As one drags along through this inexplicable3 existence one realizes how such qualities stand out; not the pseudo freedom of strong men, financially or physically4, but the real, internal, spiritual freedom, where the mind, as it were, stands up and looks at itself, faces Nature unafraid, is aware of its own weaknesses, its strengths; examines its own and the creative impulses of the universe and of men with a kindly6 and non-dogmatic eye, in fact kicks dogma out of doors, and yet deliberately7 and of choice holds fast to many, many simple and human things, and rounds out life, or would, in a natural, normal, courageous8, healthy way.
The first time I ever saw Peter was in St. Louis in 1892; I had come down from Chicago to work on the St. Louis Globe-Democrat, and he was a part of the art department force of that paper. At that time—and he never seemed to change later even so much as a hair's worth until he died in 1908—he was short, stocky and yet quick and even jerky in his manner, with a bushy, tramp-like "get-up" of hair and beard, most swiftly and astonishingly disposed of at times only to be regrown at others, and always, and intentionally9, I am sure, most amusing to contemplate10. In addition to all this he had an air of well-being11, force and alertness which belied12 the other surface characteristics as anything more than a genial13 pose or bit of idle gayety.
Plainly he took himself seriously and yet lightly, usually with an air of suppressed gayety, as though saying, "This whole business of living is a great joke." He always wore good and yet exceedingly mussy clothes, at times bespattered with ink or, worse yet, even soup—an amazing grotesquery that was the dismay of all who knew him, friends and relatives especially. In addition he was nearly always liberally besprinkled with tobacco dust, the source of which he used in all forms: in pipe, cigar and plug, even cigarettes when he could obtain nothing more substantial. One of the things about him which most impressed me at that time and later was this love of the ridiculous or the grotesque14, in himself or others, which would not let him take anything in a dull or conventional mood, would not even permit him to appear normal at times but urged him on to all sorts of nonsense, in an effort, I suppose, to entertain himself and make life seem less commonplace.
And yet he loved life, in all its multiform and multiplex aspects and with no desire or tendency to sniff17, reform or improve anything. It was good just as he found it, excellent. Life to Peter was indeed so splendid that he was always very much wrought18 up about it, eager to live, to study, to do a thousand things. For him it was a workshop for the artist, the thinker, as well as the mere19 grubber, and without really criticizing any one he was "for" the individual who is able to understand, to portray20 or to create life, either feelingly and artistically22 or with accuracy and discrimination. To him, as I saw then and see even more clearly now, there was no high and no low. All things were only relatively23 so. A thief was a thief, but he had his place. Ditto the murderer. Ditto the saint. Not man but Nature was planning, or at least doing, something which man could not understand, of which very likely he was a mere tool. Peter was as much thrilled and entendered by the brawling24 strumpet in the street or the bagnio as by the virgin25 with her starry26 crown. The rich were rich and the poor poor, but all were in the grip of imperial forces whose ruthless purposes or lack of them made all men ridiculous, pathetic or magnificent, as you choose. He pitied ignorance and necessity, and despised vanity and cruelty for cruelty's sake, and the miserly hoarding27 of anything. He was liberal, material, sensual and yet spiritual; and although he never had more than a little money, out of the richness and fullness of his own temperament28 he seemed able to generate a kind of atmosphere and texture29 in his daily life which was rich and warm, splendid really in thought (the true reality) if not in fact, and most grateful to all. Yet also, as I have said, always he wished to seem the clown, the scapegrace, the wanton and the loon30 even, mouthing idle impossibilities at times and declaring his profoundest faith in the most fantastic things.
In so far as I knew he was born into a mid-Western family of Irish extraction whose habitat was southwest Missouri. In the town in which he was reared there was not even a railroad until he was fairly well grown—a fact which amused but never impressed him very much. Apropos33 of this he once told me of a yokel34 who, never having seen a railroad, entered the station with his wife and children long before train time, bought his ticket and waited a while, looking out of the various windows, then finally returned to the ticket-seller and asked, "When does this thing start?" He meant the station building itself. At the time Peter had entered upon art work he had scarcely prosecuted35 his studies beyond, if so far as, the conventional high or grammar school, and yet he was most amazingly informed and but little interested in what any school or college had to offer. His father, curiously36 enough, was an educated Irish-American, a lawyer by profession, and a Catholic. His mother was an American Catholic, rather strict and narrow. His brothers and sisters, of whom there were four, were, as I learned later, astonishingly virile37 and interesting Americans of a rather wild, unsettled type. They were all, in so far as I could judge from chance meetings, agnostic, tense, quick-moving—so vital that they weighed on one a little, as very intense temperaments38 are apt to do. One of the brothers, K——, who seemed to seek me out ever so often for Peter's sake, was so intense, nervous, rapid-talking, rapid-living, that he frightened me a little. He loved noisy, garish39 places. He liked to play the piano, stay up very late; he was a high liver, a "good dresser," as the denizens41 of the Tenderloin would say, an excellent example of the flashy, clever promoter. He was always representing a new company, introducing something—a table or laxative water, a shaving soap, a chewing gum, a safety razor, a bicycle, an automobile42 tire or the machine itself. He was here, there, everywhere—in Waukesha, Wisconsin; San Francisco; New York; New Orleans. "My, my! This is certainly interesting!" he would exclaim, with an air which would have done credit to a comedian43 and extending both hands. "Peter's pet friend, Dreiser! Well, well, well! Let's have a drink. Let's have something to eat. I'm only in town for a day. Maybe you'd like to go to a show—or hit the high places? Would you? Well, well, well! Let's make a night of it! What do you say?" and he would fix me with a glistening44, nervous and what was intended no doubt to be a reassuring45 eye, but which unsettled me as thoroughly46 as the imminence47 of an earthquake. But I was talking of Peter.
The day I first saw him he was bent48 over a drawing-board illustrating49 a snake story for one of the Sunday issues of the Globe-Democrat, which apparently50 delighted in regaling its readers with most astounding51 concoctions52 of this kind, and the snake he was drawing was most disturbingly vital and reptilian53, beady-eyed, with distended54 jaws55, extended tongue, most fatefully coiled.
"My," I commented in passing, for I was in to see him about another matter, "what a glorious snake!"
