Nor is that all. On every highway of Europe the wayfarer11 must be always on the alert for the sound of an automobile12 horn. Continental13 chauffeurs14 have small respect for foot-travelers, and the pedestrian who does not heed15 their imperative16 honk17 is quite apt to come into collision with a touring-car moving at its highest rate of speed. Now the first note of protest of an over-burdened ass9 bears a similarity to the toot of an automobile horn that can scarcely be accounted for under the head of coincidences. Moreover, the time ensuing between the first and second notes is quite long enough for a car to shoot around a corner, send the unobserving wanderer skyward, and disappear into the gasoline-saturated Beyond. In consequence, my journey from Florence to Siena was no pleasure stroll; for when I was not vaulting19 roadside hedges before oncoming oxen, I was crouching20 on the edge 65of the highway, peering anxiously round a turn of the route until a second asinine21 vocable broke on my ear.
He who would obtain an exact idea of the ensemble22 of the city of Siena has but to dump a spoonful of sugar on a well-heaped dish of rice. Some of the grains remain at the very top of the heap, others cling tenaciously23 to the sides as if fearful of falling to the bottom into the dish itself. For rice, read a rocky hill; for sugar, houses; for dish, a broad, fertile valley in which space is unlimited24, and the visualization25 of Siena is complete. Except in that small quarter on the flat summit of the hill it is one of those up-and-down towns in which streets should be fitted with ladders; where every householder is in imminent26 danger, each time he steps out of doors, of falling into the next block, should he inadvertently lose his grip on the fa?ade of his dwelling27. I scaled the city without being reduced to the indignity28 of making the ascent29 on hands and knees; but more than once I kept my place only by clutching at the flanking buildings.
How little the knowledge of the world among the masses of Italy has increased, since the days of Columbus, was suggested during my evening in the perennial32 inn at the summit of the town. Engaged in a game of “dama” (checkers) with the innkeeper’s small daughter, I strove at the same time to satisfy the curiosity of the host himself and a band of strolling musicians, of whom a blind youth accompanied both game and conversation on a soft-voiced violin.
“When you go to America,” asked the innkeeper, pointing out a move to my opponent, “you get clear out of sight of land, non è vero?”
I admitted that such experiences were common.
“Ah, I once thought of going to America,” he cried, turning to impress upon the attentive33 audience his fearlessness in having dared to conceive so intrepid34 a venture, “until they told me that. But you wouldn’t catch me on a boat that went clear out of sight of land. I don’t mind a trip from Genoa to Naples, or even to Bastia, where you always have the coast alongside; but when you leave the land and jump out into the universe, steering35 by the stars and going—La Santissima Vergine knows where—ah, not for me! Why, suppose the captain loses his way when the stars move? You come to the edge of the world and over you go. Ugh!”
The audience shuddered36 in sympathy, and the blind youth drew forth37 from his instrument a wail38 such as might have risen from the victims of so dreadful a fate.
By the time a new topic had been broached39 the hostess wandered 66in and sat down before the register in which I had written my autobiography40. Her eyes fell on the figures indicating my age.
“Aha!” she cried, jabbing the number with a stubby forefinger41 and winking42 good-humoredly, “soldiering is hard work, to be sure. I don’t blame you a bit. Officers are hard masters.”
I had too often been accused of running away to escape military service to be at all put out by this familiar accusation44.
“Many a boy I know,” went on the woman, “has run away to America just before he reached his majority and the beginning of his three years in the army. How strange you Americans should fly over here to Italy for the same reason!”
“You bet I don’t blame them,” growled45 the innkeeper.
“But military service is not required in America,” I protested.
“Eh!” cried my hearers, in chorus.
“We don’t have to be soldiers in America,” I repeated.
“What!” shouted the host, “you have no army?”
“Yes; but the soldiers are hired, as for any other trade.”
“But who makes them go?” demanded the blind musician.
“No one. They are paid to go.”
The audience puzzled for several moments over this strange arrangement. Suddenly the landlady46 burst out laughing.
“You think to fool us!” she cried. “How, if nobody makes them go, can there be soldiers to pay?”
“Aye! That’s it!” roared the host.
“They want to go,” I explained.
“Want to be soldiers!” bellowed47 the innkeeper. “What nonsense! Who wants to be a soldier and work three years for nothing?”
“But you don’t understand. Those who want to be soldiers are paid wages.”
“Ah!” cried the musician, with a sudden burst of inspiration, “when your name is drawn48, you pay a man to go for you?”
“No; the government pays him. Our names are not drawn.”
“How much money the king must spend, paying all the soldiers,” mused49 my opponent.
“Ah! They are a strange people, the Americans,” sighed the host, and he cast upon me a glance that seemed to say, “and liars50, too, very often.”
Selling the famous long-horned cattle of Siena outside the walls
Italian peasants returning from market-day in the communal51 village
Weeks before, I had given up all hope of making clear to Italians our military system. The institution of compulsory52 service has been so woven into their picture of life since infancy53 that barely a man of them 67has the power of imagining an existence without this omnipresent fate hanging over his head. Whatever may be the attitude of the educated Italian towards it, military service is regarded by the laboring54 class as a curse from which there is no escape. We are accustomed to say that nothing is sure but death and taxes. The Italian would include conscription.
Two days after leaving Siena, I turned out in the early morning from Viterbo, just fifty miles north of Rome. Strange to say, in measure as I approached the capital the less inhabited became the countryside. For hours beyond Viterbo the highway wound over low mountains between whispering forests, in utter solitude55. Where the woods ended, stretched many another weary mile with never a hut by the wayside. Only an occasional shepherd, clad in sheepskins, sat among his flocks on a hillside, and gave life to a landscape that suggested the wilds of Wyoming or the vast steppes of Siberia.
