The Riddle1 of Intolerance
In considering the quality of the American mind (upon which, as I believe, the ultimate destiny of America entirely2 depends), it has been necessary to point out that, considered as one whole, it still seems lacking in any of that living sense of the state out of which constructive3 effort must arise, and that, consequently, enormous amounts of energy go to waste in anarchistic4 and chaotically6 competitive private enterprise. I believe there are powerful forces at work in the trend of modern thought, science, and method, in the direction of bringing order, control, and design into this confused gigantic conflict, and the discussion of these constructive forces must necessarily form the crown of my forecast of America's future. But before I come to that I must deal with certain American traits that puzzle me, that I cannot completely explain to myself, that dash my large expectations with an obstinate7 shadow of foreboding. Essentially8 these are disintegrating9 in[Pg 168]fluences, in the nature of a fierce intolerance, that lead to conflicts and destroy co-operation. One makes one's criticism with compunction. One moves through the American world, meeting constantly with kindness and hospitality, with a familiar helpfulness that is delightful10, with sympathetic enterprise and energetic imagination, and then suddenly there flashes out a quality of harshness....
I will explain in a few minutes what I mean by this flash of harshness. Let me confess here that I cannot determine whether it is a necessary consequence of American conditions, the scar upon the soul of too strenuous11 business competition, or whether it is something deeper, some subtle, unavoidable infection perhaps in this soil that was once the Red Indian's battle-ground, some poison, it may be, mingled12 with this clear exhilarating air. And going with this harshness there seems also something else, a contempt for abstract justice that one does not find in any European intelligence—not even among the English. This contempt may be a correlative of the intense practicality begotten14 by a scruple-destroying commercial training. That, at any rate, is my own prepossession. Conceivably I am over-disposed to make that tall lady in New York Harbor stand as a symbol for the liberty of property, and to trace the indisputable hastiness of life here—it is haste sometimes rather than speed,—its scorn of ?sthetic and abstract issues, this frequent quality of harshness, and a certain public disorder15, whatever[Pg 169] indeed mars the splendid promise and youth of America, to that. I think it is an accident of the commercial phase that presses men beyond dignity, patience, and magnanimity. I am loath16 to believe it is something fundamentally American.
I have very clearly in my memory the figure of young MacQueen, in his gray prison clothes in Trenton jail, and how I talked with him. He and Mr. Booker T. Washington and Maxim17 Gorky stand for me as figures in the shadow—symbolical men. I think of America as pride and promise, as large growth and large courage, all set with beautiful fluttering bunting, and then my vision of these three men comes back to me; they return presences inseparable from my American effect, unlit and uncomplaining on the sunless side of her, implying rather than voicing certain accusations18. America can be hasty, can be obstinately19 thoughtless and unjust....
Well, let me set down as shortly as I can how I saw them, and then go on again with my main thesis.
II
MacQueen
MacQueen is one of those young men England is now making by the thousand in her elementary schools—a man of that active, intelligent, mentally hungry, self-educating sort that is giving us our elementary teach[Pg 170]ers, our labor21 members, able journalists, authors, civil servants, and some of the most public-spirited and efficient of our municipal administrators22. He is the sort of man an Englishman grows prouder of as he sees America and something of her politicians and labor leaders. After his board-school days MacQueen went to work as a painter and grainer, and gave his spare energy to self-education. He mastered German, and read widely and freely. He corresponded with William Morris, devoured23 Tolstoy and Bernard Shaw, followed the Clarion24 week by week, discussed social questions, wrote to the newspapers, debated, made speeches. The English reader will begin to recognize the type. Jail had worn him when I saw him, but I should think he was always physically25 delicate; he wears spectacles, he warms emotionally as he talks. And he decided26, after much excogitation, that the ideal state is one of so fine a quality of moral training that people will not need coercion27 and repressive laws. He calls himself an anarchist5—of the early Christian28, Tolstoyan, non-resisting school. Such an anarchist was Emerson, among other dead Americans whose names are better treasured than their thoughts. That sort of anarchist has as much connection with embittered29 bomb-throwers and assassins as Miss Florence Nightingale has with the woman Hartmann, who put on a nurse's uniform to poison and rob....