"Yes, you can't make 'em too snaky for the snake-editor up front," he returned, rising and dusting tobacco from his lap and shirtfront, for he was in his shirt-sleeves. Then he expectorated not in but to one side of a handsome polished brass57 cuspidor which contained not the least evidence of use, the rubber mat upon which it stood being instead most disturbingly "decorated." I was most impressed by this latter fact although at the time I said nothing, being too new. Later, I may as well say here, I discovered why. This was a bit of his clowning humor, a purely58 manufactured and as it were mechanical joke or ebullience59 of soul. If any one inadvertently or through unfamiliarity60 attempted to expectorate in his "golden cuspidor," as he described it, he was always quick to rise and interpose in the most solemn, almost sepulchral61 manner, at the same time raising a hand. "Hold! Out—not in—to one side, on the mat! That cost me seven dollars!" Then he would solemnly seat himself and begin to draw again. I saw him do this to all but the chiefest of the authorities of the paper. And all, even the dullest, seemed to be amused, quite fascinated by the utter trumpery62 folly63 of it.
But I am getting ahead of my tale. In so far as the snake was concerned, he was referring to the assistant who had these snake stories in charge. "The fatter and more venomous and more scaly64 they are," he went on, "the better. I'd like it if we could use a little color in this paper—red for eyes and tongue, and blue and green for scales. The farmers upstate would love that. They like good but poisonous snakes." Then he grinned, stood back and, cocking his head to one side in a most examining and yet approving manner, ran his hand through his hair and beard and added, "A snake can't be too vital, you know, for this paper. We have to draw 'em strong, plenty of vitality65, plenty of go." He grinned most engagingly.
I could not help laughing, of course. The impertinent air! The grand, almost condescending66 manner!
We soon became fast friends.
In the same office in close contact with him was another person, one D—— W——, also a newspaper artist, who, while being exceedingly interesting and special in himself, still as a character never seems to have served any greater purpose in my own mind than to have illustrated67 how emphatic68 and important Peter was. He had a thin, pale, Dantesque face, coal black, almost Indian-like hair most carefully parted in the middle and oiled and slicked down at the sides and back until it looked as though it had been glued. His eyes were small and black and querulous but not mean—petted eyes they were—and the mouth had little lines at each corner which seemed to say he had endured much, much pain, which of course he had not, but which nevertheless seemed to ask for, and I suppose earned him some, sympathy. Dick in his way was an actor, a tragedian of sorts, but with an element of humor, cynicism and insight which saved him from being utterly69 ridiculous. Like most actors, he was a great poseur70. He invariably affected71 the long, loose flowing tie with a soft white or blue or green or brown linen72 shirt (would any American imitation of the "Quartier Latin" denizen40 have been without one at that date?), yellow or black gloves, a round, soft crush hat, very soft and limp and very different, patent leather pumps, betimes a capecoat, a slender cane73, a boutonnière—all this in hard, smoky, noisy, commercial St. Louis, full of middle-West business men and farmers!
I would not mention this particular person save that for a time he, Peter and myself were most intimately associated. We temporarily constituted in our way a "soldiers three" of the newspaper world. For some years after we were more or less definitely in touch as a group, although later Peter and myself having drifted Eastward74 and hob-nobbing as a pair had been finding more and more in common and had more and more come to view Dick for what he was: a character of Dickensian, or perhaps still better, Cruikshankian, proportions and qualities. But in those days the three of us were all but inseparable; eating, working, playing, all but sleeping together. I had a studio of sorts in a more or less dilapidated factory section of St. Louis (Tenth near Market; now I suppose briskly commercial), Dick had one at Broadway and Locust75, directly opposite the then famous Southern Hotel. Peter lived with his family on the South Side, a most respectable and homey-home neighborhood.
It has been one of my commonest experiences, and one of the most interesting to me, to note that nearly all of my keenest experiences intellectually, my most gorgeous rapprochements and swiftest developments mentally, have been by, to, and through men, not women, although there have been several exceptions to this. Nearly every turning point in my career has been signalized by my meeting some man of great force, to whom I owe some of the most ecstatic intellectual hours of my life, hours in which life seemed to bloom forth77 into new aspects, glowed as with the radiance of a gorgeous tropic day.
Peter was one such. About my own age at this time, he was blessed with a natural understanding which was simply Godlike. Although, like myself, he was raised a Catholic and still pretending in a boisterous79, Rabelaisian way to have some reverence80 for that faith, he was amusingly sympathetic to everything good, bad, indifferent—"in case there might be something in it; you never can tell." Still he hadn't the least interest in conforming to the tenets of the church and laughed at its pretensions81, preferring his own theories to any other. Apparently nothing amused him so much as the thought of confession82 and communion, of being shrived by some stout83, healthy priest as worldly as himself, and preferably Irish, like himself. At the same time he had a hearty84 admiration85 for the Germans, all their ways, conservatisms, their breweries86, food and such things, and finally wound up by marrying a German girl.
As far as I could make out, Peter had no faith in anything except Nature itself, and very little in that except in those aspects of beauty and accident and reward and terrors with which it is filled and for which he had an awe87 if not a reverence and in every manifestation88 of which he took the greatest delight. Life was a delicious, brilliant mystery to him, horrible in some respects, beautiful in others; a great adventure. Unlike myself at the time, he had not the slightest trace of any lingering Puritanism, and wished to live in a lush, vigorous, healthy, free, at times almost barbaric, way. The negroes, the ancient Romans, the Egyptians, tales of the Orient and the grotesque Dark Ages, our own vile89 slums and evil quarters—how he reveled in these! He was for nights of wandering, endless investigation90, reading, singing, dancing, playing!
Apropos of this I should like to relate here that one of his seemingly gross but really innocent diversions was occasionally visiting a certain black house of prostitution, of which there were many in St. Louis. Here while he played a flute91 and some one else a tambourine92 or small drum, he would have two or three of the inmates93 dance in some weird94 savage95 way that took one instanter to the wilds of Central Africa. There was, so far as I know, no payment of any kind made in connection with this. He was a friend, in some crude, artistic21 or barbaric way. He satisfied, I am positive, some love of color, sound and the dance in these queer revels96.
