The porter was already there. He had the baggage on the kerb. A taxi was just drawing up, and he stowed the baggage in. George tipped him and shook hands. He also tipped the enormous doorman, a smiling, simple, friendly fellow who had always patted him upon the back as he went in and out. Then he got into the taxi, sat down by Heilig, and gave the driver the address — Bahnhof Am Zoo.
The taxi wheeled about and started up along the other side of the Kurfürstendamm, turned and crossed into the Joachimtalen-strasse, and, three minutes later, drew in before the station. They still had some minutes to wait before the train, which was coming from the Friedrich-strasse, would be there. They gave the baggage to a porter, who said he would meet them on the platform. Then Heilig thrust a coin into the machine and bought a platform ticket. They passed by the ticket inspectors3 and went up the stairs.
A considerable crowd of travellers was already waiting on the platform. A train was just pulling in out of the west, from the direction of Hanover and Bremen. A number of people got off. On other tracks the glittering trains of the Stadtbahn were moving in and out; their beautiful, shining cars — deep maroon4, red, and golden yellow — going from east to west, from west to east, and to all the quarters of the city’s compass, were heavily loaded with morning workers. George looked down the tracks towards the east, in the direction from which his train must come, and saw the semaphores, the lean design of tracks, the tops of houses, and the massed greens of the Zoologic Garden. The Stadtbahn trains kept sliding in and out, swiftly, almost noiselessly, discharging streams of hurrying people, taking in others. It was all so familiar, so pleasant, and so full of morning. It seemed that he had known it for ever, and he felt as he always did when he left a city — a sense of sorrow and regret, of poignant5 unfulfilment, a sense that here were people he could have known, friends he could have had, all lost now, fading, slipping from his grasp, as the inexorable moment of the departing hour drew near.
Far down the platform the doors of the baggage elevator clanged, and the porters pulled trucks loaded with great piles of baggage out upon the platform. And presently George saw his porter advancing with a truck, and among the bags and trunks upon it he could see his own. The porter nodded to him, indicating at about what point he ought to stand.
At this same moment he turned and saw Else coming down the platform towards him. She walked slowly, at her long and rhythmic6 stride. People followed her with their eyes as she passed by. She was wearing a rough tweed jacket of a light, coarse texture7 and a skirt of the same material. Everything about her had a kind of incomparable style. She could have worn anything with the same air. Her tall figure was stunning8, a strange and moving combination of delicacy9 and power. Under her arm she was carrying a book, and as she came up she gave it to George. He took her hands, which for so large a woman were amazingly lovely and sensitive, long, white, and slender as a child’s, and George noticed that they were cold, and that the fingers trembled.
“Else, you have met Herr Heilig, haven’t you? Franz, you remember Frau von Kohler?”
Else turned and surveyed Heilig coldly and sternly. Heilig answered her look with a stare that was equally unrelenting and hostile. There was a formidable quality in the mutual10 suspicion they displayed as their eyes met. George had observed the same phenomenon many times before in the encounters of Germans who were either total strangers or who did not know each other well. At once their defences would be up, as if each distrusted the other on sight and demanded full credentials11 and assurances before relenting into any betrayal of friendliness12 and confidence. George was used to this sort of thing by now. It was what was to be expected. Just the same, it never failed to be alarming to him when it happened. He could not accustom13 himself to it and accept it as an inevitable14 part of life, as so many of these Germans seemed to have done, because he had never seen anything like it at home, or anywhere else in the world before.
Moreover, between these two, the usual manifestations15 of suspicion were heightened by an added quality of deep, instinctive16 dislike. As they stood regarding each other, something flashed between them that was as cold and hard as steel, as swift and naked as a rapier thrust. These feelings of distrust and antagonism17 were communicated in a single moment’s silence; then Else inclined her head slightly and sternly and said in her excellent English, which had hardly a trace of accent and revealed its foreignness only by an occasional phrase and the undue18 precision of her enunciation19:
“I believe we have met, at Grauschmidt’s party for George.”