Well, MacQueen led an active life in England, married, made a decent living, and took an honor[Pg 171]able part in the local affairs of Leeds until he was twenty-six. Then he conceived a desire for wider opportunity than England offers men of his class.
In January, 1902, he crossed the Atlantic, and, no doubt, he came very much aglow30 with the American idea. He felt that he was exchanging a decadent31 country of dwarfing32 social and political traditions for a land of limitless outlook. He became a proof-reader in New York, and began to seek around him for opportunities of speaking and forwarding social progress. He tried to float a newspaper. The New York labor-unions found him a useful speaker, and, among others, the German silk-workers of New York became aware of him. In June they asked him to go to Paterson to speak in German to the weavers33 in that place.
The silk-dyers were on strike in Paterson, but the weavers were weaving "scab-silk," dyed by dyers elsewhere, and it was believed that the dyers' strike would fail unless they struck also. They had to be called out. They were chiefly Italians, some Hungarians. It was felt by the New York German silk-workers that perhaps MacQueen's German learned in England might meet the linguistic34 difficulties of the case.
He went. I hope he will forgive me if I say that his was an extremely futile35 expedition. He did very little. He wrote an entirely harmless article or so in English for La Questione Sociale, and he declined with horror and publicity36 to appear upon the same[Pg 172] platform with a mischievous37 and violent lady anarchist called Emma Goldman. On June 17, 1902, he went to Paterson again, and spoke38 to his own undoing39. There is no evidence that he said anything illegal or inflammatory, there is clear evidence that he bored his audience. They shouted him down, and called for a prominent local speaker named Galiano. MacQueen subsided40 into the background, and Galiano spoke for an hour in Italian. He aroused great enthusiasm, and the proceedings41 terminated with a destructive riot.
Eight witnesses testify to the ineffectual efforts on the part of MacQueen to combat the violence in progress....
That finishes the story of MacQueen's activities in America, for which he is now in durance at Trenton. He, in common with a large crowd and in common, too, with nearly all the witnesses against him, did commit one offence against the law—he did not go home when destruction began. He was arrested next day. From that time forth42 his fate was out of his hands, and in the control of a number of people who wanted to "make an example" of the Paterson strikers. The press took up MacQueen. They began to clothe the bare bones of this simple little history I have told in fluent, unmitigated lying. They blackened him, one might think, out of sheer artistic43 pleasure in the operation. They called this rather nervous, educated, nobly meaning if ill-advised young man a "notorious anarchist"; his[Pg 173] head-line title became "Anarchistic MacQueen"; they wrote his "story" in a vein44 of imaginative fervor45; they invented "an unsavory police record" for him in England; and enlarged upon the marvellous secret organization for crime of which he was representative and leader. In a little while MacQueen had ceased to be a credible46 human being; he might have been invented by Mr. William le Queux. He was arrested—Galiano went scot-free—and released on bail47. It was discovered that his pleasant, decent Yorkshire wife and three children were coming out to America to him, and she became "the woman Nellie Barton"—her maiden48 name—and "a socialist49 of the Emma Goldman stripe." This, one gathers, is the most horrible stripe known to American journalism50. Had there been a worse one, Mrs. MacQueen would have been the ex officio. And now here is an extraordinary thing—public officials began to join in the process. This is what perplexes me most in this affair. I am told that Assistant-Secretary-of-the-Treasury H.A. Taylor, without a fact to go upon, subscribed51 to the "unsavory record" legend and Assistant-Secretary C.H. Keep fell in with it. They must have seen what it was they were indorsing. In a letter from Mr. Keep to the Reverend A.W. Wishart, of Trenton (who throughout has fought most gallantly52 for justice in this case), I find Mr. Keep distinguishes himself by the artistic device of putting "William MacQueen's" name in inverted53 commas. So, very delicately, he conveys out of the[Pg 174] void the insinuation that the name is an alias54. Meanwhile the Commissioner55 of Immigration prepared to take a hand in the game of breaking up MacQueen. He stopped Mrs. MacQueen at the threshold of liberty, imprisoned56 her in Ellis Island, and sent her back to Europe. MacQueen, still on bail, was not informed of this action, and waited on the pier57 for some hours before he understood. His wife had come second class to America, but she was returned first class, and the steamship58 company seized her goods for the return fare....
