This was unfortunate, for already there was a throng10 before the door. The music had started up, and half a block away you could hear the dull "broom, broom" of a cello11, with the squeaking12 of two fiddles13 which vied with each other in intricate and altitudinous gymnastics. Seeing the throng, Marija abandoned precipitately15 the debate concerning the ancestors of her coachman, and, springing from the moving carriage, plunged16 in and proceeded to clear a way to the hall. Once within, she turned and began to push the other way, roaring, meantime, "Eik! Eik! Uzdaryk-duris!" in tones which made the orchestral uproar17 sound like fairy music.
"Z. Graiczunas, Pasilinksminimams darzas. Vynas. Sznapsas. Wines and Liquors. union Headquarters"—that was the way the signs ran. The reader, who perhaps has never held much converse18 in the language of far-off Lithuania, will be glad of the explanation that the place was the rear room of a saloon in that part of Chicago known as "back of the yards." This information is definite and suited to the matter of fact; but how pitifully inadequate19 it would have seemed to one who understood that it was also the supreme20 hour of ecstasy21 in the life of one of God's gentlest creatures, the scene of the wedding feast and the joy-transfiguration of little Ona Lukoszaite!
She stood in the doorway22, shepherded by Cousin Marija, breathless from pushing through the crowd, and in her happiness painful to look upon. There was a light of wonder in her eyes and her lids trembled, and her otherwise wan23 little face was flushed. She wore a muslin dress, conspicuously24 white, and a stiff little veil coming to her shoulders. There were five pink paper roses twisted in the veil, and eleven bright green rose leaves. There were new white cotton gloves upon her hands, and as she stood staring about her she twisted them together feverishly25. It was almost too much for her—you could see the pain of too great emotion in her face, and all the tremor26 of her form. She was so young—not quite sixteen—and small for her age, a mere27 child; and she had just been married—and married to Jurgis,* (*Pronounced Yoorghis) of all men, to Jurgis Rudkus, he with the white flower in the buttonhole of his new black suit, he with the mighty28 shoulders and the giant hands.
Ona was blue-eyed and fair, while Jurgis had great black eyes with beetling29 brows, and thick black hair that curled in waves about his ears—in short, they were one of those incongruous and impossible married couples with which Mother Nature so often wills to confound all prophets, before and after. Jurgis could take up a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound quarter of beef and carry it into a car without a stagger, or even a thought; and now he stood in a far corner, frightened as a hunted animal, and obliged to moisten his lips with his tongue each time before he could answer the congratulations of his friends.
Gradually there was effected a separation between the spectators and the guests—a separation at least sufficiently30 complete for working purposes. There was no time during the festivities which ensued when there were not groups of onlookers31 in the doorways32 and the corners; and if any one of these onlookers came sufficiently close, or looked sufficiently hungry, a chair was offered him, and he was invited to the feast. It was one of the laws of the veselija that no one goes hungry; and, while a rule made in the forests of Lithuania is hard to apply in the stockyards district of Chicago, with its quarter of a million inhabitants, still they did their best, and the children who ran in from the street, and even the dogs, went out again happier. A charming informality was one of the characteristics of this celebration. The men wore their hats, or, if they wished, they took them off, and their coats with them; they ate when and where they pleased, and moved as often as they pleased. There were to be speeches and singing, but no one had to listen who did not care to; if he wished, meantime, to speak or sing himself, he was perfectly33 free. The resulting medley34 of sound distracted no one, save possibly alone the babies, of which there were present a number equal to the total possessed35 by all the guests invited. There was no other place for the babies to be, and so part of the preparations for the evening consisted of a collection of cribs and carriages in one corner. In these the babies slept, three or four together, or wakened together, as the case might be. Those who were still older, and could reach the tables, marched about munching36 contentedly37 at meat bones and bologna sausages.
The room is about thirty feet square, with whitewashed38 walls, bare save for a calendar, a picture of a race horse, and a family tree in a gilded39 frame. To the right there is a door from the saloon, with a few loafers in the doorway, and in the corner beyond it a bar, with a presiding genius clad in soiled white, with waxed black mustaches and a carefully oiled curl plastered against one side of his forehead. In the opposite corner are two tables, filling a third of the room and laden40 with dishes and cold viands41, which a few of the hungrier guests are already munching. At the head, where sits the bride, is a snow-white cake, with an Eiffel tower of constructed decoration, with sugar roses and two angels upon it, and a generous sprinkling of pink and green and yellow candies. Beyond opens a door into the kitchen, where there is a glimpse to be had of a range with much steam ascending42 from it, and many women, old and young, rushing hither and thither. In the corner to the left are the three musicians, upon a little platform, toiling44 heroically to make some impression upon the hubbub45; also the babies, similarly occupied, and an open window whence the populace imbibes46 the sights and sounds and odors.