“I belief so,” Heilig said. And then, after surveying her a moment longer with a look of truculent20 hostility21, he said coldly: “And Grauschmidt’s drawing in ze Tageblatt— you did not like it — no?”
“Of George!” she spoke22 derisively23, incredulously. Her stern face was suddenly illuminated24 with a radiant smile. She laughed scornfully and said: “This drawing by your friend, Grauschmidt — you mean the one that made George look like a wonderful and charming sugar-tenor?”
“You did not like it, zen?” said Heilig coldly.
“But ja!” she cried. “As a drawing of a Zuckertenor— as a drawing of Herr Grauschmidt, the way he is himself, the way he sees and feels — it is quite perfect! But George! It looks no more like George than you do!”
“Zen I may tell you somesing,” said Heilig coldly and venomously. “I sink zat you are very stupid. Ze drawing vas egg-zellent — everybody sought so. Grauschmidt himself said zat it vas vun of ze very best zat he has effer done. He likes it very much.”
“But natürlich!” Else said ironically, and laughed scornfully again. “Herr Grauschmidt likes so many things. First of all, he likes himself. He likes everything he does. And he likes music of Puccini,” she went on rapidly. “He sings Ave Maria. He likes sob-songs of Hilbach. He likes dark rooms with a red light and silken pillows. He is romantic and likes to talk about his feelings. He thinks: ‘We artists!’”
Heilig was furious. “If I may tell you somesing ——” he began.
But Else now could not be checked. She took a short and angry step away, then turned again, with two spots of passionate25 colour in her cheeks:
“Your friend, Herr Grauschmidt,” she continued, “likes to talk of art. He says: ‘This orchestra is wonderful!’— he never hears the music. He goes to see Shakespeare, saying; ‘Mayer is a wonderful actor.’ He ——”
“If I may tell you somesing ——” Heilig choked.
“He likes little girls with high heels,” she panted. “He is in the Ess Ah. When he shaves, he wears a hair-dress cap. Of course his nails are polished. He has a lot of photographs — of himself and other great people!” And, panting but triumphant26, she turned and walked away a few paces to compose herself.
“Zese bloody27 people!” Heilig grated. “0 Gott, but zey are dretful!” Turning to George, he said venomously: “If I may tell you somesing — zis person — zis voman — zis von Kohler zat you like so much — she iss a fool!”
“Wait a minute, Franz. I don’t think she is. You know what I think of her.”
“Vell, zen,” said Heilig, “you are wrong. You are mistaken. If I may say so, you are again also one big fool. Vell, zen, it does not matter,” he cried harshly. “I vill go and buy some cigarettes, and you can try to talk to zis damn stupid voman.” And, still choking with rage, he turned abruptly28 and walked away down the platform.
George went up to Else. She was still excited, still breathing rapidly. He took her hands and they were trembling. She said:
“This bitter little man — this man whose name it means ‘the holy one’— he is so full of bitterness — he hates me. He is so jealous for you. He wants to keep you for himself. He has told you lies. He has tried to say things against me. I hear them!” she went on excitedly. “People come to me with them! I do not listen to them!” she cried angrily. “0 George, George!” she said suddenly, and took him by the arms. “Do not listen to this bitter little man. Last night,” she whispered, “I had a strange dream. It was a so strange, a so good and wonderful dream that I had for you. You must not listen to this bitter man!” she cried earnestly, and shook him by the arms. “You are religious man. You are artist. And the artist is religious man.”
Just then Lewald appeared on the platform and came towards them. His pink face looked fresh and hearty29 as always. His constant exuberance30 had in it a suggestion of alcoholic31 stimulation32. Even at this hour of the morning he seemed to be bubbling over with a veiny34 exhilaration. As he barged along, swinging his great shoulders and his bulging35 belly36, people all along the platform caught the contagion37 of his gleeful spirits and smiled at him, and yet their smiles, were also tinged38 with respect. In spite of his great pink face and his enormous belly, there was nothing ridiculous in Lewald’s appearance. One’s first impression was that of a strikingly handsome man. One did not think of him as being fat; rather, one thought of him as being big. And as he rolled along, he dominated the scene with a sense of easy and yet massive authority. One would scarcely have taken him for a business man, and a very shrewd and crafty39 one to boot. Everything about him suggested a natural and instinctive Bohemianism. Looking at him, one felt that here, probably, was an old army man, not of the Prussian military type, but rather a fellow who had done his service and who had thoroughly40 enjoyed the army life — the boisterous41 camaraderie42 of men, the eating and drinking bouts43, the adventures with the girls — as, indeed, he had.