The sun was touching56 the western horizon as I traversed a rugged57 village, but with Rome so close at hand I pressed on. The hamlet, however, appeared to be the last habitation of man along the highway. The sun sank in an endless morass58, amid the whispering of great fields of reeds and grasses, and the dismal59 croaking60 of frogs. Twilight61 faded to black night. Far off, ahead, the reflection of the Eternal City lighted up the sky; yet hours of tramping seemed to bring the glow not a yard nearer.
Forty-one miles I had covered when three hovels rose up by the wayside. One was an inn, but the keeper growled out some protest and slammed the door in my face. I took refuge and broke an all-day fast in a wine-shop patronized by traveling teamsters, one of whom offered me a bed on his load of straw in the adjoining stable.
He rose at daybreak, and for the first few miles the dawdling62 pace of his mules63 was fully64 fast enough for my maltreated legs. Little by little I forged ahead. The deserted65 highway led across a bleak66 moorland, rounded a slight eminence67, and brought me face to face with the once center of the civilized68 world.
To the right and left, on low hills, stood large modern buildings, from which the mass of houses sloped down and covered the intervening plains, broken only by the Tiber winding69 its way through the dull, grey stretch of habitations. Here and there a dome70 or steeple reflected the morning sun, but towering high above the mass, dwarfing71 all else by comparison, stood the vast dome of St. Peter’s. Close before me began an unbroken suburb on both sides of the route; suggesting that 68the modern Roman builds only as far from the center of the city as his view of it remains72 unimpaired. Countless73 multitudes have caught their first glimpse of Rome from this low hilltop. Before the days of railways, pilgrims journeyed from Civita Vecchia, on the coast, by this same road—millions of them on foot, and entered the city by this massive western gateway74. Through the portal poured a steady stream of peasants, on wagons75, carts, donkeys, and afoot, checked by officers of the octroi, who ran long lances through bales and baskets of farm produce. I joined the surging bedlam76 and was swept within the walls.
Early that afternoon I made my way across the Tiber and through the narrow streets of the Borgo to the square before St. Peter’s. About the papal residence the carriages of le beau monde kept up continual procession. I threaded my way towards the entrance to the Vatican galleries, though with little hope that one who had been taken for a beggar in the miserable77 villages of the Apennines could get beyond the door. At the base of the stairway a Swiss guard, resplendent in that red and yellow uniform which Michael Angelo is accused of having perpetrated, raised his javelin78 and accosted79 me in German:—
“Sorry, Landsmann, but the galleries are just closing; it is one o’clock.”
Taking the speech as a polite way of saying that tramps were not admitted, I turned away. Another glance, however, showed that visitors really were leaving, and a “hist” from behind called me back. The guard, glancing around to see if he were observed by the other servants of the Holy Father, leaned on his lance and inquired in a low voice:—
“How’s business on the road these days?”
He had, it turned out, once been a penniless wanderer in nearly every corner of the continent. For some time we chatted in the jargon80 of “the road,” that language made up of a mixture of slang and gestures that one can learn only by tramping the highways of Europe. The guard smiled reminiscently at each mention of the rendezvous81 of vagrants82 to the north, and, having heard such bits of news from the field of action as I could give him, carefully outlined for me the various “grafts” of the Roman fraternity. A companion in office called to him from the top of the steps and he hurried away with the parting injunction:—
“Come to-morrow, mein Lieber, early, if you want to see the galleries.”
When I had inspected the interior of St. Peter’s I sought out the 69rendezvous to which the guard had directed me. A dozen birds of passage around the wine-tables greeted my entrance in several languages:—
“Ha! En voilà un de plus!”
“Woher, Landsmann? Was gibt’s neues?”
“Y que tal la carretera, hombre?”
“Madre di dio, amico, che fa caldo! Vuoi bere?”
I sipped84 the glass of wine offered by the Italian—to have drunk it all would have been “bad form”—and sat down to give an account of myself.
“Aber du bist kein Deutscher?” cried a grizzled vagabond, when I had finished.
“Amerikaner,” I replied.
“American!” shouted the band, in a chorus in which European tongues ran riot, “Why, there is another American knocking about town. He’ll drop in before long; meanwhile, have a drink.”
I waited impatiently, for months had passed since I had spoken with a fellow countryman. In the course of a half-hour there strolled in a swarthy specimen86 of the genus vagabundus, attired87 in a ragged89 misfit.
“Ach! Du Amerikaner!” cried the chorus. “Here is a countryman of yours.”
I accosted the newcomer. “How are you, Jack90?”
He took place on a bench, stared at me a moment, and demanded, in Italian:—
“What country are you from?”
“Dei Stati Uniti,” I replied. “But they told me you were an American, too.”
“Certainly I am an American!” he shouted, indignantly. “I come from Buenos Ayres.”
It had been my custom to ramble91 at random92 through the cities of Europe, visiting the points of special interest as I chanced upon them. The topography of Rome, however, is not of the simplest, and, having picked up a guidebook for a few soldi in a second-hand93 stall, I set out dutifully to follow its lead through the city. It was a work in Italian, published for the use of Roman Catholic pilgrims. For two days it led me a merry chase among the churches and chapels94 of Rome, calling attention here to the statue of a saint, the bronze foot of which had been kissed into a shapeless mass by devout96 pellegrini; there to a shrine97 in which was enclosed the second bone of the third finger of the right hand of some martyr98 or pope, or a splinter of the true cross 70that had miraculously99 found its way to Rome. But as I hurried from chapel95 to church and from church to chapel I became suspicious of the profound silence of the book’s author, a Father Guiseppe Somebody, on the subject of the monuments of ancient Rome. Having therein more interest than in martyrs’ bones and kissed statues, I sat down on the steps of the forty-ninth church, and turned over the leaves in search of reference to the old-time edifices100. Page after page the nomenclature of churches and chapels continued, interspersed101 with descriptions of more finger-bones and splinters; but, up to the last leaf, not a word of ante-Christian Rome and its ruins. On the final page, in a footnote, the devout author expressed himself as follows:—
“There are in Rome, besides all the blessed relics102 and holy places we have pointed103 out to the pilgrim, certain ruins and monuments of the days previous to the coming of Our Holy Saviour104. The Faithful, however, will take care not to defile105 themselves by visiting these remnants of unholy pagan and heathen Rome.”