Nor do I know how he achieved these friendships, such as they were. I was never with him when he did. But aside from the satiation they afforded his taste for the strange and picturesque97, I am sure they reflected no gross or sensual appetite. But I wish to attest98 in passing that the mere witnessing of these free scenes had a tonic99 as well as toxic100 effect on me. As I view myself now, I was a poor, spindling, prying101 fish, anxious to know life, and yet because of my very narrow training very fearsome of it, of what it might do to me, what dreadful contagion103 of thought or deed it might open me to! Peter was not so. To him all, positively104 all, life was good. It was a fascinating spectacle, to be studied or observed and rejoiced in as a spectacle. When I look back now on the shabby, poorly-lighted, low-ceiled room to which he led me "for fun," the absolutely black or brown girls with their white teeth and shiny eyes, the unexplainable, unintelligible105 love of rhythm and the dance displayed, the beating of a drum, the sinuous106, winding107 motions of the body, I am grateful to him. He released my mind, broadened my view, lengthened108 my perspective. For as I sat with him, watching him beat his drum or play his flute, noted109 the gayety, his love of color and effect, and feeling myself low, a criminal, disgraced, the while I was staring with all my sight and enjoying it intensely, I realized that I was dealing with a man who was "bigger" than I was in many respects, saner110, really more wholesome111. I was a moral coward, and he was not losing his life and desires through fear—which the majority of us do. He was strong, vital, unafraid, and he made me so.
But, lest I seem to make him low or impossible to those who instinctively112 cannot accept life beyond the range of their own little routine world, let me hasten to his other aspects. He was not low but simple, brilliant and varied113 in his tastes. America and its point of view, religious and otherwise, was simply amusing to him, not to be taken seriously. He loved to contemplate man at his mysteries, rituals, secret schools. He loved better yet ancient history, medieval inanities114 and atrocities—a most singular, curious and wonderful mind. Already at this age he knew many historians and scientists (their work), a most astonishing and illuminating115 list to me—Maspero, Froude, Huxley, Darwin, Wallace, Rawlinson, Froissart, Hallam, Taine, Avebury! The list of painters, sculptors116 and architects with whose work he was familiar and books about whom or illustrated by whom he knew, is too long to be given here. His chief interest, in so far as I could make out, in these opening days, was Egyptology and the study of things natural and primeval—all the wonders of a natural, groping, savage world.
"Dreiser," he exclaimed once with gusto, his bright beady eyes gleaming with an immense human warmth, "you haven't the slightest idea of the fascination117 of some of the old beliefs. Do you know the significance of a scarab in Egyptian religious worship, for instance?"
"A scarab? What's a scarab? I never heard of one," I answered.
"A beetle118, of course. An Egyptian beetle. You know what a beetle is, don't you? Well, those things burrowed119 in the earth, the mud of the Nile, at a certain period of their season to lay their eggs, and the next spring, or whenever it was, the eggs would hatch and the beetles120 would come up. Then the Egyptians imagined that the beetle hadn't died at all, or if it had that it also had the power of restoring itself to life, possessed121 immortality122. So they thought it must be a god and began to worship it," and he would pause and survey me with those amazing eyes, bright as glass beads123, to see if I were properly impressed.
"You don't say!"
"Sure. That's where the worship came from," and then he might go on and add a bit about monkey-worship, the Zoroastrians and the Parsees, the sacred bull of Egypt, its sex power as a reason for its religious elevation124, and of sex worship in general; the fantastic orgies at Sidon and Tyre, where enormous images of the male and female sex organs were carried aloft before the multitude.
Being totally ignorant of these matters at the time, not a rumor125 of them having reached me as yet in my meagre reading, I knew that it must be so. It fired me with a keen desire to read—not the old orthodox emasculated histories of the schools but those other books and pamphlets to which I fancied he must have access. Eagerly I inquired of him where, how. He told me that in some cases they were outlawed126, banned or not translated wholly or fully56, owing to the puritanism and religiosity of the day, but he gave me titles and authors to whom I might have access, and the address of an old book-dealer or two who could get them for me.
In addition he was interested in ethnology and geology, as well as astronomy (the outstanding phases at least), and many, many phases of applied127 art: pottery128, rugs, pictures, engraving129, wood-carving130, jewel-cutting and designing, and I know not what else, yet there was always room even in his most serious studies for humor of the bizarre and eccentric type, amounting to all but an obsession131. He wanted to laugh, and he found occasion for doing so under the most serious, or at least semi-serious, circumstances. Thus I recall that one of the butts132 of his extreme humor was this same Dick, whom he studied with the greatest care for points worthy133 his humorous appreciation134. Dick, in addition to his genuinely lively mental interests, was a most romantic person on one side, a most puling and complaining soul on the other. As a newspaper artist I believe he was only a fairly respectable craftsman135, if so much, whereas Peter was much better, although he deferred136 to Dick in the most persuasive137 manner and seemed to believe at times, though I knew he did not, that Dick represented all there was to know in matters artistic.
Among other things at this time, the latter was, or pretended to be, immensely interested in all things pertaining138 to the Chinese and to know not only something of their language, which he had studied a little somewhere, but also their history—a vague matter, as we all know—and the spirit and significance of their art and customs. He sometimes condescended139 to take us about with him to one or two Chinese restaurants of the most beggarly description, and—as he wished to believe, because of the romantic titillation141 involved—the hang-outs of crooks142 and thieves and disreputable Tenderloin characters generally. (Of such was the beginning of the Chinese restaurant in America.) He would introduce us to a few of his Celestial143 friends, whose acquaintance apparently he had been most assiduously cultivating for some time past and with whom he was now on the best of terms. He had, as Peter pointed144 out to me, the happy knack145 of persuading himself that there was something vastly mysterious and superior about the whole Chinese race, that there was some Chinese organization known as the Six Companions, which, so far as I could make out from him, was ruling very nearly (and secretly, of course) the entire habitable globe. For one thing it had some governing connection with great constructive146 ventures of one kind and another in all parts of the world, supplying, as he said, thousands of Chinese laborers148 to any one who desired them, anywhere, and although they were employed by others, ruling them with a rod of iron, cutting their throats when they failed to perform their bounden duties and burying them head down in a basket of rice, then transferring their remains149 quietly to China in coffins150 made in China and brought for that purpose to the country in which they were. The Chinese who had worked for the builders of the union Pacific had been supplied by this company, as I understood from Dick. In regard to all this Peter used to analyze151 and dispose of Dick's self-generated romance with the greatest gusto, laughing the while and yet pretending to accept it all.