A tremendous appetite for life was plainly legible all over him. People recognized it the moment they saw him, and that is why they smiled. He seemed so full of wine, so full of spacious44, hearty unconventionality. His whole manner proclaimed him to be the kind of man who has burst through all the confines of daily, routine living with the force of a natural element. He was one of those men who, immediately somehow, shine out luminously45 in all the grey of life, one of those men who carry about their persons a glamorous46 aura of warmth, of colour, and of temperament47. In any crowd he stood out in dominant48 and exciting isolation49, drawing all eyes to himself with a vivid concentration of interest, so that one would remember him later even though one had seen him only for an instant, just as one would remember the one room in an otherwise empty house that had furniture and a fire in it.
So now, as he approached, even when he was still some yards away, he began to shake his finger at George waggishly50, at the same time moving his great head from side to side. As he came up, he sang out in a throaty, vinous voice the opening phrases of an obscene song which he had taught to George, and which the two of them had often sung together during those formidable evenings at his house:
“Lecke du, lecke du, lecke du die Katze am Arsch . . . ”
Else flushed, but Lewald checked himself quickly at the penultimate moment and, wagging his finger at George again, cried:
“Ach du!” And then, in an absurdly sly and gleeful croon, his small eyes twinkling roguishly: “Naught-ee boy-ee! Naught-ee boy-ee!”— wagging a finger all the time. “My old Chorge!” he cried suddenly and heartily51. “There haf you been — you naught-ee boy-ee? I look for you last night and I cannot see you anyvheres!”
Before George could answer, Heilig returned, smoking a cigarette. George remembered that the two men had met before, but now they gave no sign of recognition. Indeed, Lewald’s hearty manner dropped away at sight of the little Heilig, and his face froze into an expression of glacial reserve and suspicion. George was so put out by this that he forgot his own manners, and instead of presenting Else to Lewald, he stammered52 out an introduction of Heilig. Lewald then acknowledged the other’s presence with a stiff and formal little bow. Heilig merely inclined his head slightly and returned Lewald’s look coldly. George was feeling very uncomfortable and embarrassed when Lewald took the situation in hand again. Turning his back on Heilig, he now resumed his former manner of hearty exuberance and, seizing George’s arm in one meaty fist and pounding affectionately upon it with the other, he cried out loudly:
“Chorge! Vhere haf you been, you naught-ee boy-ee? Vhy do you not come in to see me dese last days? I vas eggsbecting you.”
“Why — I— I—” George began, “I really meant to, Karl. But I knew you would be here to see me off, and I just didn’t get around to dropping in at your office again. I’ve had a great deal to do, you know.”
“And I also!” cried Lewald, his voice rising in droll53 emphasis on the last word. “I alzo!” he repeated. “But me — I alvays haf time for mein friends,” he said accusingly, still beating away on George’s arm to show that his pretended hurt had not really gone very deep.
“Karl,” George now said, “you remember Frau von Kohler, don’t you?”
“Aber natürlich!” he cried with the boisterous gallantry that always marked his manner with women. “Honourable lady,” he said in German, “how are you? I shall not be likely to forget the pleasure you gave me by coming to one of my parties. But I have not seen you since that evening, and I have seen less and less of old Chorge since then.” Relapsing into English at this point, he turned to George again and shook his finger at him, saying: “You naught-ee boy-ee, you!”