That was more than MacQueen could stand. He had been tried, convicted, sentenced to five years' imprisonment59, and he was now out on bail pending60 an appeal. Anxiety about his wife and children was too much for him. He slipped off to England after them ("Escape of the Anarchist MacQueen"), made what provision and arrangements he could for them, and returned in time to save his bondsman's money ("Capture of the Escaped Anarchist MacQueen"). Several members of the Leeds City Council ("Criminal Associates in Europe") saw him off. That was in 1903. His appeal had been refused on a technical point. He went into Trenton jail, and there he is to this day. There I saw him. Trenton Jail did not impress me as an agreeable place. The building is fairly old, and there is no nonsense about the food. The cells hold, some of them, four criminals, some of them two, but latterly MacQueen has had spells in the infirmary, and has managed to get a cell to him[Pg 175]self. Many of the criminals are negroes and half-breeds, imprisoned for unspeakable offences. In the exercising-yard MacQueen likes to keep apart. "When I first came I used to get in a corner," he said....
Now this case of MacQueen has exercised my mind enormously. It was painful to go out of the gray jail again after I had talked to him—of Shaw and Morris, of the Fabian Society and the British labor members—into sunlight and freedom, and ever and again, as I went about New York having the best of times among the most agreeable people, the figure of him would come back to me quite vividly61, in his gray dress, sitting on the edge of an unaccustomed chair, hands on his knees, speaking a little nervously62 and jerkily, and very glad indeed to see me. He is younger than myself, but much my sort of man, and we talked of books and education and his case like brothers. There can be no doubt to any sensible person who will look into the story of his conviction, who will even go and see him, that there has been a serious miscarriage63 of justice.
There has been a serious miscarriage of justice, such as (unhappily) might happen in any country. That is nothing distinctive64 of America. But what does impress me as remarkable65 and perplexing is the immense difficulty—the perhaps unsurmountable difficulty—of getting this man released. The Governor of the State of New Jersey66 knows he is innocent, the judges of the Court of Pardons know he is in[Pg 176]nocent. Three of them I was able to button-hole at Trenton, and hear their point of View. Two are of the minority and for release, one was doubtful in attitude but hostile in spirit. They hold, the man, he thinks, on the score of public policy. They put it that Paterson is a "hotbed" of crime and violence; that once MacQueen is released every anarchist in the country will be emboldened67 to crime, and so on and so on. I admit Paterson festers, but if we are to punish anybody instead of reforming the system, it's the masters who ought to be in jail for that.
"What will the property-owners in Paterson say to us if this man is released?" one of the judges admitted frankly68.
"But he hadn't anything to do with the violence," I said, and argued the case over again—quite missing the point of that objection.
Whenever I had a chance in New York, in Boston, in Washington, even amid the conversation of a Washington dinner-table, I dragged up the case of MacQueen. Nobody seemed indignant. One lady admitted the sentence was heavy, "he might have been given six months to cool off in," she said. I protested he ought not to have been given a day. "Why did he go there?" said a Supreme69 Court judge in Washington, a lawyer in New York, and several other people. "Wasn't he making trouble?" I was asked.
At last that reached my sluggish70 intelligence.
Yet I still hesitate to accept the new interpreta[Pg 177]tions. Galiano, who preached blind violence and made the riot, got off scot-free; MacQueen, who wanted a legitimate71 strike on British lines, went to jail. So long as the social injustice72, the sweated disorder of Paterson's industrialism, vents73 its cries in Italian in La Questione Sociale, so long as it remains74 an inaudible misery75 so far as the great public is concerned, making vehement76 yet impotent appeals to mere77 force, and so losing its last chances of popular sympathy, American property, I gather, is content. The masters and the immigrants can deal with one another on those lines. But to have outsiders coming in!