But there was one phase of all this which interested Peter immensely. Were there on sale in St. Louis any bits of jade152, silks, needlework, porcelains154, basketry or figurines of true Chinese origin? He was far more interested in this than in the social and economic sides of the lives of the Chinese, and was constantly urging Dick to take him here, there and everywhere in order that he might see for himself what of these amazing wonders were locally extant, leading Dick in the process a merry chase and a dog's life. Dick was compelled to persuade nearly all of his boasted friends to produce all they had to show. Once, I recall, a collection of rare Chinese porcelains being shown at the local museum of art, there was nothing for it but that Dick must get one or more of his Oriental friends to interpret this, that and the other symbol in connection with this, that and the other vase—things which put him to no end of trouble and which led to nothing, for among all the local Chinese there was not one who knew anything about it, although they, Dick included, were not honest enough to admit it.
"You know, Dreiser," Peter said to me one day with the most delicious gleam of semi-malicious, semi-tender humor, "I am really doing all this just to torture Dick. He doesn't know a damned thing about it and neither do these Chinese, but it's fun to haul 'em out there and make 'em sweat. The museum sells an illustrated monograph155 covering all this, you know, with pictures of the genuinely historic pieces and explanations of the various symbols in so far as they are known, but Dick doesn't know that, and he's lying awake nights trying to find out what they're all about. I like to see his expression and that of those chinks when they examine those things." He subsided156 with a low chuckle157 all the more disturbing because it was so obviously the product of well-grounded knowledge.
Another phase of this same humor related to the grand artistic, social and other forms of life to which Dick was hoping to ascend158 via marriage and which led him, because of a kind of anticipatory159 eagerness, into all sorts of exaggerations of dress, manners, speech, style in writing or drawing, and I know not what else. He had, as I have said, a "studio" in Broadway, an ordinary large, square upper chamber160 of an old residence turned commercial but which Dick had decorated in the most, to him, recherché or different manner possible. In Dick's gilding161 imagination it was packed with the rarest and most carefully selected things, odd bits of furniture, objects of art, pictures, books—things which the ordinary antique shop provides in plenty but which to Dick, having been reared in Bloomington, Illinois, were of the utmost artistic import. He had vaulting162 ambitions and pretensions, literary and otherwise, having by now composed various rondeaus, triolets, quatrains, sonnets163, in addition to a number of short stories over which he had literally165 slaved and which, being rejected by many editors, were kept lying idly and inconsequentially and seemingly inconspicuously about his place—the more to astonish the poor unsophisticated "outsider." Besides it gave him the opportunity of posing as misunderstood, neglected, depressed167, as becomes all great artists, poets, and thinkers.
His great scheme or dream, however, was that of marriage to an heiress, one of those very material and bovine168 daughters of the new rich in the West end, and to this end he was bending all his artistic thought, writing, dressing169, dreaming the thing he wished. I myself had a marked tendency in this direction, although from another point of view, and speaking from mine purely, there was this difference between us: Dick being an artist, rather remote and disdainful in manner and decidedly handsome as well as poetic171 and better positioned than I, as I fancied, was certain to achieve this gilded172 and crystal state, whereas I, not being handsome nor an artist nor sufficiently173 poetic perhaps, could scarcely aspire174 to so gorgeous a goal. Often, as around dinnertime he ambled175 from the office arrayed in the latest mode—dark blue suit, patent leather boots, a dark, round soft felt hat, loose tie blowing idly about his neck, a thin cane in his hand—I was already almost convinced that the anticipated end was at hand, this very evening perhaps, and that I should never see him more except as the husband of a very rich girl, never be permitted even to speak to him save as an almost forgotten friend, and in passing! Even now perhaps he was on his way to her, whereas I, poor oaf that I was, was moiling here over some trucky work. Would my ship never come in? my great day never arrive? my turn? Unkind heaven!
As for Peter he was the sort of person who could swiftly detect, understand and even sympathize with a point of view of this kind the while he must laugh at it and his mind be busy with some plan of making a fol-de-rol use of it. One day he came into the city-room where I was working and bending over my desk fairly bursting with suppressed humor announced, "Gee176, Dreiser, I've just thought of a delicious trick to play on Dick! Oh, Lord!" and he stopped and surveyed me with beady eyes the while his round little body seemed to fairly swell177 with pent-up laughter. "It's too rich! Oh, if it just works out Dick'll be sore! Wait'll I tell you," he went on. "You know how crazy he is about rich young heiresses? You know how he's always 'dressing up' and talking and writing about marrying one of those girls in the West end?" (Dick was forever composing a short story in which some lorn but perfect and great artist was thus being received via love, the story being read to us nights in his studio.) "That's all bluff178, that talk of his of visiting in those big houses out there. All he does is to dress up every night as though he were going to a ball, and walk out that way and moon around. Well, listen. Here's the idea. We'll go over to Mermod & Jaccards to-morrow and get a few sheets of their best monogrammed paper, sample sheets. Then we'll get up a letter and sign it with the most romantic name we can think of—Juanita or Cyrene or Doris—and explain who she is, the daughter of a millionaire living out there, and that she's been strictly179 brought up but that in spite of all that she's seen his name in the paper at the bottom of his pictures and wants to meet him, see? Then we'll have her suggest that he come out to the west gate of, say, Portland Place at seven o'clock and meet her. We'll have her describe herself, see, young and beautiful, and some attractive costume she's to wear, and we'll kill him. He'll fall hard. Then we'll happen by there at the exact time when he's waiting, and detain him, urge him to come into the park with us or to dinner. We'll look our worst so he'll be ashamed of us. He'll squirm and get wild, but we'll hang on and spoil the date for him, see? We'll insist in the letter that he must be alone, see, because she's timid and afraid of being recognized. My God, he'll be crazy! He'll think we've ruined his life—oh, ho, ho!" and he fairly writhed180 with inward joy.
The thing worked. It was cruel in its way, but when has man ever grieved over the humorous ills of others? The paper was secured, the letter written by a friend of Peter's in a nearby real estate office, after the most careful deliberation as to wording on our part. Extreme youth, beauty and a great mansion181 were all hinted at. The fascination of Dick as a romantic figure was touched upon. He would know her by a green silk scarf about her waist, for it was spring, the ideal season. Seven o'clock was the hour. She could give him only a moment or two then—but later—and she gave no address!
The letter was mailed in the West end, as was meet and proper, and in due season arrived at the office. Peter, working at the next easel, observed him, as he told me, out of the corner of his eye.