This playful gallantry had no effect on Else. Her face did not relax any of its sternness. She just looked at Lewald with her level gaze and made no effort to conceal54 the scorn she felt for him. Lewald, however, appeared not to notice, for once more he turned to her and addressed her in his exuberant55 German:
“Honourable lady, I can understand the reason why the Chorge has deserted56 me. He has found more exciting adventures than anything the poor old Lewald had to offer him.” Here he turned back to George again and, with his small eyes twinkling mischievously57, he wagged his finger beneath George’s nose and crooned slyly, absurdly: “Naught-ee boy-ee! Naught-ee boy-ee!”— as if to say: “Aha, you rascal58, you! I’ve caught you now!”
This whole monologue59 had been delivered almost without a pause in Lewald’s characteristic manner — a manner that had been famous throughout Europe for thirty years. His waggishness60 with George was almost childishly naive61 and playful, while his speech to Else was bluff62, high-spirited, hearty, and good-humoured. Through it all he gave the impression of a man who was engagingly open and sincere, and one who was full of jolly good will towards mankind. It was the manner George had seen him use many times — when he was meeting some new, author, when he was welcoming someone to his office, when he was talking over the telephone, or inviting63 friends to a party.
But now again, George was able to observe the profound difference between the manner and the man. The bluff and hearty openness was just a mask which Lewald used against the world with all the deceptive64 grace and subtlety65 of a great matador66 preparing to give the finishing stroke to a charging bull. Behind that mask was concealed67 the true image of the man’s soul, which was sly, dexterous68, crafty, and cunning. George noticed again how really small and shrewd were the features. The big blond head and the broad shoulders and the great, pink, vinous jowls gave an effect of massive size and grandeur69, but that general effect was not borne out by the smaller details. The mouth was amazingly tiny and carnal; it was full of an almost obscene humour, and it had a kind of mousing slyness, as if its fat little chops were fairly watering for lewd70 tidbits. The nose was also small and pointed71, and there was a sniffing72 shrewdness about it. The eyes were little, blue, and twinkled with crafty merriment. One felt that they saw everything — that they were not only secretly and agreeably aware of the whole human comedy, but were also slyly amused at the bluff and ingenuous73 part that their owner was playing.
“But come, now!” Lewald cried suddenly, throwing back his shoulders and seeming to collect himself to earnestness with a jerk. “I bring somet’ing to you from mein hosband . . . Was?” He looked round at all three of them with an expression of innocent, questioning bewilderment as George grinned.
It was a familiar error of his broken English. He always called his wife his “hosband”, and frequently told George that some day he, too, would get a “good hosband”. But he used the word with an expression of such droll innocence74, his little blue eyes twinkling in his pink face with a look of cherubic guilelessness, that George was sure he knew better and was making the error deliberately75 for its comic effect. Now, as George laughed, Lewald turned to Else, then to Heilig, with a puzzled air, and in a lowered voice said rapidly:
“Was, denn? Was meint Chorge? Wie sagt man das? Ist das nicht richtig englisch?”
Else looked pointedly76 away as though she had not heard him and wished to have nothing more to do with him. Heilig’s only answer was to continue looking at him coldly and suspiciously. Lewald, however, was not in the least put out by the unappreciativeness of his audience. He turned back to George with a comical shrug77, as if the whole thing were quite beyond him, and then slipped into George’s pocket a small flask78 of German brandy, saying that it was the gift his “hosband” had sent. Next he took out a thin and beautifully bound little volume which one of his authors had written and illustrated79. He held it in his hand and fingered through it lovingly.
It was a comic memoir80 of Lewald’s life, from the cradle to maturity81, done in that vein33 of grotesque82 brutality83 which hardly escapes the macabre84, but which nevertheless does have a power of savage85 caricature and terrible humour such as no other race can equal. One of the illustrations showed the infant Lewald as the infant Hercules strangling two formidable-looking snakes, which bore the heads of his foremost publishing rivals. Another showed the adolescent Lewald as Gargantua, drowning out his native town of Kolberg in Pomerania. Still another pictured Lewald as the young publisher, seated at a table in Aenna Maentz café and biting large chunks86 out of a drinking-glass and eating them — an operation which he had actually performed on various occasions in the past, in order, as he said, “to make propaganda for meinself and mein business.”