Suddenly some of the steam begins to advance, and, peering through it, you discern Aunt Elizabeth, Ona's stepmother—Teta Elzbieta, as they call her—bearing aloft a great platter of stewed47 duck. Behind her is Kotrina, making her way cautiously, staggering beneath a similar burden; and half a minute later there appears old Grandmother Majauszkiene, with a big yellow bowl of smoking potatoes, nearly as big as herself. So, bit by bit, the feast takes form—there is a ham and a dish of sauerkraut, boiled rice, macaroni, bologna sausages, great piles of penny buns, bowls of milk, and foaming48 pitchers49 of beer. There is also, not six feet from your back, the bar, where you may order all you please and do not have to pay for it. "Eiksz! Graicziau!" screams Marija Berczynskas, and falls to work herself—for there is more upon the stove inside that will be spoiled if it be not eaten.
So, with laughter and shouts and endless badinage50 and merriment, the guests take their places. The young men, who for the most part have been huddled51 near the door, summon their resolution and advance; and the shrinking Jurgis is poked52 and scolded by the old folks until he consents to seat himself at the right hand of the bride. The two bridesmaids, whose insignia of office are paper wreaths, come next, and after them the rest of the guests, old and young, boys and girls. The spirit of the occasion takes hold of the stately bartender, who condescends53 to a plate of stewed duck; even the fat policeman—whose duty it will be, later in the evening, to break up the fights—draws up a chair to the foot of the table. And the children shout and the babies yell, and every one laughs and sings and chatters—while above all the deafening54 clamor Cousin Marija shouts orders to the musicians.
The musicians—how shall one begin to describe them? All this time they have been there, playing in a mad frenzy55—all of this scene must be read, or said, or sung, to music. It is the music which makes it what it is; it is the music which changes the place from the rear room of a saloon in back of the yards to a fairy place, a wonderland, a little corner of the high mansions56 of the sky.
The little person who leads this trio is an inspired man. His fiddle14 is out of tune57, and there is no rosin on his bow, but still he is an inspired man—the hands of the muses58 have been laid upon him. He plays like one possessed by a demon60, by a whole horde61 of demons62. You can feel them in the air round about him, capering63 frenetically; with their invisible feet they set the pace, and the hair of the leader of the orchestra rises on end, and his eyeballs start from their sockets64, as he toils65 to keep up with them.
Tamoszius Kuszleika is his name, and he has taught himself to play the violin by practicing all night, after working all day on the "killing66 beds." He is in his shirt sleeves, with a vest figured with faded gold horseshoes, and a pink-striped shirt, suggestive of peppermint67 candy. A pair of military trousers, light blue with a yellow stripe, serve to give that suggestion of authority proper to the leader of a band. He is only about five feet high, but even so these trousers are about eight inches short of the ground. You wonder where he can have gotten them or rather you would wonder, if the excitement of being in his presence left you time to think of such things.
For he is an inspired man. Every inch of him is inspired—you might almost say inspired separately. He stamps with his feet, he tosses his head, he sways and swings to and fro; he has a wizened-up little face, irresistibly68 comical; and, when he executes a turn or a flourish, his brows knit and his lips work and his eyelids69 wink—the very ends of his necktie bristle70 out. And every now and then he turns upon his companions, nodding, signaling, beckoning71 frantically—with every inch of him appealing, imploring72, in behalf of the muses and their call.
For they are hardly worthy73 of Tamoszius, the other two members of the orchestra. The second violin is a Slovak, a tall, gaunt man with black-rimmed spectacles and the mute and patient look of an overdriven mule74; he responds to the whip but feebly, and then always falls back into his old rut. The third man is very fat, with a round, red, sentimental75 nose, and he plays with his eyes turned up to the sky and a look of infinite yearning76. He is playing a bass77 part upon his cello, and so the excitement is nothing to him; no matter what happens in the treble, it is his task to saw out one long-drawn and lugubrious78 note after another, from four o'clock in the afternoon until nearly the same hour next morning, for his third of the total income of one dollar per hour.
Before the feast has been five minutes under way, Tamoszius Kuszleika has risen in his excitement; a minute or two more and you see that he is beginning to edge over toward the tables. His nostrils79 are dilated80 and his breath comes fast—his demons are driving him. He nods and shakes his head at his companions, jerking at them with his violin, until at last the long form of the second violinist also rises up. In the end all three of them begin advancing, step by step, upon the banqueters, Valentinavyczia, the cellist81, bumping along with his instrument between notes. Finally all three are gathered at the foot of the tables, and there Tamoszius mounts upon a stool.