"You should have seen him, Dreiser," he exclaimed, hunting me up about an hour after the letter arrived. "Oh, ho! Say, you know I believe he thinks it's the real thing. It seemed to make him a little sick. He tried to appear nonchalant, but a little later he got his hat and went out, over to Deck's," a nearby saloon, "for a drink, for I followed him. He's all fussed up. Wait'll we heave into view that night! I'm going to get myself up like a joke, a hobo. I'll disgrace him. Oh, Lord, he'll be crazy! He'll think we've ruined his life, scared her off. There's no address. He can't do a thing. Oh, ho, ho, ho!"
On the appointed day—and it was a delicious afternoon and evening, aflame with sun and in May—Dick left off his work at three p.m., as Peter came and told me, and departed, and then we went to make our toilets. At six we met, took a car and stepped down not more than a short block from the point of meeting. I shall never forget the sweetness of the air, the something of sadness in the thought of love, even in this form. The sun was singing its evensong, as were the birds. But Peter—blessings or curses upon him!—was arrayed as only he could array himself when he wished to look absolutely disconcerting—more like an unwashed, uncombed tramp who had been sleeping out for weeks, than anything else. His hair was over his eyes and ears, his face and hands dirty, his shoes ditto. He had even blackened one tooth slightly. He had on a collarless shirt, and yet he was jaunty182 withal and carried a cane, if you please, assuming, as he always could and in the most aggravating183 way, to be totally unconscious of the figure he cut. At one angle of his multiplex character the man must have been a born actor.
We waited a block away, concealed184 by a few trees, and at the exact hour Dick appeared, hopeful and eager no doubt, and walking and looking almost all that he hoped—delicate, pale, artistic. The new straw hat! The pale green "artists'" shirt! His black, wide-buckled belt! The cane! The dark-brown low shoes! The boutonnière! He was plainly ready for any fate, his great moment.
And then, before he could get the feeling that his admirer might not be coming, we descended140 upon him in all our wretched nonchalance185 and unworthiness—out of hell, as it were. We were most brisk, familiar, affectionate. It was so fortunate to meet him so, so accidentally and peradventure. The night was so fine. We were out for a stroll in the park, to eat afterward186. He must come along.
I saw him look at Peter in that hat and no collar, and wilt187. It was too much. Such a friend—such friends (for on Peter's advice I was looking as ill as I might, an easy matter)! No, he couldn't come. He was waiting for some friends. We must excuse him.
But Peter was not to be so easily shaken off. He launched into the most brisk and serious conversation. He began his badger188 game by asking about some work upon which Dick had been engaged before he left the office, some order, how he was getting along with it, when it would be done; and, when Dick evaded189 and then attempted to dismiss the subject, took up another and began to expatiate190 on it, some work he himself was doing, something that had developed in connection with it. He asked inane191 questions, complimented Dick on his looks, began to tease him about some girl. And poor Dick—his nervousness, his despair almost, the sense of the waning192 of his opportunity! It was cruel. He was becoming more and more restless, looking about more and more wearily and anxiously and wishing to go or for us to go. He was horribly unhappy. Finally, after ten or fifteen minutes had gone and various girls had crossed the plaza193 in various directions, as well as carriages and saddle-horses—each one carrying his heiress, no doubt!—he seemed to summon all his courage and did his best to dispose of us. "You two'll have to excuse me," he exclaimed almost wildly. "I can't wait." Those golden moments! She could not approach! "My people aren't coming, I guess. I'll have to be going on."
He smiled weakly and made off, Peter half following and urging him to come back. Then, since he would not, we stood there on the exact spot of the rendezvous194 gazing smirkily195 after him. Then we went into the park a few paces and sat on a bench in full view, talking—or Peter was—most volubly. He was really choking with laughter. A little later, at seven-thirty, we went cackling into the park, only to return in five minutes as though we had changed our minds and were coming out—and saw Dick bustling196 off at our approach. It was sad really. There was an element of the tragic197 in it. But not to Peter. He was all laughter, all but apoplectic198 gayety. "Oh, by George!" he choked. "This is too much! Oh, ho! This is great! his poor heiress! And he came back! Har! Har! Har!"
"Peter, you dog," I said, "aren't you ashamed of yourself, to rub it in this way?"
"Not a bit, not a bit!" he insisted most enthusiastically. "Do him good. Why shouldn't he suffer? He'll get over it. He's always bluffing199 about his heiresses. Now he's lost a real one. Har! Har! Har!" and he fairly choked, and for days and weeks and months he laughed, but he never told. He merely chortled at his desk, and if any one asked him what he was laughing about, even Dick, he would reply, "Oh, something—a joke I played on a fellow once."
If Dick ever guessed he never indicated as much. But that lost romance! That faded dream!
Not so long after this, the following winter, I left St. Louis and did not see Peter for several years, during which time I drifted through various cities to New York. We kept up a more or less desultory201 correspondence which resulted eventually in his contributing to a paper of which I had charge in New York, and later, in part at least I am sure, in his coming there. I noticed one thing, that although Peter had no fixed202 idea as to what he wished to be—being able to draw, write, engrave203, carve and what not—he was in no way troubled about it. "I don't see just what it is that I am to do best," he said to me once. "It may be that I will wind up as a painter or writer or collector—I can't tell yet. I want to study, and meantime I'm making a living—that's all I want now. I want to live, and I am living, in my way."
Some men are masters of cities, or perhaps better, of all the elements which enter into the making of them, and Peter was one. I think sometimes that he was born a writer of great force and charm, only as yet he had not found himself. I have known many writers, many geniuses even, but not one his superior in intellect and romantic response to life. He was a poet, thinker, artist, philosopher and master of prose, as a posthumous204 volume ("Wolf, the Autobiography205 of a Cave Dweller") amply proves, but he was not ready then to fully express himself, and it troubled him not at all. He loved life's every facet206, was gay and helpful to himself and others, and yet always with an eye for the undercurrent of human misery207, error and tragedy as well as comedy. Immediately upon coming to New York he began to examine and grasp it in a large way, its museums, public buildings, geography, politics, but after a very little while decided170 suddenly that he did not belong there and without a by-your-leave, although once more we had fallen into each other's ways, he departed without a word, and I did not hear from him for months. Temporarily at least he felt that he had to obtain more experience in a lesser209 field, and lost no time in so doing. The next I knew he was connected, at a comfortable salary, with the then dominant210 paper of Philadelphia.