There is an active press campaign against the release of "the Anarchist MacQueen," and I do not believe that Mr. Wishart will succeed in his endeavors. I think MacQueen will serve out his five years.
The plain truth is that no one pretends he is in jail on his merits; he is in jail as an example and lesson to any one who proposes to come between master and immigrant worker in Paterson. He has attacked the system. The people who profit by the system, the people who think things are "all right as they are," have hit back in the most effectual way they can, according to their lights.
That, I think, accounts for the sustained quality of the lying in this case, and, indeed, for the whole situation. He is in jail on principle and without personal animus78, just as they used to tar20 and feather[Pg 178] the stray abolitionist on principle in Carolina. The policy of stringent79 discouragement is a reasonable one—scoundrelly, no doubt, but understandable. And I think I can put myself sufficiently80 into the place of the Paterson masters, of the Trenton judges, of those journalists, of those subordinate officials at Washington even, to understand their motives81 and inducements. I indulge in no self-righteous pride. Simply, I thank Heaven I have not had their peculiar83 temptations.
But my riddle lies in the attitude of the public—of the American nation, which hasn't, it seems, a spark of moral indignation for this sort of thing, which indeed joins in quite cheerfully against the victim.
It is ill served by its press, no doubt, but surely it understands....
III
Maxim Gorky
Then I assisted at the coming of Maxim Gorky, and witnessed many intimate details of what Professor Giddings, that courageous84 publicist, has called his "lynching."
Here, again, is a case I fail altogether to understand. The surface values of that affair have a touch of the preposterous85. I set them down in infinite perplexity.
My first week in New York was in the period of[Pg 179] Gorky's advent86. Expectation was at a high pitch, and one might have foretold87 a stupendous, a history-making campaign. The American nation seemed concentrated upon one great and ennobling idea, the freedom of Russia, and upon Gorky as the embodiment of that idea. A protest was to be made against cruelty and violence and massacre88. That great figure of Liberty with the torch was to make it flare89 visibly half-way round the world, reproving tyranny.
Gorky arrived, and the éclat was immense. We dined him, we lunched him, we were photographed in his company by flash-light. I very gladly shared that honor, for Gorky is not only a great master of the art I practise, but a splendid personality. He is one of those people to whom the camera does no justice, whose work, as I know it in an English translation, forceful as it is, fails very largely to convey his peculiar quality. His is a big, quiet figure; there is a curious power of appeal in his face, a large simplicity90 in his voice and gesture. He was dressed, when I met him, in peasant clothing, in a belted blue shirt, trousers of some shiny black material, and boots; and save for a few common greetings he has no other language than Russian. So it was necessary that he should bring with him some one he could trust to interpret him to the world. And having, too, much of the practical helplessness of his type of genius, he could not come without his right hand, that brave and honorable lady, Madame Andreieva, who has been now for years in every[Pg 180]thing but the severest legal sense his wife. Russia has no Dakota; and although his legal wife has long since found another companion, the Orthodox Church in Russia has no divorce facilities for men in the revolutionary camp. So Madame Andreieva stands to him as George Eliot stood to George Lewes, and I suppose the two of them had almost forgotten the technical illegality of their tie, until it burst upon them and the American public in a monstrous91 storm of exposure.
It was like a summer thunder-storm. At one moment Gorky was in an immense sunshine, a plenipotentiary from oppression to liberty, at the next he was being almost literally92 pelted93 through the streets.