I sold the “Pilgrims’ Guide” for the price of a bottle of wine and set out to explore the city after my own fashion.
C?sar, for some reason, has not seen fit to inform posterity106 whether he patronized the “Colosseum Tonsorial Parlors,” or carried his own razor. If he sallied forth for his daily scrape, times were different then; for, had the conqueror107 of the Gauls had at hand such barbers as modern Rome harbors he would certainly have turned Vercingetorix over to their tender mercies instead of subjecting him to the mild punishment of an underground dungeon108.
There was a shop not far from the wayfarers’ retreat in the Borgo. Recalling painful experiences elsewhere in the peninsula, I avoided it as long as possible, but there came a day when I must sneak109 inside and take a seat. That, to begin with, was a mere110 chair, a decidedly rickety one that squeaked112 and writhed113 under me as if afraid, like myself, of the scowling114 proprietor115, who stropped his razor in the far corner. By and by he laid the weapon aside, and picking up a small milk-pan, retreated to the back of the room. The only mirror in the establishment being some five inches square, there was no means of knowing what game he indulged in during a prolonged absence.
I had all but fallen asleep, stretched like a suspension bridge between the chair and the wooden box that did duty as foot-rest, when the barber, approaching stealthily, slapped me suddenly and emphatically on the point of the chin with the brush of a defunct116 or bankrupt billposter. The blow was nothing compared with the temperature of the 71splash of lather117 that accompanied it. The cold chills set the ends of my toes tingling118. There ensued a lathering119 of which no American so fortunate as to have spent all his days in the land of his first milk-bottle can form a conception. From ear to ear, from Adam’s apple well up my nostrils120, that icy lather was slapped and rubbed in with the paste-brush and the rasp-like palm of the manipulator, until my first notion that this thorough soaping was to lighten the work with the razor was succeeded by the fear that my torturer had decided111 to dispense121 with that instrument entirely122. When he had covered all my face but one eye, the barber laid aside his brush, strolled to the door, and stood with his arms akimbo, evidently to give his biceps time to recover from their strenuous123 exertions124.
A fellow-townsman sauntered by, and the two fell into a discussion that involved, not the batting averages of the major league, but the advance of a half-cent a liter in the price of wine. The lye on my face began to draw and tingle125, the chair groaned126 under me, and still the dispute raged at the door. Fortunately, the townsman was called away before it was settled. The barber gazed after his retreating form, hummed an opera air in sotto voce, and glanced at the sky for signs of a storm. Then he turned slowly around, stared frowningly at me for several moments in an effort to recall how a man all soaped and ready for the razor had gotten into his establishment, and, with a sigh of regret at the task before him, hunted up the razor, stropped it again as if it had lain unused for six months, and fell to. A hack127 at one side of my face razed128 at least a dozen hairs. The torturer changed his mind concerning the point of attack and transferred his efforts to the other side—with no gratifying success, however. He began once more, this time at the point of the chin, worked his way upward by a series of cuts and slashes130, and, having removed from my face most of the skin, a fair share of the lather, and even some of the stubble, stepped back to survey his handiwork.
“Here, you’re not finished!” I cried, pointing to my upper lip.
“What! Shave your lip?”
“Certainly.”
“But why?”
“Because I want it shaved.”
“Santissima Madonna!” he gasped131, making several passes before a chromo print of the Virgin132 on the back wall. “Here is a man who wants the upper lip of a woman!”
However, having called the Lady’s attention to his innocence133, he 72shaved the lip and relieved an anxiety under which I had labored134 since entering the shop. For, many a barber of Italy had refused point-blank to undertake any such unprecedented135 defilement136 of the human face, and driven me forth with a nascent137 moustache in spite of my protests.
Nearly a week after my arrival in the capital I turned southward again, on the highway to Naples. For three days the route led through a territory packed with ragged, half-starved people, who toiled138 incessantly139 from the first peep of the sun to the last waver of twilight, and crawled away into some foul140 hole during the hours of darkness. The inhabitants of this famished141 section bore little resemblance to the people of the north. Shopkeepers snarled142 at their customers, the “shortchange racket” was always in evidence, false coins of the smallest denomination143 abounded—fancy “shoving the queer” with nickels—and, had not my appearance been quite in keeping with that of the natives, I should certainly have won the attention of those who live by violence.
There were other difficulties unknown in the north. The language changed rapidly. The literary tongue, spoken in Florence and Siena, was almost foreign here. A word learned in one hamlet was incomprehensible in another a half-day distant. The villages, almost without exception, were perched at the summits of the most inaccessible144 hills, up which each day’s walk ended with a weary climb by steep paths of rubble145 that rolled underfoot.
I found lodging146 at the wayside only on my fourth day out of Rome, in a building that was one-fourth inn and three-fourths stable. The keeper, his wife, and a litter of children had scarcely enough wardrobe between them to have completely clothed the smallest urchin147. All were barefooted, their feet spread out nearly as wide as they were long, the thick callous148 of the soles split and cracked up the sides like the hoofs149 of horses that had long gone unshod. The wife and several of her brood lay on a heap of chaff150 in a corner of the room reserved for humans. The father sat on a stool, bouncing the bambino up and down on his unspeakable feet; another child squatted151 on the top of the four-legged board that served as table and, in awe152 of the new arrival, alternately handled his toes and thrust his fingers in his mouth.