It was after he had established himself very firmly in Philadelphia that we two finally began to understand each other fully, to sympathize really with each other's point of view as opposed to the more or less gay and casual nature of our earlier friendship. Also here perhaps, more than before, we felt the binding211 influence of having worked together in the West. It was here that I first noticed the ease with which he took hold of a city, the many-sidedness of his peculiar212 character which led him to reflect so many angles of it, which a less varied temperament would never have touched upon. For, first of all, wherever he happened to be, he was intensely interested in the age and history of his city, its buildings and graveyards213 and tombstones which pointed to its past life, then its present physical appearance, the chief characteristics of the region in which it lay, its rivers, lakes, parks and adjacent places and spots of interest (what rambles214 we took!), as well as its newest and finest things architecturally. Nor did any one ever take a keener interest in the current intellectual resources of a city—any city in which he happened to be—its museums, libraries, old bookstores, newspapers, magazines, and I know not what else. It was he who first took me into Leary's bookstore in Philadelphia, descanting with his usual gusto on its merits. Then and lastly he was keenly and wisely interested in various currents of local politics, society and finance, although he always considered the first a low mess, an arrangement or adjustment of many necessary things among the lower orders. He seemed to know or sense in some occult way everything that was going on in those various realms. His mind was so full and rich that merely to be with him was a delight. He gushed215 like a fountain, and yet not polemically, of all he knew, heard, felt, suspected. His thoughts were so rich at times that to me they were more like a mosaic216 of variegated217 and richly colored stones and jewels. I felt always as though I were in the presence of a great personage, not one who was reserved or pompous218 but a loose bubbling temperament, wise beyond his years or day, and so truly great that perhaps because of the intensity219 and immense variety of his interests he would never shine in a world in which the most intensive specialization, and that of a purely commercial character, was the grand rôle.
And yet I always felt that perhaps he might. He attracted people of all grades so easily and warmly. His mind leaped from one interest to another almost too swiftly, and yet the average man understood and liked him. While in a way he contemned220 their mental states as limited or bigoted221, he enjoyed the conditions under which they lived, seemed to wish to immerse himself in them. And yet nearly all his thoughts were, from their point of view perhaps, dangerous. Among his friends he was always talking freely, honestly, of things which the average man could not or would not discuss, dismissing as trash illusion, lies or the cunning work of self-seeking propagandists, most of the things currently accepted as true.
He was constantly commenting on the amazing dullness of man, his prejudices, the astonishing manner in which he seized upon and clung savagely223 or pathetically to the most ridiculous interpretations224 of life. He was also forever noting that crass225 chance which wrecks226 so many of our dreams and lives,—its fierce brutalities, its seemingly inane indifference228 to wondrous229 things,—but never in a depressed or morbid230 spirit; merely as a matter of the curious, as it were. But if any one chanced to contradict him he was likely to prove liquid fire. At the same time he was forever reading, reading, reading—history, archæology, ethnology, geology, travel, medicine, biography, and descanting on the wonders and idiosyncrasies of man and nature which they revealed. He was never tired of talking of the intellectual and social conditions that ruled in Greece and Rome from 600 B.C. on, the philosophies, the travels, the art, the simple, natural pagan view of things, and regretting that they were no more. He grieved at times, I think, that he had not been of that world, might not have seen it, or, failing that, might not see all the shards231 of those extinct civilizations. There was something loving and sad in the manner in which at times, in one museum and another, he would examine ancient art designs, those of the Egyptians, Greeks and Romans, their public and private house plans, their statues, book rolls, inscriptions232, flambeaux, boats, swords, chariots. Carthage, Rome, Greece, Phoenicia—their colonies, art and trade stuffs, their foods, pleasures and worships—how he raved233! A book like Thaïs, Salammbo, Sonica, Quo Vadis, touched him to the quick.
At the same time, and odd as it may seem, he was seemingly in intimate contact with a circle of friends that rather astonished me by its catholicity. It included, for instance, and quite naïvely, real estate dealers234, clerks, a bank cashier or two, some man who had a leather shop or cigar factory in the downtown section, a drummer, a printer, two or three newspaper artists and reporters—a list too long to catalogue here and seemingly not interesting, at least not inspiring to look at or live in contact with. Yet his relations with all of these were of a warm, genial, helpful, homely235 character, quite intimate. He used them as one might a mulch in which to grow things, or in other words he took them on their own ground; a thing which I could never quite understand, being more or less aloof236 myself and yet wishing always to be able so to do, to take life, as he did.
For he desired, and secured, their good will and drew them to him. He took a simple, natural pleasure in the kinds of things they were able to do, as well as the kinds of things he could do. With these, then, and a type of girl who might not be classed above the clerk or manicure class, he and they managed to eke237 out a social life, the outstanding phases of which were dances, "parties," dinners at one simple home and another, flirting238, boating, and fishing expeditions in season, evenings out at restaurants or the theater, and I know not what else. He could sing (a very fair baritone), play the piano, cornet, flute, banjo, mandolin and guitar, but always insisted that his favorite instruments were the jews'-harp239, the French harp (mouth organ) and a comb with a piece of paper over it, against which he would blow with fierce energy, making the most outrageous240 sounds, until stopped. At any "party" he was always talking, jumping about, dancing, cooking something—fudge, taffy, a rarebit, and insisting in the most mock-serious manner that all the details be left strictly to him. "Now just cut out of this, all of you, and leave this to your Uncle Dudley. Who's doing this? All I want is sugar, chocolate, a pot, a big spoon, and I'll show you the best fudge you ever ate." Then he would don an apron241 or towel and go to work in a manner which would rob any gathering242 of a sense of stiffness and induce a naturalness most intriguing243, calculated to enhance the general pleasure an hundredfold.
Yes, Peter woke people up. He could convey or spread a sense of ease and good nature and give and take among all. Wise as he was and not so good-looking, he was still attractive to girls, very much so, and by no means unconscious of their beauty. He could always, and easily, break down their reserve, and was soon apparently on terms of absolute friendship, exchanging all sorts of small gossip and news with them about this, that and the other person about whom they knew. Indeed he was such a general favorite and so seemingly impartial244 that it was hard to say how he came close to any, and yet he did. At odd tête-à-tête moments he was always making confessions245 as to "nights" or "afternoons." "My God, Dreiser, I've found a peach! I can't tell you—but oh, wonderful! Just what I need. This world's a healthy old place, eh? Let's have another drink, what?" and he would order a stein or a half-schoppen of light German beer and pour it down, grinning like a gargoyle246.