Now he is in his glory, dominating the scene. Some of the people are eating, some are laughing and talking—but you will make a great mistake if you think there is one of them who does not hear him. His notes are never true, and his fiddle buzzes on the low ones and squeaks82 and scratches on the high; but these things they heed83 no more than they heed the dirt and noise and squalor about them—it is out of this material that they have to build their lives, with it that they have to utter their souls. And this is their utterance84; merry and boisterous85, or mournful and wailing86, or passionate87 and rebellious88, this music is their music, music of home. It stretches out its arms to them, they have only to give themselves up. Chicago and its saloons and its slums fade away—there are green meadows and sunlit rivers, mighty forests and snow-clad hills. They behold89 home landscapes and childhood scenes returning; old loves and friendships begin to waken, old joys and griefs to laugh and weep. Some fall back and close their eyes, some beat upon the table. Now and then one leaps up with a cry and calls for this song or that; and then the fire leaps brighter in Tamoszius' eyes, and he flings up his fiddle and shouts to his companions, and away they go in mad career. The company takes up the choruses, and men and women cry out like all possessed; some leap to their feet and stamp upon the floor, lifting their glasses and pledging each other. Before long it occurs to some one to demand an old wedding song, which celebrates the beauty of the bride and the joys of love. In the excitement of this masterpiece Tamoszius Kuszleika begins to edge in between the tables, making his way toward the head, where sits the bride. There is not a foot of space between the chairs of the guests, and Tamoszius is so short that he pokes90 them with his bow whenever he reaches over for the low notes; but still he presses in, and insists relentlessly91 that his companions must follow. During their progress, needless to say, the sounds of the cello are pretty well extinguished; but at last the three are at the head, and Tamoszius takes his station at the right hand of the bride and begins to pour out his soul in melting strains.
Little Ona is too excited to eat. Once in a while she tastes a little something, when Cousin Marija pinches her elbow and reminds her; but, for the most part, she sits gazing with the same fearful eyes of wonder. Teta Elzbieta is all in a flutter, like a hummingbird92; her sisters, too, keep running up behind her, whispering, breathless. But Ona seems scarcely to hear them—the music keeps calling, and the far-off look comes back, and she sits with her hands pressed together over her heart. Then the tears begin to come into her eyes; and as she is ashamed to wipe them away, and ashamed to let them run down her cheeks, she turns and shakes her head a little, and then flushes red when she sees that Jurgis is watching her. When in the end Tamoszius Kuszleika has reached her side, and is waving his magic wand above her, Ona's cheeks are scarlet93, and she looks as if she would have to get up and run away.
In this crisis, however, she is saved by Marija Berczynskas, whom the muses suddenly visit. Marija is fond of a song, a song of lovers' parting; she wishes to hear it, and, as the musicians do not know it, she has risen, and is proceeding94 to teach them. Marija is short, but powerful in build. She works in a canning factory, and all day long she handles cans of beef that weigh fourteen pounds. She has a broad Slavic face, with prominent red cheeks. When she opens her mouth, it is tragical95, but you cannot help thinking of a horse. She wears a blue flannel96 shirt-waist, which is now rolled up at the sleeves, disclosing her brawny97 arms; she has a carving98 fork in her hand, with which she pounds on the table to mark the time. As she roars her song, in a voice of which it is enough to say that it leaves no portion of the room vacant, the three musicians follow her, laboriously100 and note by note, but averaging one note behind; thus they toil43 through stanza101 after stanza of a lovesick swain's lamentation102:—
"Sudiev' kvietkeli, tu brangiausis;
Sudiev' ir laime, man biednam,
Matau—paskyre teip Aukszcziausis,
Jog vargt ant svieto reik vienam!"
When the song is over, it is time for the speech, and old Dede Antanas rises to his feet. Grandfather Anthony, Jurgis' father, is not more than sixty years of age, but you would think that he was eighty. He has been only six months in America, and the change has not done him good. In his manhood he worked in a cotton mill, but then a coughing fell upon him, and he had to leave; out in the country the trouble disappeared, but he has been working in the pickle103 rooms at Durham's, and the breathing of the cold, damp air all day has brought it back. Now as he rises he is seized with a coughing fit, and holds himself by his chair and turns away his wan and battered104 face until it passes.
Generally it is the custom for the speech at a veselija to be taken out of one of the books and learned by heart; but in his youthful days Dede Antanas used to be a scholar, and really make up all the love letters of his friends. Now it is understood that he has composed an original speech of congratulation and benediction105, and this is one of the events of the day. Even the boys, who are romping106 about the room, draw near and listen, and some of the women sob107 and wipe their aprons108 in their eyes. It is very solemn, for Antanas Rudkus has become possessed of the idea that he has not much longer to stay with his children. His speech leaves them all so tearful that one of the guests, Jokubas Szedvilas, who keeps a delicatessen store on Halsted Street, and is fat and hearty109, is moved to rise and say that things may not be as bad as that, and then to go on and make a little speech of his own, in which he showers congratulations and prophecies of happiness upon the bride and groom110, proceeding to particulars which greatly delight the young men, but which cause Ona to blush more furiously than ever. Jokubas possesses what his wife complacently111 describes as "poetiszka vaidintuve"—a poetical112 imagination.
Now a good many of the guests have finished, and, since there is no pretense113 of ceremony, the banquet begins to break up. Some of the men gather about the bar; some wander about, laughing and singing; here and there will be a little group, chanting merrily, and in sublime114 indifference115 to the others and to the orchestra as well. Everybody is more or less restless—one would guess that something is on their minds. And so it proves. The last tardy116 diners are scarcely given time to finish, before the tables and the debris117 are shoved into the corner, and the chairs and the babies piled out of the way, and the real celebration of the evening begins. Then Tamoszius Kuszleika, after replenishing himself with a pot of beer, returns to his platform, and, standing118 up, reviews the scene; he taps authoritatively119 upon the side of his violin, then tucks it carefully under his chin, then waves his bow in an elaborate flourish, and finally smites120 the sounding strings121 and closes his eyes, and floats away in spirit upon the wings of a dreamy waltz. His companion follows, but with his eyes open, watching where he treads, so to speak; and finally Valentinavyczia, after waiting for a little and beating with his foot to get the time, casts up his eyes to the ceiling and begins to saw—"Broom! broom! broom!"