“You have lodgings153 for travelers?” I inquired.
“Yes,” growled the proprietor.
“How much for a bed?”
73“Two cents.”
I was skeptical154 and demanded to see the lodging that could be had at such a price.
“Giovanni!” bawled155 the head of the charming band, “bring in the bed!”
A moth-eaten youth threw open the back door and fired at my feet a dirty grain-sack, filled with crumpled156 straw that peeped out here and there.
When I had smoked a final pipe, the father bawled once more to his first-born and motioned to me to take up my bed and walk. I followed the youth across a stable yard towards a wing of the building, picking my way between the heaps of offal by the light of the feeble torch he carried. Giovanni waded157 inside, pointed out to me a long, narrow manger of slats, and fled, leaving me alone with the problem of how to repose158 nearly six feet of body on three feet of stuffed grain-sack. I tried every combination that ingenuity159 and some not entirely different experiences could suggest, but concluded at last to sleep on the bare slats and use the sack as a pillow.
I had just begun to doze83, when an outer door opened and let in a great draught160 of night air, closely followed by a flock of sheep that quickly filled the stable to overflowing161. Some of the animals attempted to overflow162 into the manger, sprang back when they found it already occupied, and made known their discovery to their companions by a long series of “baas.” The information awakened163 a truly Italian curiosity. The sheep organized a procession and the whole band filed by the manger, every animal poking164 its nose through the slats for a sniff165. This formality over, each of the flock expressed a personal opinion of my presence in trembling, nerve-racking bleats166, which discussion had by no means ended, when the youth came to inform me that it was morning and carried off my bed, fearful, no doubt, of my absconding167 with that valuable ameublement.
In spite of the bruises168 on the salient points of my anatomy169, I plodded170 on at a good pace, hoping, with this early start, to reach Naples before the day was done. Two pairs of gendarmes172, who halted me for long interviews, made the attempt useless, however; and I was still in the country when the gloom, settling down like fog, drove into the highway bands of fatigued174 humans and four-footed beasts, toiling175 homeward. The route descended176, the intervening fields between squalid villages grew shorter and shorter, finally giving way entirely to an unbroken 74row of stone houses that shut in the highway. The bands of homing peasants increased to a stream of humanity against which I struggled to make my way.
Swept into the backwater of the human current, I cornered a workman and inquired for Naples.
“Napoli! Ma! This is Napoli!” he bellowed, shoving me aside.
I plunged177 on, certain that a descending178 road must lead to the harbor and its sailors’ lodgings. Ragged, sullen-visaged laborers179, now and then an unsoaped female, swept against me. Donkeys laden180 and unladen protested against the goads181 of their cursing masters. Heavy ox-carts, massive wagons, an occasional horseman, fought their way up the acclivity, amid a bedlam of shrill182 shouts, roaring oaths, the strident yee-hawing of asses31, the rumble183 of wheels on cobblestones, the snap of whips, the resounding185 whack186 of cudgels; and before and behind a bawling187 multitude filled the scene that resembled nothing more nearly than the hurried flight of its diabolical188 inhabitants from that inferno189 which the Florentine has pictured. It was long after my first inquiry190 for “Napoli” that I reached level streets and was dragged into a dismal hovel by a boarding-house runner. Fifty-five days had passed since my departure from Paris, thirty-four of which had been spent in walking.
If there is a spot of similar size in the civilized world that houses more rascals191, knaves192, and degenerates193 than Naples, it has successfully hidden its iniquities194. The struggle for existence in this densely195 packed section of the peninsula has driven its lower classes in one of two directions: they have become stolid196, unthinking brutes197 or incorrigible198 rogues199. Even those who, by day, are employed at professions considered honorable and remunerative200 among us, spend their nights and idle hours as agents of every species of business and deception201 to be found in congested centers. Every steamship202 office, every restaurant, every hotel, shop, gambling203 den18, or house of prostitution has its scores of “runners” to entice204 the stranger or unwary citizen within its doors. We have “runners” in America, but these procurers that fight for a meager205 percentage in Naples are not merely the dregs of city life; even the man who has left his telegraph instrument or bookkeeper’s stool during the afternoon prowls through the dark streets in quest of a stray soldo. The barber roams at large to drag into his shop those whose faces show need of his services; the merchant stands before his door and bawls206 and beckons207 to the passing throng208 like a side-show barker; the ticket-agent tramps up and down the wharves209 striving to sell passage, at regular price if necessary; at an exorbitant210 one if possible. 75To cheat is second nature to the Neapolitan of the masses. He cheats his playmates as a boy, cheats the shopkeeper at every opportunity, enters business as a man intending to cheat, and sticks to that intention with a persistence211 worthy212 a better cause to the end of his days—to be cheated by the undertaker and the priest at the finale of his life of deception and fraud. Yet this same Naples, corrupt213, Machiavelian, is, with its environs, the breeding-ground of the vast majority of Italians who emigrate to America.
As is usual among poverty-stricken people, gambling is the principal vice43 of the southern Italian. Cards and dice214 are not unknown, but the game that is dearest to the heart of the Neapolitan is mora, the counting of fingers. The sharp call of “cinque! tre! otto! tre! dieci!” raised a never-ending hubbub215 in my lodging house. The sums of money hazarded were not fabulous216; but had there been fortunes at stake the game could not have been more fiercely contended. Each player, at the beginning of the contest, jabbed his sheath-knife into the bottom of the table within easy reach of his hand, and at every dispute waved it threateningly above his head. A quarrel, one evening, went beyond the point of vociferations. One player emerged from the contest with a slash129 from nose to chin, and another with an ugly cut in the abdomen218. But so ordinary an occurrence was this in the house that a half-hour later the game was raging as loudly as before.