I do not know what motive82 actuated a certain section of the American press to initiate94 this pelting95 of Maxim Gorky. A passion for moral purity may perhaps have prompted it, but certainly no passion for purity ever before begot13 so brazen96 and abundant a torrent97 of lies. It was precisely98 the sort of campaign that damned poor MacQueen, but this time on an altogether imperial scale. The irregularity of Madame Andreieva's position was a mere point of departure. The journalists went on to invent a deserted99 wife and children, they declared Madame Andreieva was an "actress," and loaded her with all the unpleasant implications of that unfortunate word; they spoke of her generally as "the woman Andreieva"; they called upon the Commissioner of Immigration to deport100 her as a "female of bad[Pg 181] character"; quite influential101 people wrote to him to that effect; they published the name of the hotel that sheltered her, and organized a boycott102. Whoever dared to countenance103 the victims was denounced. Professor Dewar of Columbia had given them a reception; "Dewar must go," said the head-lines. Mark Twain, who had assisted in the great welcome, was invited to recant and contribute unfriendly comments. The Gorkys were pursued with insult from hotel to hotel. Hotel after hotel turned them out. They found themselves at last, after midnight, in the streets of New York city with every door closed against them. Infected persons could not have been treated more abominably104 in a town smitten105 with a panic of plague.
This change happened in the course of twenty-four hours. On one day Gorky was at the zenith, on the next he had been swept from the world. To me it was astounding—it was terrifying. I wanted to talk to Gorky about it, to find out the hidden springs of this amazing change. I spent a Sunday evening looking for him with an ever-deepening respect for the power of the American press. I had a quaint106 conversation with the clerk of the hotel in Fifth Avenue from which he had first been driven. Europeans can scarcely hope to imagine the moral altitudes at which American hotels are conducted.... I went thence to seek Mr. Abraham Cahan in the East Side, and thence to other people I knew, but in vain. Gorky was obliterated107.
[Pg 182]
I thought this affair was a whirlwind of foolish misunderstanding, such as may happen in any capital, and that presently his entirely tolerable relationship would be explained. But for all the rest of my time in New York this insensate campaign went on. There was no attempt of any importance to stem the tide, and to this day large sections of the American public must be under the impression that this great writer is a depraved man of pleasure accompanied by a favorite cocotte. The writers of paragraphs racked their brains to invent new and smart ways of insulting Madame Andreieva. The chaste108 entertainers of the music-halls of the Tenderloin district introduced allusions109. And amid this riot of personalities110 Russia was forgotten. The massacres111, the chaos112 of cruelty and blundering, the tyranny, the women outraged113, the children tortured and slain—all that was forgotten. In Boston, in Chicago, it was the same. At the bare suggestion of Gorky's coming the same outbreak occurred, the same display of imbecile gross lying, the same absolute disregard of the tragic114 cause he had come to plead.
One gleam of comedy in this remarkable outbreak I recall. Some one in ineffectual protest had asked what Americans would have said if Benjamin Franklin had encountered such ignominies on his similar mission of appeal to Paris before the War of Independence. "Benjamin Franklin," retorted one bright young Chicago journalist, "was a man of very different moral character from Gorky," and proceed[Pg 183]ed to explain how Chicago was prepared to defend the purity of her homes against the invader115. Benjamin Franklin, it is true, was a person of very different morals from Gorky—but I don't think that bright young man in Chicago had a very sound idea of where the difference lay.
I spent my last evening on American soil in the hospitable116 home in Staten Island that sheltered Gorky and Madame Andreieva. After dinner we sat together in the deepening twilight117 upon a broad veranda118 that looks out upon one of the most beautiful views in the world, upon serene119 large spaces of land and sea, upon slopes of pleasant, window-lit, tree-set wooden houses, upon the glittering clusters of lights, and the black and luminous120 shipping121 that comes and goes about the Narrows and the Upper Bay. Half masked by a hill contour to the left was the light of the torch of Liberty.... Gorky's big form fell into shadow, Madame Andreieva sat at his feet, translating methodically, sentence by sentence, into clear French whatever he said, translating our speeches into Russian. He told us stories—of the soul of the Russian, of Russian religious sects122, of kindnesses and cruelties, of his great despair.
Ever and again, in the pauses, my eyes would go to where New York far away glittered like a brighter and more numerous Pleiades.