The company pairs off quickly, and the whole room is soon in motion. Apparently122 nobody knows how to waltz, but that is nothing of any consequence—there is music, and they dance, each as he pleases, just as before they sang. Most of them prefer the "two-step," especially the young, with whom it is the fashion. The older people have dances from home, strange and complicated steps which they execute with grave solemnity. Some do not dance anything at all, but simply hold each other's hands and allow the undisciplined joy of motion to express itself with their feet. Among these are Jokubas Szedvilas and his wife, Lucija, who together keep the delicatessen store, and consume nearly as much as they sell; they are too fat to dance, but they stand in the middle of the floor, holding each other fast in their arms, rocking slowly from side to side and grinning seraphically, a picture of toothless and perspiring123 ecstasy.
Of these older people many wear clothing reminiscent in some detail of home—an embroidered125 waistcoat or stomacher, or a gaily126 colored handkerchief, or a coat with large cuffs127 and fancy buttons. All these things are carefully avoided by the young, most of whom have learned to speak English and to affect the latest style of clothing. The girls wear ready-made dresses or shirt waists, and some of them look quite pretty. Some of the young men you would take to be Americans, of the type of clerks, but for the fact that they wear their hats in the room. Each of these younger couples affects a style of its own in dancing. Some hold each other tightly, some at a cautious distance. Some hold their hands out stiffly, some drop them loosely at their sides. Some dance springily, some glide128 softly, some move with grave dignity. There are boisterous couples, who tear wildly about the room, knocking every one out of their way. There are nervous couples, whom these frighten, and who cry, "Nusfok! Kas yra?" at them as they pass. Each couple is paired for the evening—you will never see them change about. There is Alena Jasaityte, for instance, who has danced unending hours with Juozas Raczius, to whom she is engaged. Alena is the beauty of the evening, and she would be really beautiful if she were not so proud. She wears a white shirtwaist, which represents, perhaps, half a week's labor99 painting cans. She holds her skirt with her hand as she dances, with stately precision, after the manner of the grandes dames130. Juozas is driving one of Durham's wagons131, and is making big wages. He affects a "tough" aspect, wearing his hat on one side and keeping a cigarette in his mouth all the evening. Then there is Jadvyga Marcinkus, who is also beautiful, but humble132. Jadvyga likewise paints cans, but then she has an invalid133 mother and three little sisters to support by it, and so she does not spend her wages for shirtwaists. Jadvyga is small and delicate, with jet-black eyes and hair, the latter twisted into a little knot and tied on the top of her head. She wears an old white dress which she has made herself and worn to parties for the past five years; it is high-waisted—almost under her arms, and not very becoming,—but that does not trouble Jadvyga, who is dancing with her Mikolas. She is small, while he is big and powerful; she nestles in his arms as if she would hide herself from view, and leans her head upon his shoulder. He in turn has clasped his arms tightly around her, as if he would carry her away; and so she dances, and will dance the entire evening, and would dance forever, in ecstasy of bliss134. You would smile, perhaps, to see them—but you would not smile if you knew all the story. This is the fifth year, now, that Jadvyga has been engaged to Mikolas, and her heart is sick. They would have been married in the beginning, only Mikolas has a father who is drunk all day, and he is the only other man in a large family. Even so they might have managed it (for Mikolas is a skilled man) but for cruel accidents which have almost taken the heart out of them. He is a beef-boner, and that is a dangerous trade, especially when you are on piecework and trying to earn a bride. Your hands are slippery, and your knife is slippery, and you are toiling like mad, when somebody happens to speak to you, or you strike a bone. Then your hand slips up on the blade, and there is a fearful gash135. And that would not be so bad, only for the deadly contagion136. The cut may heal, but you never can tell. Twice now; within the last three years, Mikolas has been lying at home with blood poisoning—once for three months and once for nearly seven. The last time, too, he lost his job, and that meant six weeks more of standing at the doors of the packing houses, at six o'clock on bitter winter mornings, with a foot of snow on the ground and more in the air. There are learned people who can tell you out of the statistics that beef-boners make forty cents an hour, but, perhaps, these people have never looked into a beef-boner's hands.