One fine morning, soon after my arrival in Naples, I awoke to find myself the possessor of just twenty francs. Thus far I had been a tourist; for, if I had spent sparingly, I had given my attention to sightseeing rather than to searching for employment. Having squandered219 in un-riotous living the money intended for photographing, the time had come when I must earn both the living and the photographs.
It had been my intention to ship as a sailor from Naples to some point of the near east. The cosmopolitan220 dock loafers assured me, however, that there was but one port on the Mediterranean221 in which I might hope to sign on, and that was Marseilles. The information had come too late, for the fare to Marseilles as a deck passenger—and that included no food en route—was twenty-five francs. To be left stranded222 in Naples, however, was a fate to be dreaded223. I determined224 to take passage as far as possible, namely, to Genoa, and to make my way as best I could from there to the great French port.
By playing rival runners against each other, I reduced the regular fare of twelve francs to nine francs and a cigar, the stogie being the commission of the runner. With a day left at my disposal I ruined 76my misused225 shoes among the lava-beds of Vesuvius, slept on a park bench to save the price of a lodging, and was rowed out to the Lederer Sandor, a miserable cargo-steamer hailing from Trieste. She did not sail until a full twenty-four hours after the time set, and my stock of bread and dried codfish gave out while we were but halfway226 to Genoa. I had noted227, however, that, the ship’s business being chiefly the carrying of freight, little watch was kept on the passengers. Upon arrival in the birthplace of Columbus, therefore, I purchased a second stock of provisions and returned on board, for it was cheaper to hire a boatman to row me out to the ship than to pay lodgings in the city. Among a score of through passengers my presence on board attracted no attention and, knowing that the Sandor was to continue along the Riviera, I was still seated on one of her hatches when she sailed out of Genoa at noon.
We cast anchor next morning at St. Maurizio and, in the early afternoon, steamed on towards Nice. As we slipped by gleaming Monte Carlo, and I was beginning to congratulate myself on having made my way thus far in spite of a flat purse, the first mate, a native of Trieste, sought me out on deck.
“What is your name?” he asked, in Italian, waving in his hand a bundle of tickets, each of which bore the signature of its purchaser.
Plainly my ruse228 was discovered; but, hoping to confuse the discoverer, I answered in English. But to no avail. For this young man, who swore at the sailors in German and cursed longshoremen impartially229 in Italian and French, spoke85 English almost without an accent. I had barely mentioned my name when he burst out in my own tongue:—
“What are you doing on board? Your ticket is only to Genoa.”
“Yes!” I stammered230, “but I want to get to Marseilles and I haven’t the price.”
“No fault of ours, is it?” demanded the officer. “Your ticket reads Genoa. You will have to pay the price from Genoa to Nice.”
“Haven’t got the half of it,” I protested.
The mate stared at me a moment in silence and hurried away to attend to more pressing affairs. Whether he forgot my existence purposely or by accident, I know not; he was busy on the bridge until our arrival at Nice and, by dropping over the bow to the wharf231 as dusk fell, I dodged232 the vigilant233 eyes of both ship and custom officers and hurried away, once more in “la belle234 France.”
Italian peasants returning from the vineyards to the village
A factory of red roof-tiles near Naples. The girl works from daylight to dark for sixteen cents
I rose next morning with a one-franc piece in silver and a five-franc note, both in Italian currency. The silver passed as readily as a French 77coin and, fancying the paper would be as eagerly accepted, I did not trouble to change it into coin of the republic before setting out on the hundred and fifty mile tramp to Marseilles. The last sou of the silver piece had been spent when I arrived at Cannes in the evening. I turned in at an auberge of the famous spa and tendered an Italian note in payment for a lodging.
“Non d’un chien! We don’t take Italian paper!” cried the aubergiste, with great vehemence235. “?a ne vaut rien du tout236.”
I visited several other inns and such shops as were still open, but the note I could not pass, even at a discount. I found myself in the paradoxical situation of being penniless with money in my pocket. A chill wind blew in from the Mediterranean. I sat down on a step out of range of the village lights, but soon fell to shivering and rose to wander on. Down on the sandy beach in front of the principal street were drawn up several rowboats. I peered from behind the nearest building until the two officers who patroled the water front had reached the far end of their beats and, scurrying237 down to the beach, dropped into the shadow of the first skiff. Most of the boats were tightly covered with boards or tarpaulins238 but, creeping on hands and knees from one to another, I found two with coverings that had openings in them large enough to admit a lean and hungry mortal. In the first into which I thrust my head I made out the forms of two gamins, sound asleep. The second was uninhabited. I squirmed my way in and found inside a bed of dirty, but warm reed mats.
Scarcely had I fallen asleep when I was awakened by the chatter239 of hoarse240 voices and looked up to see an angry face peering at me through the opening.
“Eh! Dis donc, toi!” growled the possessor of the face. “Qu’est-ce que tu fais dans mon lit?”
“Ton lit,” I answered, sleepily. “If I got here first, how does it come to be your bed?”
“Hein!” snarled the face. “? ’a été mon coucher ces trois mois. Bouge toi de là, sinon—” and he drew a finger suggestively across his throat.
At this display of emotion one of his companions outside pulled the speaker away and thrust his own face in at the opening.
“Mais, dis donc, mon vieux!” he murmured. “You don’t mean to rob three poor devils of the bed they have slept in for weeks, quoi?”
I admitted the injustice241 of such action and crawled out to join the three crouching figures in the shadow of the craft.
78“Where do you come from?” whispered one of them.
“From Nice. I am on the road.”
“Quoi!” cried the three, in suppressed chorus, “on the road! Then why don’t you go to the gendarmerie?” and they pointed away across the beach to a lighted window.
“They’ll give you a bed for three nights,” went on one of the trio; “we’ve been stowed away there as many times as the law allows or we wouldn’t make our nests here.”