I gauged123 something of the real magnitude of this one man's disappointment, the immense expectation of his arrival, the impossible dream of his mission.[Pg 184] He had come—the Russian peasant in person, out of a terrific confusion of bloodshed, squalor, injustice—to tell America, the land of light and achieved freedom, of all these evil things. She would receive him, help him, understand truly what he meant with his "Rossia." I could imagine how he had felt as he came in the big steamer to her, up that large converging124 display of space and teeming125 energy. There she glowed to-night across the water, a queen among cities, as if indeed she was the light of the world. Nothing, I think, can ever rob that splendid harbor approach of its invincible126 quality of promise.... And to him she had shown herself no more than the luminous hive of multitudes of base and busy, greedy and childish little men.
MacQueen in jail, Gorky with his reputation wantonly bludgeoned and flung aside; they are just two chance specimens127 of the myriads128 who have come up this great waterway bearing hope and gifts.
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1 riddle | |
n.谜,谜语,粗筛;vt.解谜,给…出谜,筛,检查,鉴定,非难,充满于;vi.出谜 | |
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2 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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3 constructive | |
adj.建设的,建设性的 | |
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4 anarchistic | |
无政府主义的 | |
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5 anarchist | |
n.无政府主义者 | |
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6 chaotically | |
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7 obstinate | |
adj.顽固的,倔强的,不易屈服的,较难治愈的 | |
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8 essentially | |
adv.本质上,实质上,基本上 | |
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9 disintegrating | |
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10 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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11 strenuous | |
adj.奋发的,使劲的;紧张的;热烈的,狂热的 | |
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12 mingled | |
混合,混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 ); 混进,与…交往[联系] | |
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13 begot | |
v.为…之生父( beget的过去式 );产生,引起 | |
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14 begotten | |
v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 );产生,引起 | |
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15 disorder | |
n.紊乱,混乱;骚动,骚乱;疾病,失调 | |
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16 loath | |
adj.不愿意的;勉强的 | |
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17 maxim | |
n.格言,箴言 | |
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18 accusations | |
n.指责( accusation的名词复数 );指控;控告;(被告发、控告的)罪名 | |
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19 obstinately | |
ad.固执地,顽固地 | |
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20 tar | |
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21 labor | |
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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22 administrators | |
n.管理者( administrator的名词复数 );有管理(或行政)才能的人;(由遗嘱检验法庭指定的)遗产管理人;奉派暂管主教教区的牧师 | |
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23 devoured | |
吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 ); 耗尽; 津津有味地看; 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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24 clarion | |
n.尖音小号声;尖音小号 | |
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25 physically | |
adj.物质上,体格上,身体上,按自然规律 | |
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26 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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27 coercion | |
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28 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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29 embittered | |
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30 aglow | |
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31 decadent | |
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32 dwarfing | |
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33 weavers | |
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34 linguistic | |
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35 futile | |
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36 publicity | |
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37 mischievous | |
adj.调皮的,恶作剧的,有害的,伤人的 | |
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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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48 maiden | |
n.少女,处女;adj.未婚的,纯洁的,无经验的 | |
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49 socialist | |
n.社会主义者;adj.社会主义的 | |
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50 journalism | |
n.新闻工作,报业 | |
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51 subscribed | |
v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 );签署,题词;订阅;同意 | |
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52 gallantly | |
adv. 漂亮地,勇敢地,献殷勤地 | |
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53 inverted | |
adj.反向的,倒转的v.使倒置,使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54 alias | |
n.化名;别名;adv.又名 | |
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55 commissioner | |
n.(政府厅、局、处等部门)专员,长官,委员 | |
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56 imprisoned | |
下狱,监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57 pier | |
n.码头;桥墩,桥柱;[建]窗间壁,支柱 | |
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58 steamship | |
n.汽船,轮船 | |
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59 imprisonment | |
n.关押,监禁,坐牢 | |
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60 pending | |
prep.直到,等待…期间;adj.待定的;迫近的 | |
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61 vividly | |
adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
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62 nervously | |
adv.神情激动地,不安地 | |
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63 miscarriage | |
n.失败,未达到预期的结果;流产 | |
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64 distinctive | |
adj.特别的,有特色的,与众不同的 | |
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65 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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66 jersey | |