When Tamoszius and his companions stop for a rest, as perforce they must, now and then, the dancers halt where they are and wait patiently. They never seem to tire; and there is no place for them to sit down if they did. It is only for a minute, anyway, for the leader starts up again, in spite of all the protests of the other two. This time it is another sort of a dance, a Lithuanian dance. Those who prefer to, go on with the two-step, but the majority go through an intricate series of motions, resembling more fancy skating than a dance. The climax137 of it is a furious prestissimo, at which the couples seize hands and begin a mad whirling. This is quite irresistible138, and every one in the room joins in, until the place becomes a maze139 of flying skirts and bodies quite dazzling to look upon. But the sight of sights at this moment is Tamoszius Kuszleika. The old fiddle squeaks and shrieks141 in protest, but Tamoszius has no mercy. The sweat starts out on his forehead, and he bends over like a cyclist on the last lap of a race. His body shakes and throbs142 like a runaway143 steam engine, and the ear cannot follow the flying showers of notes—there is a pale blue mist where you look to see his bowing arm. With a most wonderful rush he comes to the end of the tune, and flings up his hands and staggers back exhausted144; and with a final shout of delight the dancers fly apart, reeling here and there, bringing up against the walls of the room.
After this there is beer for every one, the musicians included, and the revelers take a long breath and prepare for the great event of the evening, which is the acziavimas. The acziavimas is a ceremony which, once begun, will continue for three or four hours, and it involves one uninterrupted dance. The guests form a great ring, locking hands, and, when the music starts up, begin to move around in a circle. In the center stands the bride, and, one by one, the men step into the enclosure and dance with her. Each dances for several minutes—as long as he pleases; it is a very merry proceeding, with laughter and singing, and when the guest has finished, he finds himself face to face with Teta Elzbieta, who holds the hat. Into it he drops a sum of money—a dollar, or perhaps five dollars, according to his power, and his estimate of the value of the privilege. The guests are expected to pay for this entertainment; if they be proper guests, they will see that there is a neat sum left over for the bride and bridegroom to start life upon.
Most fearful they are to contemplate145, the expenses of this entertainment. They will certainly be over two hundred dollars and maybe three hundred; and three hundred dollars is more than the year's income of many a person in this room. There are able-bodied men here who work from early morning until late at night, in ice-cold cellars with a quarter of an inch of water on the floor—men who for six or seven months in the year never see the sunlight from Sunday afternoon till the next Sunday morning—and who cannot earn three hundred dollars in a year. There are little children here, scarce in their teens, who can hardly see the top of the work benches—whose parents have lied to get them their places—and who do not make the half of three hundred dollars a year, and perhaps not even the third of it. And then to spend such a sum, all in a single day of your life, at a wedding feast! (For obviously it is the same thing, whether you spend it at once for your own wedding, or in a long time, at the weddings of all your friends.)
It is very imprudent, it is tragic—but, ah, it is so beautiful! Bit by bit these poor people have given up everything else; but to this they cling with all the power of their souls—they cannot give up the veselija! To do that would mean, not merely to be defeated, but to acknowledge defeat—and the difference between these two things is what keeps the world going. The veselija has come down to them from a far-off time; and the meaning of it was that one might dwell within the cave and gaze upon shadows, provided only that once in his lifetime he could break his chains, and feel his wings, and behold the sun; provided that once in his lifetime he might testify to the fact that life, with all its cares and its terrors, is no such great thing after all, but merely a bubble upon the surface of a river, a thing that one may toss about and play with as a juggler146 tosses his golden balls, a thing that one may quaff147, like a goblet148 of rare red wine. Thus having known himself for the master of things, a man could go back to his toil and live upon the memory all his days.
Endlessly the dancers swung round and round—when they were dizzy they swung the other way. Hour after hour this had continued—the darkness had fallen and the room was dim from the light of two smoky oil lamps. The musicians had spent all their fine frenzy by now, and played only one tune, wearily, ploddingly. There were twenty bars or so of it, and when they came to the end they began again. Once every ten minutes or so they would fail to begin again, but instead would sink back exhausted; a circumstance which invariably brought on a painful and terrifying scene, that made the fat policeman stir uneasily in his sleeping place behind the door.
It was all Marija Berczynskas. Marija was one of those hungry souls who cling with desperation to the skirts of the retreating muse59. All day long she had been in a state of wonderful exaltation; and now it was leaving—and she would not let it go. Her soul cried out in the words of Faust, "Stay, thou art fair!" Whether it was by beer, or by shouting, or by music, or by motion, she meant that it should not go. And she would go back to the chase of it—and no sooner be fairly started than her chariot would be thrown off the track, so to speak, by the stupidity of those thrice accursed musicians. Each time, Marija would emit a howl and fly at them, shaking her fists in their faces, stamping upon the floor, purple and incoherent with rage. In vain the frightened Tamoszius would attempt to speak, to plead the limitations of the flesh; in vain would the puffing149 and breathless ponas Jokubas insist, in vain would Teta Elzbieta implore150. "Szalin!" Marija would scream. "Palauk! isz kelio! What are you paid for, children of hell?" And so, in sheer terror, the orchestra would strike up again, and Marija would return to her place and take up her task.