I crouched242 out of sight until the patrol had passed once more and dashed across the sand towards the lighted window. A door stood ajar; inside, an officer, armed in a way more fitting to a chief of brigands243 than to the guardian244 of a peaceful watering-place, leaned back in his chair, puffing245 at a long Italian cigar.
“Bien! Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?” he demanded, laying the stogie on the table edge and surveying me leisurely246 from head to foot.
I waved the five-franc piece in the air. “I’m a sailor, walking to Marseilles, and the innkeepers won’t accept this.”
“?a!” he cried contemptuously, after examining the bill under the light; “Why, that’s Italian. No good at all! Why do you come to the gendarmerie so late? We can’t let vagabonds into the Asile de Nuit at this hour.”
“The Asile de Nuit!” I protested. “I’m not looking for the Asile, but for an inn; and I don’t see that I’m a vagabond, with a five-franc note—”
“That’s no good,” he finished, “perhaps not, legally, but—Where are your papers?”
I handed over the consular247 letter and the cattle-boat discharge. The officer studied them a moment as if English were not unknown to him and fell into a reverie.
“American, eh?” he mused, when his dream had ended; “Sailor? Hum! Well, go sit out in the hall until I am relieved and I’ll take you to the Asile.”
I sat down against the wall on the flagstone of the entry and fell into a doze from which I was awakened by the entrance of another gendarme171, in full armament like his colleague. The latter stepped out a moment later, growled a “viens,” and hurried off through the deserted streets, his sword rattling248 noisily on the pavement in the silence of the night. I marched close at his heels, wondering what was in store for me; for, though I had often heard roadsters mention the 79vagabond quarters which every city of France maintains, I knew nothing of the institutions at first hand.
Five minutes’ walk brought us to a small brick building, at the door of which the gendarme drew out a bunch of gigantic keys and entered. The first door led into a hallway along which the officer walked some ten feet and, with more rattling of keys, opened a second that led into nothing, so far as I could see, but Stygian darkness.
“Voilà!” he shouted, pushing me past him through the door; “Te voilà à l’Asile de Nuit.”
“But where do I sleep?” I demanded. The darkness was absolute and, at my first step inside the door, I bumped against what appeared to be the edge of a heavy table.
“Hein! Diable! Sleep on the shelf,” snapped the gendarme; then, comprehending that I was unfamiliar249 with the architectural arrangements of an Asile de Nuit, he struck a match and by its brief flicker250 I caught a glimpse of the night asylum251 of Cannes.
It was a room about twenty feet long and seven wide, with a single, strong-barred window at the end facing the street. The entire length of the room ran a sloping wooden shelf, six feet wide and some four feet above the floor at the highest edge, with an alleyway a foot wide between it and the wall behind me. The ledge30 was occupied by about fifteen as sorry specimens252 of humanity as it had as yet been my lot to see in one collection. They were packed like spoons, with nothing between their bodies and the twenty-foot bed but their own rags; and each of the fifteen braced253 his feet against a board projecting some four inches above the lower end of the shelf as if his life depended on keeping in that position.
As the wavering light of the match fell on their faces, a chorus of surly growls254 burst from the lips of the speakers, and increased to shouts and curses when the gendarme crowded a knee between two of the prostrate255 forms and exerted his strength to push more closely together the two divisions of the company thus formed.
“Sacré bleu, vous!” he bellowed. “Bougez vous, donc! Here ’s a comrade. Do you want all the Asile to yourselves, non de Dieu!” “Crowd in there,” he commanded, pushing me towards the six-inch space which he had opened between two of the sleepers256. I crowded in, as per order, but did not succeed in widening the space to any appreciable257 extent. The gendarme went out, slammed and locked both doors, and left me to listen to the growls and oaths that by no means 80decreased at his exit. The planks258, for all I know, may have been soft enough; with all my struggling I could not force the slumberers far enough apart to reach the shelf; and I spent the night lying with one shoulder and one hip184 on each of my nearest companions, who alternated in turning over and pushing me back and forth between them like a piece of storm-tossed wreckage260 on the open sea.
The king of theatrical261 costumers, striving to dress unconventionally the beggar chorus of a comic opera, could have created nothing to equal the garments of the gathering262 of tramps from the four corners of Europe that slid off the shelf with the advent263 of daylight, and fell to brushing and rearranging their rags as if some improvement in appearance could result from such industry. Instinct is so strong in man that, were his only covering a fig-leaf, he would doubtless give it a shake and a pull upon arising, if only in memory of days when his attire88 was less abbreviated264. I rubbed my eyes and waited for some of my companions to make the first move towards the door. But their toilet finished, they sat down one by one on the edge of the shelf as if the desire to get outside the building was the furthest from their thoughts, and fell to exchanging their troubles in at least four languages.
I rose and, climbing over a forest of legs to the door, grasped the knob and was about to give it a yank, when the exit of the officer the night before, with the clang of heavy bolts shot home, came back to memory. I sat down again with the others, and following their example, filled my pipe, as the only consolation265 left me. Nor was one of these outcasts, who told of days of fasting and the bitter pangs266 of hunger, without his supply of the soothing267 weed.
Traffic was already beginning in the street outside. Now and then some facetious268 passer-by stopped to peer through the bars at us and to sneer269: “Bah! Messieurs les vagabonds. Sales bêtes!” Others carried their jocosity270 so far as to toss pebbles271 and clods of earth in through the grating; to which treatment my companions in misery272 were powerless to reply, except by spitting out viciously at their tormentors and promising273 them a summary vengeance274 when once they were released.
An hour after daylight a gendarme came to unlock the doors. I pushed out with the rest and set off in the direction of Marseilles. I had not gone five paces, however, when I heard a shout behind me:
“Eh, toi! Où est-ce que tu vas comme ?a?”
I turned around in surprise.