n.运动衫 | |
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67 emboldened | |
v.鼓励,使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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69 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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70 sluggish | |
adj.懒惰的,迟钝的,无精打采的 | |
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71 legitimate | |
adj.合法的,合理的,合乎逻辑的;v.使合法 | |
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72 injustice | |
n.非正义,不公正,不公平,侵犯(别人的)权利 | |
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73 vents | |
(气体、液体等进出的)孔、口( vent的名词复数 ); (鸟、鱼、爬行动物或小哺乳动物的)肛门; 大衣等的)衩口; 开衩 | |
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74 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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75 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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76 vehement | |
adj.感情强烈的;热烈的;(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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77 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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78 animus | |
n.恶意;意图 | |
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79 stringent | |
adj.严厉的;令人信服的;银根紧的 | |
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80 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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81 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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82 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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83 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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84 courageous | |
adj.勇敢的,有胆量的 | |
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85 preposterous | |
adj.荒谬的,可笑的 | |
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86 advent | |
n.(重要事件等的)到来,来临 | |
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87 foretold | |
v.预言,预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88 massacre | |
n.残杀,大屠杀;v.残杀,集体屠杀 | |
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89 flare | |
v.闪耀,闪烁;n.潮红;突发 | |
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90 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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91 monstrous | |
adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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92 literally | |
adv.照字面意义,逐字地;确实 | |
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93 pelted | |
(连续地)投掷( pelt的过去式和过去分词 ); 连续抨击; 攻击; 剥去…的皮 | |
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94 initiate | |
vt.开始,创始,发动;启蒙,使入门;引入 | |
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95 pelting | |
微不足道的,无价值的,盛怒的 | |
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96 brazen | |
adj.厚脸皮的,无耻的,坚硬的 | |
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97 torrent | |
n.激流,洪流;爆发,(话语等的)连发 | |
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98 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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99 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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100 deport | |
vt.驱逐出境 | |
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101 influential | |
adj.有影响的,有权势的 | |
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102 boycott | |
n./v.(联合)抵制,拒绝参与 | |
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103 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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104 abominably | |
adv. 可恶地,可恨地,恶劣地 | |
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105 smitten | |
猛打,重击,打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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106 quaint | |
adj.古雅的,离奇有趣的,奇怪的 | |
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107 obliterated | |
v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 );涂去;擦掉;彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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108 chaste | |
adj.贞洁的;有道德的;善良的;简朴的 | |
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109 allusions | |
暗指,间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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110 personalities | |
n. 诽谤,(对某人容貌、性格等所进行的)人身攻击; 人身攻击;人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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111 massacres | |
大屠杀( massacre的名词复数 ); 惨败 | |
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112 chaos | |
n.混乱,无秩序 | |
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113 outraged | |
a.震惊的,义愤填膺的 | |
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114 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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115 invader | |
n.侵略者,侵犯者,入侵者 | |
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116 hospitable | |
adj.好客的;宽容的;有利的,适宜的 | |
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117 twilight | |
n.暮光,黄昏;暮年,晚期,衰落时期 | |
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118 veranda | |
n.走廊;阳台 | |
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119 serene | |
adj. 安详的,宁静的,平静的 | |
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120 luminous | |
adj.发光的,发亮的;光明的;明白易懂的;有启发的 | |
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121 shipping | |
n.船运(发货,运输,乘船) | |
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122 sects | |
n.宗派,教派( sect的名词复数 ) | |
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123 gauged | |
adj.校准的;标准的;量规的;量计的v.(用仪器)测量( gauge的过去式和过去分词 );估计;计量;划分 | |
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124 converging | |
adj.收敛[缩]的,会聚的,趋同的v.(线条、运动的物体等)会于一点( converge的现在分词 );(趋于)相似或相同;人或车辆汇集;聚集 | |
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125 teeming | |
adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 );到处都是;(指水、雨等)暴降;倾注 | |
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126 invincible | |
adj.不可征服的,难以制服的 | |
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127 specimens | |
n.样品( specimen的名词复数 );范例;(化验的)抽样;某种类型的人 | |
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128 myriads | |
n.无数,极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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