She bore all the burden of the festivities now. Ona was kept up by her excitement, but all of the women and most of the men were tired—the soul of Marija was alone unconquered. She drove on the dancers—what had once been the ring had now the shape of a pear, with Marija at the stem, pulling one way and pushing the other, shouting, stamping, singing, a very volcano of energy. Now and then some one coming in or out would leave the door open, and the night air was chill; Marija as she passed would stretch out her foot and kick the doorknob, and slam would go the door! Once this procedure was the cause of a calamity151 of which Sebastijonas Szedvilas was the hapless victim. Little Sebastijonas, aged129 three, had been wandering about oblivious152 to all things, holding turned up over his mouth a bottle of liquid known as "pop," pink-colored, ice-cold, and delicious. Passing through the doorway the door smote153 him full, and the shriek140 which followed brought the dancing to a halt. Marija, who threatened horrid154 murder a hundred times a day, and would weep over the injury of a fly, seized little Sebastijonas in her arms and bid fair to smother155 him with kisses. There was a long rest for the orchestra, and plenty of refreshments156, while Marija was making her peace with her victim, seating him upon the bar, and standing beside him and holding to his lips a foaming schooner157 of beer.
In the meantime there was going on in another corner of the room an anxious conference between Teta Elzbieta and Dede Antanas, and a few of the more intimate friends of the family. A trouble was come upon them. The veselija is a compact, a compact not expressed, but therefore only the more binding158 upon all. Every one's share was different—and yet every one knew perfectly well what his share was, and strove to give a little more. Now, however, since they had come to the new country, all this was changing; it seemed as if there must be some subtle poison in the air that one breathed here—it was affecting all the young men at once. They would come in crowds and fill themselves with a fine dinner, and then sneak159 off. One would throw another's hat out of the window, and both would go out to get it, and neither could be seen again. Or now and then half a dozen of them would get together and march out openly, staring at you, and making fun of you to your face. Still others, worse yet, would crowd about the bar, and at the expense of the host drink themselves sodden160, paying not the least attention to any one, and leaving it to be thought that either they had danced with the bride already, or meant to later on.
All these things were going on now, and the family was helpless with dismay. So long they had toiled161, and such an outlay162 they had made! Ona stood by, her eyes wide with terror. Those frightful163 bills—how they had haunted her, each item gnawing164 at her soul all day and spoiling her rest at night. How often she had named them over one by one and figured on them as she went to work—fifteen dollars for the hall, twenty-two dollars and a quarter for the ducks, twelve dollars for the musicians, five dollars at the church, and a blessing165 of the Virgin166 besides—and so on without an end! Worst of all was the frightful bill that was still to come from Graiczunas for the beer and liquor that might be consumed. One could never get in advance more than a guess as to this from a saloon-keeper—and then, when the time came he always came to you scratching his head and saying that he had guessed too low, but that he had done his best—your guests had gotten so very drunk. By him you were sure to be cheated unmercifully, and that even though you thought yourself the dearest of the hundreds of friends he had. He would begin to serve your guests out of a keg that was half full, and finish with one that was half empty, and then you would be charged for two kegs of beer. He would agree to serve a certain quality at a certain price, and when the time came you and your friends would be drinking some horrible poison that could not be described. You might complain, but you would get nothing for your pains but a ruined evening; while, as for going to law about it, you might as well go to heaven at once. The saloon-keeper stood in with all the big politics men in the district; and when you had once found out what it meant to get into trouble with such people, you would know enough to pay what you were told to pay and shut up.
What made all this the more painful was that it was so hard on the few that had really done their best. There was poor old ponas Jokubas, for instance—he had already given five dollars, and did not every one know that Jokubas Szedvilas had just mortgaged his delicatessen store for two hundred dollars to meet several months' overdue167 rent? And then there was withered168 old poni Aniele—who was a widow, and had three children, and the rheumatism169 besides, and did washing for the tradespeople on Halsted Street at prices it would break your heart to hear named. Aniele had given the entire profit of her chickens for several months. Eight of them she owned, and she kept them in a little place fenced around on her backstairs. All day long the children of Aniele were raking in the dump for food for these chickens; and sometimes, when the competition there was too fierce, you might see them on Halsted Street walking close to the gutters170, and with their mother following to see that no one robbed them of their finds. Money could not tell the value of these chickens to old Mrs. Jukniene—she valued them differently, for she had a feeling that she was getting something for nothing by means of them—that with them she was getting the better of a world that was getting the better of her in so many other ways. So she watched them every hour of the day, and had learned to see like an owl4 at night to watch them then. One of them had been stolen long ago, and not a month passed that some one did not try to steal another. As the frustrating171 of this one attempt involved a score of false alarms, it will be understood what a tribute old Mrs. Jukniene brought, just because Teta Elzbieta had once loaned her some money for a few days and saved her from being turned out of her house.
