name had called to his mind a vision of sweet, green fields, thick-sown with towns and villages. It was, he had thought, a place of peace and tranquil212 spires213, as well as a kind of wonderful urbs in rure, a lovely countryside of which all parts were within an hour’s run of London, a place where one could enjoy bucolic214 pleasures without losing any of the convenient advantages of the city, and a place where one was never out of hailing distance of his neighbour. But the region they had now come to was not at all like this. It was densely215 wooded, and as wild and desolate216 on that stormy night as any spot he had ever seen. As the car ground slowly up the tortuous217 road, it seemed to George that they were climbing the fiendish slope of Nightmare Hill, and he rather expected that when the moon broke from the clouds again they would find themselves in a cleared and barren circle in the forest, surrounded by the whole witches’ carnival218 of Walpurgis Night. The wind howled through the rocking trees with insane laughter, the broken clouds scudded219 across the heavens like ghosts in flight, and the car lurched, bumped, groaned220, and lumbered221 its way up a road which must have been there when the Romans came to Rye, and which, from the feel of it, had not been repaired or used since. There was not a house or a light in sight.
George began to feel that they were lost again, and that surely no one would choose to live in this inaccessible222 wilderness223. He was ready to give up and was about to command the driver to turn back when, as they rounded a bend, he saw, away on the right, a hundred yards or so off the road and at some elevation above it, a house — and from its windows issued the beaconing assurance of light and warmth.
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1
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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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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5
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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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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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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16
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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17
detours
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| 绕行的路( detour的名词复数 )； 绕道，兜圈子 | |
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18
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tart
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| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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jaunt
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| v.短程旅游；n.游览 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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abducted
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| 劫持，诱拐( abduct的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（肢体等）外展 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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43
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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44
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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45
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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46
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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47
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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48
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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49
lankly
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| adv.瘦地，细长地 | |
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50
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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51
freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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53
rims
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| n.（圆形物体的）边( rim的名词复数 )；缘；轮辋；轮圈 | |
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54
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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55
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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56
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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57
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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58
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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59
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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60
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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61
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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62
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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63
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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64
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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65
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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66
persuasiveness
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| 说服力 | |
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67
longingly
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| adv. 渴望地 热望地 | |
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68
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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69
dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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70
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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71
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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72
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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73
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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74
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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75
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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76
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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77
automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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78
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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79
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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80
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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81
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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82
strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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83
slumped
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| 大幅度下降，暴跌( slump的过去式和过去分词 )； 沉重或突然地落下[倒下] | |
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84
slump
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| n.暴跌，意气消沉，（土地）下沉；vi.猛然掉落，坍塌，大幅度下跌 | |
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85
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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86
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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87
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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88
drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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89
reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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90
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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91
sentries
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| 哨兵，步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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92
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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93
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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94
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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95
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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96
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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97
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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99
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
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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101
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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102
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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103
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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104
Amended
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| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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105
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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106
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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107
radiator
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| n.暖气片，散热器 | |
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108
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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109
comatose
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| adj.昏睡的，昏迷不醒的 | |
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110
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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111
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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112
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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113
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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114
persuasively
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| adv.口才好地；令人信服地 | |
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115
endorsement
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| n.背书；赞成，认可，担保；签(注)，批注 | |
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116
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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117
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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118
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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119
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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120
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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121
fuming
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| 愤怒( fume的现在分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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122
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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123
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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124
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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125
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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126
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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127
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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128
swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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129
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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130
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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131
maniacs
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| n.疯子（maniac的复数形式） | |
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132
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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133
solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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134
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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135
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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136
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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137
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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138
pyjamas
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| n.（宽大的）睡衣裤 | |
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139
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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140
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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141
hurling
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| n.爱尔兰式曲棍球v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的现在分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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142
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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143
phlegmatic
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| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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144
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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145
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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146
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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147
hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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148
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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149
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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150
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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151
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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152
sprawl
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| vi.躺卧，扩张，蔓延；vt.使蔓延；n.躺卧，蔓延 | |
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153
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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154
brawn
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| n.体力 | |
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155
gangling
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| adj.瘦长得难看的 | |
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156
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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157
aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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158
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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159
swooped
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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160
corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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161
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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162
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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163
everlastingness
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164
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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165
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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166
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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167
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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168
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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169
blackmail
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| n.讹诈，敲诈，勒索，胁迫，恫吓 | |
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170
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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171
filament
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| n.细丝；长丝；灯丝 | |
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172
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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173
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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174
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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175
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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176
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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177
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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178
sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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179
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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180
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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181
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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182
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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183
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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184
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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185
truculently
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186
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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187
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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188
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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189
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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190
fawning
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| adj.乞怜的，奉承的v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的现在分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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191
intersection
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| n.交集，十字路口，交叉点；[计算机] 交集 | |
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192
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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193
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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194
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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195
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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196
whoop
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| n.大叫，呐喊，喘息声；v.叫喊，喘息 | |
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197
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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198
conducive
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| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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199
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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200
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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201
beleaguered
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| adj.受到围困[围攻]的；包围的v.围攻( beleaguer的过去式和过去分词)；困扰；骚扰 | |
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202
spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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203
scudding
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| n.刮面v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的现在分词 ) | |
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204
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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205
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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206
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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207
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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208
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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209
eerie
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| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
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210
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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211
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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212
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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213
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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214
bucolic
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| adj.乡村的；牧羊的 | |
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215
densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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216
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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217
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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218
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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219
scudded
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| v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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220
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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221
lumbered
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| 砍伐（lumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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222
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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223
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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