81“Come along here, you,” roared the officer, and with the rest I filed back to the gendarmerie, the butt275 of the derisive276 grimaces277 of passing urchins278.
At headquarters each of us was registered again, as we had been the night before, after which we were permitted to go our several ways. There was no means of changing my wealth into French coin until the banks opened, two hours later. Scorning to delay so long, I turned away breakfastless to the westward279, convinced that some village banker would come to my assistance by the time France was wide awake. But at high noon I was still plodding280 on, dizzy with hunger and the fatigue173 of climbing a low, uninhabited spur of the Alps that stretches down to the Mediterranean west of Cannes, with that infernal Italian note still in my pocket. At four in the afternoon I reached the village of Fréjus. A merchant, whom I ran to earth after a long search, agreed to accept the likeness281 of Vittore Emanuele at a half-franc discount; and I sat down on the village green with an armful of bread and dried herring—my first meal in twenty-eight hours.
I paid, that night, for a flea-bitten lodging in Le Puget, but concluded next day that the three francs remaining could be better invested in food than in sleeping-quarters. When darkness again overtook me, therefore, I applied282 for accommodations at the gendarmerie of Cuers. The village was too small to boast an Asile de Nuit, but after long argument I induced the rustic283 in charge of the town hall to allow me to occupy the solitary284 cell which the hamlet reserved for the incarceration285 of its felons286. It was a three-cornered hole under the stairway leading to the upper story, and I spent the night in durance vile287; for the rustic, for some reason unknown, insisted on locking me in.
Next day I pressed steadily288 onward289 through a hungry Sunday of pouring rain, the mud of the highway oozing290 in through the expanding holes of my dilapidated shoes. From time to time a facetious innkeeper peered out through the downpour to shout: “Hé donc, toi! You don’t know it’s raining, perhaps?” But bent291 on reaching Marseilles before my last coppers292 had been scattered293, I dared not linger to give answer.
Late Sunday evening is an inconvenient294 hour to look for the municipal officers of an unimportant French village. Back of the central place of Le Beausset I found the h?tel de ville, a decrepit295, one-story building; but I knocked at the back door, the entrée des vagabonds, 82for some time in vain. A passing villager advised me to “go right in.” I opened the door accordingly and stepped inside, only to be driven out again by a series of feminine shrieks296 before I had an opportunity to make out, in a badly-lighted kitchen, the exact source of the uproar297. I sat down in the rain outside the door that had been slammed and bolted behind me and waited.
When the last café had ceased its shouting, another villager, half in uniform, pushed past me and knocked for admittance. Certain that he was a gendarme, I followed him inside. At the back of the room, over a stove from which rose tantalizing298 odors, stood two women who, catching299 sight of me, deluged300 the officer with a flood of words.
“Here, mon vieux,” he snapped, whirling upon me, “what do you mean by marching into my house and frightening my women out of their wits?”
I excused my conduct on the ground of advice too hastily taken. The gendarme scowled301 over my papers, tucked them away in a greasy302 cupboard behind the stove, and turned with me out into the night. The Asile was not far distant, and it was unoccupied. The officer set a candle-end on a beam and, bidding me not to set the place on fire and to exchange the key for my papers in the morning, departed. I burrowed303 deep into the straw with which the shelf was covered and fell to sleep in my water-soaked garments.
Short rations217 and plank259 beds had left me in no condition to cover in a single day the thirty-five miles between Le Beausset and Marseilles. I found my legs giving way when darkness caught me some distance from the harbor and, having no hope of finding a better lodging, sat down against a tree on an outer boulevard. A bitter wind blew, for it was the last day of October and well north of Naples. In the far west of my own country, however, I had learned a trick of great value “on the road.” It is, that a coat thrown over the head is far more protection while sleeping out of doors than when worn in the usual manner. I was, therefore, unmolested as long as the night lasted, no doubt because passers-by saw in my huddled304 form only a grain-sack dropped by the wayside.
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1
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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2
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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3
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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4
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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5
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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bovine
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| adj.牛的；n.牛 | |
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7
indigenous
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| adj.土产的，土生土长的，本地的 | |
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8
yoked
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| 结合（yoke的过去式形式） | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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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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11
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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12
automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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14
chauffeurs
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| n.受雇于人的汽车司机( chauffeur的名词复数 ) | |
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15
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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16
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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17
honk
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| n.雁叫声，汽车喇叭声 | |
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18
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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19
vaulting
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| n.（天花板或屋顶的）拱形结构 | |
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20
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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21
asinine
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| adj.愚蠢的 | |
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22
ensemble
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| n.合奏(唱)组；全套服装；整体，总效果 | |
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23
tenaciously
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| 坚持地 | |
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24
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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25
visualization
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| n.想像，设想 | |
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26
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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27
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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28
indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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29
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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30
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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31
asses
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| n. 驴，愚蠢的人，臀部 adv. (常用作后置)用于贬损或骂人 | |
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32
perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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33
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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34
intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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35
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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36
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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37
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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38
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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39
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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40
autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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41
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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42
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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43
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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44
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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45
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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46
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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47
bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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48
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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49
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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50
liars
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| 说谎者( liar的名词复数 ) | |
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51
communal
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| adj.公有的，公共的，公社的，公社制的 | |
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52
compulsory
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| n.强制的，必修的；规定的，义务的 | |
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53
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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54
laboring
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| n.劳动，操劳v.努力争取(for)( labor的现在分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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55
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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56
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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57
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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58
morass
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| n.沼泽，困境 | |
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59
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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60
croaking
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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61
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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62
dawdling
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| adj.闲逛的，懒散的v.混（时间）( dawdle的现在分词 ) | |
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63
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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64
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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65
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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66
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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67
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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68
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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69
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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70
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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71
dwarfing
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| n.矮化病 | |
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72
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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73
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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74
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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75
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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76
bedlam
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| n.混乱，骚乱；疯人院 | |
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77
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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78
javelin
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| n.标枪，投枪 | |
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79
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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80
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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81
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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82
vagrants
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| 流浪者( vagrant的名词复数 )； 无业游民； 乞丐； 无赖 | |
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83
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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84
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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86
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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87
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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89
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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90
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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91
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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92
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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93
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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94
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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95
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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96
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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97
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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98
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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99
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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100
edifices
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| n.大建筑物( edifice的名词复数 ) | |
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101
interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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102
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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103
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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104
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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105
defile
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| v.弄污，弄脏；n.(山间)小道 | |
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106
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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107
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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108
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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109
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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110
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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111
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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112
squeaked
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的过去式和过去分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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113
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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115
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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116
defunct
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| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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117
lather
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| n.(肥皂水的)泡沫，激动 | |
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118
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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119
lathering
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| n.痛打，怒骂v.（指肥皂）形成泡沫( lather的现在分词 )；用皂沫覆盖；狠狠地打 | |
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120
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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121
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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122
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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123
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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124
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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125
tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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126
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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127
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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128
razed
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| v.彻底摧毁，将…夷为平地( raze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
slash
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| vi.大幅度削减；vt.猛砍，尖锐抨击，大幅减少；n.猛砍，斜线，长切口，衣衩 | |
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130
slashes
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| n.（用刀等）砍( slash的名词复数 )；（长而窄的）伤口；斜杠；撒尿v.挥砍( slash的第三人称单数 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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131
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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132
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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133
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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134
labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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135
unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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136
defilement