More and more friends gathered round while the lamentation about these things was going on. Some drew nearer, hoping to overhear the conversation, who were themselves among the guilty—and surely that was a thing to try the patience of a saint. Finally there came Jurgis, urged by some one, and the story was retold to him. Jurgis listened in silence, with his great black eyebrows172 knitted. Now and then there would come a gleam underneath173 them and he would glance about the room. Perhaps he would have liked to go at some of those fellows with his big clenched174 fists; but then, doubtless, he realized how little good it would do him. No bill would be any less for turning out any one at this time; and then there would be the scandal—and Jurgis wanted nothing except to get away with Ona and to let the world go its own way. So his hands relaxed and he merely said quietly: "It is done, and there is no use in weeping, Teta Elzbieta." Then his look turned toward Ona, who stood close to his side, and he saw the wide look of terror in her eyes. "Little one," he said, in a low voice, "do not worry—it will not matter to us. We will pay them all somehow. I will work harder." That was always what Jurgis said. Ona had grown used to it as the solution of all difficulties—"I will work harder!" He had said that in Lithuania when one official had taken his passport from him, and another had arrested him for being without it, and the two had divided a third of his belongings175. He had said it again in New York, when the smooth-spoken agent had taken them in hand and made them pay such high prices, and almost prevented their leaving his place, in spite of their paying. Now he said it a third time, and Ona drew a deep breath; it was so wonderful to have a husband, just like a grown woman—and a husband who could solve all problems, and who was so big and strong!
The last sob of little Sebastijonas has been stifled176, and the orchestra has once more been reminded of its duty. The ceremony begins again—but there are few now left to dance with, and so very soon the collection is over and promiscuous177 dances once more begin. It is now after midnight, however, and things are not as they were before. The dancers are dull and heavy—most of them have been drinking hard, and have long ago passed the stage of exhilaration. They dance in monotonous178 measure, round after round, hour after hour, with eyes fixed179 upon vacancy180, as if they were only half conscious, in a constantly growing stupor181. The men grasp the women very tightly, but there will be half an hour together when neither will see the other's face. Some couples do not care to dance, and have retired182 to the corners, where they sit with their arms enlaced. Others, who have been drinking still more, wander about the room, bumping into everything; some are in groups of two or three, singing, each group its own song. As time goes on there is a variety of drunkenness, among the younger men especially. Some stagger about in each other's arms, whispering maudlin183 words—others start quarrels upon the slightest pretext184, and come to blows and have to be pulled apart. Now the fat policeman wakens definitely, and feels of his club to see that it is ready for business. He has to be prompt—for these two-o'clock-in-the-morning fights, if they once get out of hand, are like a forest fire, and may mean the whole reserves at the station. The thing to do is to crack every fighting head that you see, before there are so many fighting heads that you cannot crack any of them. There is but scant185 account kept of cracked heads in back of the yards, for men who have to crack the heads of animals all day seem to get into the habit, and to practice on their friends, and even on their families, between times. This makes it a cause for congratulation that by modern methods a very few men can do the painfully necessary work of head-cracking for the whole of the cultured world.
There is no fight that night—perhaps because Jurgis, too, is watchful—even more so than the policeman. Jurgis has drunk a great deal, as any one naturally would on an occasion when it all has to be paid for, whether it is drunk or not; but he is a very steady man, and does not easily lose his temper. Only once there is a tight shave—and that is the fault of Marija Berczynskas. Marija has apparently concluded about two hours ago that if the altar in the corner, with the deity186 in soiled white, be not the true home of the muses, it is, at any rate, the nearest substitute on earth attainable187. And Marija is just fighting drunk when there come to her ears the facts about the villains188 who have not paid that night. Marija goes on the warpath straight off, without even the preliminary of a good cursing, and when she is pulled off it is with the coat collars of two villains in her hands. Fortunately, the policeman is disposed to be reasonable, and so it is not Marija who is flung out of the place.
All this interrupts the music for not more than a minute or two. Then again the merciless tune begins—the tune that has been played for the last half-hour without one single change. It is an American tune this time, one which they have picked up on the streets; all seem to know the words of it—or, at any rate, the first line of it, which they hum to themselves, over and over again without rest: "In the good old summertime—in the good old summertime! In the good old summertime—in the good old summertime!" There seems to be something hypnotic about this, with its endlessly recurring189 dominant190. It has put a stupor upon every one who hears it, as well as upon the men who are playing it. No one can get away from it, or even think of getting away from it; it is three o'clock in the morning, and they have danced out all their joy, and danced out all their strength, and all the strength that unlimited191 drink can lend them—and still there is no one among them who has the power to think of stopping. Promptly192 at seven o'clock this same Monday morning they will every one of them have to be in their places at Durham's or Brown's or Jones's, each in his working clothes. If one of them be a minute late, he will be docked an hour's pay, and if he be many minutes late, he will be apt to find his brass193 check turned to the wall, which will send him out to join the hungry mob that waits every morning at the gates of the packing houses, from six o'clock until nearly half-past eight. There is no exception to this rule, not even little Ona—who has asked for a holiday the day after her wedding day, a holiday without pay, and been refused. While there are so many who are anxious to work as you wish, there is no occasion for incommoding yourself with those who must work otherwise.
Little Ona is nearly ready to faint—and half in a stupor herself, because of the heavy scent124 in the room. She has not taken a drop, but every one else there is literally194 burning alcohol, as the lamps are burning oil; some of the men who are sound asleep in their chairs or on the floor are reeking195 of it so that you cannot go near them. Now and then Jurgis gazes at her hungrily—he has long since forgotten his shyness; but then the crowd is there, and he still waits and watches the door, where a carriage is supposed to come. It does not, and finally he will wait no longer, but comes up to Ona, who turns white and trembles. He puts her shawl about her and then his own coat. They live only two blocks away, and Jurgis does not care about the carriage.