Lewald had inscribed87 and autographed this curious little book for George, and underneath88 the inscription89 had written the familiar and obscene lines of the song: “Lecke du, lecke du, lecke du die Katze am Arsch.” Now he closed the book and thrust it into George’s pocket.
And even as he did so there was a flurry of excitement in the crowd. A light flashed, the porters moved along the platform. George looked up the tracks. The train was coming. It bore down swiftly, sweeping90 in round the edges of the Zoologic Garden. The huge snout of the locomotive, its fenders touched with trimmings of bright red, advanced bluntly, steamed hotly past, and came to a stop. The dull line of the coaches was broken vividly91 in the middle with the glittering red of the Mitropa dining-car.
Everybody swung into action. George’s porter, heaving up his heavy baggage, clambered quickly up the steps and found a compartment92 for him. There was a blur93 of voices all round, an excited tumult94 of farewell.
Lewald caught George by the hand, and with his other arm around George’s shoulder half-pounded and half-hugged him, saying: “My old Chorge, auf wiedersehen!”
Heilig shook hands hard and fast, his small and bitter face contorted as if he were weeping, while he said in a curiously vibrant95, deep, and tragic96 voice: “Good-bye, good-bye, dear Chorge, auf wiedersehen.”
The two men turned away, and Else put her arms round him. He felt her shoulders shake. She was weeping, and he heard her say: “Be good man. Be great one that I know. Be religious man.” And as her embrace tightened97, she half-gasped, half-whispered: “Promise.” He nodded. Then they came together: her thighs98 widened, dosed about his leg, her voluptuous99 figure yielded, grew into him, their mouths clung fiercely, and for the last time they were united in the embrace of love.
Then he climbed into the train. The guard slammed the door. Even as he made his way down the narrow corridor towards his compartment, the train started. These forms, these faces, and these lives all began to slide away.
Heilig kept walking forward, waving his hat, his face still contorted with the grimace100 of his sorrow. Behind him, Else walked along beside the train, her face stern and lonely, her arm lifted in farewell. Lewald whipped off his hat and waved it, his fair hair in disarray101 above his flushed and vinous face. The last thing George heard was his exuberant voice raised in a shout of farewell. “Old Chorge, auf wiedersehen!” And then he cupped his hands round his mouth and yelled: “Lecke du——!” George saw his shoulders heave with laughter.
Then the train swept out around the curve. And they were lost.
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1
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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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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inspectors
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| n.检查员( inspector的名词复数 )；（英国公共汽车或火车上的）查票员；（警察）巡官；检阅官 | |
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maroon
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| v.困住，使（人）处于孤独无助之境；n.逃亡黑奴；孤立的人；酱紫色，褐红色；adj.酱紫色的，褐红色的 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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credentials
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| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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enunciation
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| n.清晰的发音；表明，宣言；口齿 | |
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truculent
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| adj.野蛮的，粗野的 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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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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derisively
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| adv. 嘲笑地，嘲弄地 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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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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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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alcoholic
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| adj.（含）酒精的，由酒精引起的；n.酗酒者 | |
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stimulation
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| n.刺激，激励，鼓舞 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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veiny
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| adj.纹理状的 | |
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bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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40
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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41
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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42
camaraderie
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| n.同志之爱，友情 | |
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43
bouts
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| n.拳击（或摔跤）比赛( bout的名词复数 )；一段（工作）；（尤指坏事的）一通；（疾病的）发作 | |
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44
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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luminously
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| 发光的； 明亮的； 清楚的； 辉赫 | |
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glamorous
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| adj.富有魅力的；美丽动人的；令人向往的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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waggishly
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| adv.waggish（滑稽的，诙谐的）的变形 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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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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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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waggishness
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naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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matador
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| n.斗牛士 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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lewd
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| adj.淫荡的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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memoir
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| n.[pl.]回忆录，自传；记事录 | |
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maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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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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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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macabre
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| adj.骇人的，可怖的 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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chunks
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| 厚厚的一块( chunk的名词复数 )； （某物）相当大的数量或部分 | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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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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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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disarray
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| n.混乱，紊乱，凌乱 | |
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