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| n.弄脏，污辱，污秽 | |
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137
nascent
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| adj.初生的，发生中的 | |
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138
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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139
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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140
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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141
famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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142
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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143
denomination
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| n.命名，取名，(度量衡、货币等的)单位 | |
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144
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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145
rubble
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| n.（一堆）碎石，瓦砾 | |
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146
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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147
urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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148
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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149
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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150
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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151
squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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152
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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153
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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154
skeptical
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| adj.怀疑的，多疑的 | |
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155
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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156
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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157
waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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158
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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159
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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160
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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161
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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162
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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163
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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164
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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165
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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166
bleats
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的第三人称单数 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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167
absconding
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| v.（尤指逃避逮捕）潜逃，逃跑( abscond的现在分词 ) | |
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168
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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169
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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170
plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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171
gendarme
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| n.宪兵 | |
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172
gendarmes
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| n.宪兵，警官( gendarme的名词复数 ) | |
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173
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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174
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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175
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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176
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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177
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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178
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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179
laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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180
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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181
goads
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| n.赶牲口的尖棒( goad的名词复数 )v.刺激( goad的第三人称单数 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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182
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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183
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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184
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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185
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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186
whack
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| v.敲击，重打，瓜分；n.重击，重打，尝试，一份 | |
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187
bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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188
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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189
inferno
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| n.火海；地狱般的场所 | |
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190
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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191
rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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192
knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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193
degenerates
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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194
iniquities
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| n.邪恶( iniquity的名词复数 )；极不公正 | |
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195
densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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196
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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197
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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198
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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199
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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200
remunerative
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| adj.有报酬的 | |
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201
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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202
steamship
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| n.汽船，轮船 | |
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203
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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204
entice
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| v.诱骗，引诱，怂恿 | |
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205
meager
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| adj.缺乏的，不足的，瘦的 | |
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206
bawls
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的第三人称单数 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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207
beckons
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的第三人称单数 ) | |
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208
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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209
wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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210
exorbitant
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| adj.过分的；过度的 | |
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211
persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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212
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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213
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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214
dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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215
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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216
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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217
rations
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| 定量( ration的名词复数 )； 配给量； 正常量； 合理的量 | |
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218
abdomen
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| n.腹，下腹(胸部到腿部的部分) | |
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219
squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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220
cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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221
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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222
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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223
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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224
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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225
misused
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| v.使用…不当( misuse的过去式和过去分词 )；把…派作不正当的用途；虐待；滥用 | |
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226
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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227
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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228
ruse
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| n.诡计，计策；诡计 | |
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229
impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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230
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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231
wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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232
dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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233
vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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234
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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235
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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236
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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237
scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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238
tarpaulins
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| n.防水帆布，防水帆布罩( tarpaulin的名词复数 ) | |
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239
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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240
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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241
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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242
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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243
brigands
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| n.土匪，强盗( brigand的名词复数 ) | |
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244
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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245
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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246
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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247
consular
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| a.领事的 | |
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248
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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249
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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250
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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251
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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252
specimens
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| 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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253
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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254
growls
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的第三人称单数 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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255
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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256
sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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257
appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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258
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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259
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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260
wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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261
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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262
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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263
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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264
abbreviated
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| adj. 简短的，省略的 动词abbreviate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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265
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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266
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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267
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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268
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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269
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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270
jocosity
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| n.诙谐 | |
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271
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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272
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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273
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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274
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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275
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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276
derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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277
grimaces
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| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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278
urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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279
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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280
plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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281
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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282
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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283
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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284
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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285
incarceration
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| n.监禁，禁闭；钳闭 | |
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286
felons
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| n.重罪犯( felon的名词复数 )；瘭疽；甲沟炎；指头脓炎 | |
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287
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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288
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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289
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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290
oozing
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的现在分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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291
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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292
coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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293
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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294
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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295
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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296
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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297
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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298
tantalizing
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| adj.逗人的；惹弄人的；撩人的；煽情的v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的现在分词 ) | |
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299
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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300
deluged
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| v.使淹没( deluge的过去式和过去分词 )；淹没；被洪水般涌来的事物所淹没；穷于应付 | |
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301
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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302
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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303
burrowed
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的过去式和过去分词 )；翻寻 | |
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304
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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