There is almost no farewell—the dancers do not notice them, and all of the children and many of the old folks have fallen asleep of sheer exhaustion196. Dede Antanas is asleep, and so are the Szedvilases, husband and wife, the former snoring in octaves. There is Teta Elzbieta, and Marija, sobbing197 loudly; and then there is only the silent night, with the stars beginning to pale a little in the east. Jurgis, without a word, lifts Ona in his arms, and strides out with her, and she sinks her head upon his shoulder with a moan. When he reaches home he is not sure whether she has fainted or is asleep, but when he has to hold her with one hand while he unlocks the door, he sees that she has opened her eyes.
"You shall not go to Brown's today, little one," he whispers, as he climbs the stairs; and she catches his arm in terror, gasping198: "No! No! I dare not! It will ruin us!"
But he answers her again: "Leave it to me; leave it to me. I will earn more money—I will work harder."
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1
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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2
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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3
bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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exhorting
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的现在分词 ) | |
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6
proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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7
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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11
cello
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| n.大提琴 | |
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12
squeaking
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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13
fiddles
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| n.小提琴( fiddle的名词复数 )；欺诈；（需要运用手指功夫的）细巧活动；当第二把手v.伪造( fiddle的第三人称单数 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
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14
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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15
precipitately
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| adv.猛进地 | |
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16
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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17
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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18
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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19
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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20
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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21
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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22
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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23
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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25
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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27
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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28
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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29
beetling
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| adj.突出的，悬垂的v.快速移动( beetle的现在分词 ) | |
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30
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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31
onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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32
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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33
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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34
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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35
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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36
munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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37
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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38
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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41
viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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42
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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43
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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44
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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45
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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46
imbibes
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| v.吸收( imbibe的第三人称单数 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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47
stewed
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| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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48
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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49
pitchers
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| 大水罐( pitcher的名词复数 ) | |
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50
badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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51
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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52
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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53
condescends
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的第三人称单数 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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54
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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55
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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56
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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57
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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58
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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59
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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60
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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61
horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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62
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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63
capering
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| v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的现在分词 )；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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64
sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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65
toils
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| 网 | |
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66
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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67
peppermint
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| n.薄荷，薄荷油，薄荷糖 | |
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68
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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69
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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70
bristle
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| v.（毛发）直立，气势汹汹，发怒；n.硬毛发 | |
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71
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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72
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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73
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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74
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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75
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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76
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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77
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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78
lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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79
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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80
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
cellist
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| n.大提琴手 | |
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82
squeaks
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| n.短促的尖叫声，吱吱声( squeak的名词复数 )v.短促地尖叫( squeak的第三人称单数 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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83
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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84
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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85
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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86
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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87
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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88
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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89
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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90
pokes
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| v.伸出( poke的第三人称单数 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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91
relentlessly
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| adv.不屈不挠地；残酷地；不间断 | |
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92
hummingbird
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| n.蜂鸟 | |
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93
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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94
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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95
tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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96
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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97
brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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98
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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99
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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100
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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101
stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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102
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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103
pickle
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| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
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104
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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105
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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106
romping
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| adj.嬉戏喧闹的，乱蹦乱闹的v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的现在分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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107
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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108
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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109
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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110
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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111
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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112
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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113
pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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114
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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115
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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116
tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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117
debris
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| n.瓦砾堆，废墟，碎片 | |
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118
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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119
authoritatively
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| 命令式地，有权威地，可信地 | |
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120
smites
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的第三人称单数 ) | |
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121
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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122
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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123
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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124
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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125
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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126
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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127
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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128
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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129
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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130
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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131
wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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132
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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133
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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134
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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135
gash
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| v.深切，划开；n.(深长的)切(伤)口；裂缝 | |
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136
contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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137
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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138
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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139
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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140
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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141
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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142
throbs
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| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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143
runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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144
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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145
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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146
juggler
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| n. 变戏法者, 行骗者 | |
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147
quaff
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| v.一饮而尽；痛饮 | |
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148
goblet
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| n.高脚酒杯 | |
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149
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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150
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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151
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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152
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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153
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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154
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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155
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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156
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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157
schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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158
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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159
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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160
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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161
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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162
outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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163
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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164
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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165
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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166
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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167
overdue
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| adj.过期的，到期未付的；早该有的，迟到的 | |
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168
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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169
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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170
gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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171
frustrating
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| adj.产生挫折的，使人沮丧的，令人泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的现在分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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172
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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173
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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174
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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176
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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177
promiscuous
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| adj.杂乱的，随便的 | |
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178
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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179
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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180
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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181
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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182
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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183
maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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184
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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185
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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186
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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187
attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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188
villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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189
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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190
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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191
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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192
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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193
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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194
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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195
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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196
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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197
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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198
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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