It was while he was in Philadelphia that he told me the beginnings of the love affair which eventually ended in his marrying and settling down into the homiest of home men I have ever seen and which for sheer naïveté and charm is one of the best love stories I know anything about. It appears that he was walking in some out-of-the-way factory realm of North Philadelphia one Saturday afternoon about the first or second year of his stay there, when, playing in the street with some other children, he saw a girl of not more than thirteen or fourteen who, as he expressed it to me, "came damned near being the prettiest thing I ever saw. She had yellow hair and a short blue dress and pink bows in her hair—and say, Dreiser, when I saw her I stopped flat and said 'me for that' if I have to wait fifteen years! Dutchy—you never saw the beat! And poor! Her shoes were clogs247. She couldn't even talk English yet. Neither could the other kids. They were all sausage—a regular German neighborhood.
"But, say, I watched her a while and then I went over and said, 'Come here, kid. Where do you live?' She didn't understand, and one of the other kids translated for her, and then she said, 'Ich sprech nicht English,'" and he mocked her. "That fixed her for me. One of the others finally told me who she was and where she lived—and, say, I went right home and began studying German. In three months I could make myself understood, but before that, in two weeks, I hunted up her old man and made him understand that I wanted to be friends with the family, to learn German. I went out Sundays when they were all at home. There are six children and I made friends with 'em all. For a long time I couldn't make Madchen (that's what they call her) understand what it was all about, but finally I did, and she knows now all right. And I'm crazy about her and I'm going to marry her as soon as she's old enough."
"How do you know that she'll have you?" I inquired.
"Oh, she'll have me. I always tell her I'm going to marry her when she's eighteen, and she says all right. And I really believe she does like me. I'm crazy about her."
Five years later, if I may anticipate a bit, after he had moved to Newark and placed himself rather well in the journalistic field and was able to carry out his plans in regard to himself, he suddenly returned to Philadelphia and married, preparing beforehand an apartment which he fancied would please her. It was a fortunate marriage in so far as love and home pleasures were concerned. I never encountered a more delightful248 atmosphere.
All along in writing this I feel as though I were giving but the thinnest portrait of Peter; he was so full and varied in his moods and interests. To me he illustrated the joy that exists, on the one hand, in the common, the so-called homely and what some might think ugly side of life, certainly the very simple and ordinarily human aspect of things; on the other, in the sheer comfort and satisfaction that might be taken in things truly intellectual and artistic, but to which no great expense attached—old books, prints, things connected with history and science in their various forms, skill in matters relating to the applied arts and what not, such as the coloring and firing of pottery and glass, the making of baskets, hammocks and rugs, the carving of wood, the collection and imitation of Japanese and Chinese prints, the art of embalming249 as applied by the Egyptians (which, in connection with an undertaker to whom he had attached himself, he attempted to revive or at least play with, testing his skill for instance by embalming a dead cat or two after the Egyptian manner). In all of these lines he trained himself after a fashion and worked with skill, although invariably he insisted that he was little more than a bungler250, a poor follower251 after the art of some one else. But most of all, at this time and later, he was interested in collecting things Japanese and Chinese: netsukes, inros, censors252, images of jade and porcelain153, teajars, vases, prints; and it was while he was in Philadelphia and seemingly trifling253 about with the group I have mentioned and making love to his little German girl that he was running here and there to this museum and that and laying the foundations of some of those interesting collections which later he was fond of showing his friends or interested collectors. By the time he had reached Newark, as chief cartoonist of the leading paper there, he was in possession of a complete Tokaido (the forty views on the road between Tokio and Kyoto), various prints by Hokusai, Sesshiu, Sojo; a collection of one hundred inros, all of fifty netsukes, all of thirty censers, lacquered boxes and teajars, and various other exceedingly beautiful and valuable things—Mandarin skirts and coats, among other things—which subsequently he sold or traded around among one collector friend and another for things which they had. I recall his selling his completed Tokaido, a labor147 which had extended over four years, for over a thousand dollars. Just before he died he was trading netsukes for inros and getting ready to sell all these latter to a man, who in turn was going to sell his collection to a museum.
But in between was this other, this ultra-human side, which ran to such commonplaces as bowling254, tennis-playing, golf, billiards255, cards and gambling256 with the dice222—a thing which always struck me as having an odd turn to it in connection with Peter, since he could be interested in so many other things, and yet he pursued these commonplaces with as much gusto at times as one possessed of a mania258. At others he seemed not to miss or think of them. Indeed, you could be sure of him and all his interests, whatever they were, feeling that he had himself well in hand, knew exactly how far he was going, and that when the time came he could and would stop. Yet during the process of his momentary259 relaxation260 or satiation, in whatever field it might be, he would give you a sense of abandon, even ungovernable appetite, which to one who had not known him long might have indicated a mania.
Thus I remember once running over to Philadelphia to spend a Saturday and Sunday with him, visits of this kind, in either direction, being of the commonest occurrence. At that time he was living in some quiet-looking boarding-house in South Fourth Street, but in which dwelt or visited the group above-mentioned, and whenever I came there, at least, there was always an atmosphere of intense gaming or playing in some form, which conveyed to me nothing so much as a glorious sense of life and pleasure. A dozen or more men might be seated at or standing78 about a poker261 or dice table, in summer (often in winter) with their coats off, their sleeves rolled up, Peter always conspicuous166 among them. On the table or to one side would be money, a pitcher262 or a tin pail of beer, boxes of cigarettes or cigars, and there would be Peter among the players, flushed with excitement, his collar off, his hair awry263, his little figure stirring about here and there or gesticulating or lighting264 a cigar or pouring down a glass of beer, shouting at the top of his voice, his eyes aglow265, "That's mine!" "I say it's not!" "Two on the sixes!" "Three!" "Four!" "Ah, roll the bones! Roll the bones!" "Get off! Get off! Come on now, Spikes—cough up! You've got the money now. Pay back. No more loans if you don't." "Once on the fours—the fives—the aces5!" "Roll the bones! Roll the bones! Come on!" Or, if he saw me, softening266 and saying, "Gee, Dreiser, I'm ahead twenty-eight so far!" or "I've lost thirty all told. I'll stick this out, though, to win or lose five more, and then I'll quit. I give notice, you fellows, five more, one way or the other, and then I'm through. See? Say, these damned sharks are always trying to turn a trick. And when they lose they don't want to pay. I'm offa this for life unless I get a better deal."
In the room there might be three or four girls—sisters, sweethearts, pals267 of one or other of the players—some dancing, some playing the piano or singing, and in addition the landlord and his wife, a slattern pair usually, about whose past and present lives Peter seemed always to know much. He had seduced268 them all apparently into a kind of rakish camaraderie269 which was literally amazing to behold270. It thrilled, fascinated, at times frightened me, so thin and inadequate271 and inefficient272 seemed my own point of view and appetite for life. He was vigorous, charitable, pagan, gay, full of health and strength. He would play at something, anything, indoors or out as occasion offered, until he was fairly perspiring273, when, throwing down whatever implement274 he had in hand—be it cards, a tennis-racket, a golf club—would declare, "That's enough! That's enough! I'm done now. I've licked-cha," or "I'm licked. No more. Not another round. Come on, Dreiser, I know just the place for us—" and then descanting on a steak or fish planked, or some new method of serving corn or sweet potatoes or tomatoes, he would lead the way somewhere to a favorite "rat's killer," as he used to say, or grill275 or Chinese den16, and order enough for four or five, unless stopped. As he walked, and he always preferred to walk, the latest political row or scandal, the latest discovery, tragedy or art topic would get his keen attention. In his presence the whole world used to look different to me, more colorful, more hopeful, more gay. Doors seemed to open; in imagination I saw the interiors of a thousand realms—homes, factories, laboratories, dens276, resorts of pleasure. During his day such figures as McKinley, Roosevelt, Hanna, Rockefeller, Rogers, Morgan, Peary, Harriman were abroad and active, and their mental states and points of view and interests—and sincerities and insincerities—were the subject of his wholly brilliant analysis. He rather admired the clever opportunist, I think, so long as he was not mean in view or petty, yet he scorned and even despised the commercial viewpoint or trade reactions of a man like McKinley. Rulers ought to be above mere commercialism. Once when I asked him why he disliked McKinley so much he replied laconically277, "The voice is the voice of McKinley, but the hands—are the hands of Hanna." Roosevelt seemed to amuse him always, to be a delightful if ridiculous and self-interested "grandstander," as he always said, "always looking out for Teddy, you bet," but good for the country, inspiring it with visions. Rockefeller was wholly admirable as a force driving the country on to autocracy278, oligarchy279, possibly revolution. Ditto Hanna, ditto Morgan, ditto Harriman, ditto Rogers, unless checked. Peary might have, and again might not have, discovered the North Pole. He refused to judge. Old "Doc" Cook, the pseudo discoverer, who appeared very shortly before he died, only drew forth chuckles280 of delight. "My God, the gall281, the nerve! And that wreath of roses the Danes put around his neck! It's colossal282, Dreiser. It's grand. Munchausen, Cook, Gulliver, Marco Polo—they'll live forever, or ought to!"
Some Saturday afternoons or Sundays, if he came to me or I to him in time, we indulged in long idle rambles, anywhere, either going first by streetcar, boat or train somewhere and then walking, or, if the mood was not so, just walking on and on somewhere and talking. On such occasions Peter was at his best and I could have listened forever, quite as the disciples283 of Plato and Aristotle must have to them, to his discourses285 on life, his broad and broadening conceptions of Nature—her cruelty, beauty, mystery. Once, far out somewhere beyond Camden, we were idling about an inlet where were boats and some fishermen and a trestle which crossed it. Just as we were crossing it some men in a boat below discovered the body of a possible suicide, in the water, days old and discolored, but still intact and with the clothes of a man of at least middle-class means. I was for leaving, being made a little sick by the mere sight. Not so Peter. He was for joining in the effort which brought the body to shore, and in a moment was back with the small group of watermen, speculating and arguing as to the condition and character of the dead man, making himself really one of the group. Finally he was urging the men to search the pockets while some one went for the police. But more than anything, with a hard and yet in its way humane286 realism which put any courage of mine in that direction to the blush, he was all for meditating287 on the state and nature of man, his chemical components—chlorine, sulphuric acid, phosphoric acid, potassium, sodium288, calcium289, magnesium290, oxygen—and speculating as to which particular chemicals in combination gave the strange metallic291 blues292, greens, yellows and browns to the decaying flesh! He had a great stomach for life. The fact that insects were at work shocked him not at all. He speculated as to these, their duties and functions! He asserted boldly that man was merely a chemical formula at best, that something much wiser than he had prepared him, for some not very brilliant purpose of his or its own perhaps, and that he or it, whoever or whatever he or it was, was neither good nor bad, as we imagined such things, but both. He at once went off into the mysteries—where, when with me at least, he seemed to prefer to dwell—talked of the divinations of the Chaldeans, how they studied the positions of the stars and the entrails of dead animals before going to war, talked of the horrible fetiches of the Africans, the tricks and speculations293 of the priests of Greek and Roman temples, finally telling me the story of the ambitious eel-seller who anchored the dead horse in the stream in order to have plenty of eels294 every morning for market. I revolted. I declared he was sickening.
"My boy," he assured me, "you are too thin-skinned. You can't take life that way. It's all good to me, whatever happens. We're here. We're not running it. Why be afraid to look at it? The chemistry of a man's body isn't any worse than the chemistry of anything else, and we're eating the dead things we've killed all the time. A little more or a little less in any direction—what difference?"
Apropos of this same a little later—to shock me, of course, as he well knew he could—he assured me that in eating a dish of chop suey in a Chinese restaurant, a very low one, he had found and eaten a part of the little finger of a child, and that "it was very good—very good, indeed."
"Dog!" I protested. "Swine! Thou ghoula!" but he merely chuckled295 heartily296 and stuck to his tale!
But if I paint this side of him it is to round out his wonderful, to me almost incredible, figure. Insisting on such things, he was still and always warm and human, sympathetic, diplomatic and cautious, according to his company, so that he was really acceptable anywhere. Peter would never shock those who did not want to be shocked. A minute or two or five after such a discourse284 as the above he might be describing some marvelously beautiful process of pollination297 among the flowers, the history of some medieval trade guild298 or gazing at a beautiful scene and conveying to one by his very attitude his unspoken emotion.
After spending about two or three years in Philadelphia—which city came to reflect for me the color of Peter's interests and mood—he suddenly removed to Newark, having been nursing an arrangement with its principal paper for some time. Some quarrel or dissatisfaction with the director of his department caused him, without other notice, to paste some crisp quotation299 from one of the poets on his desk and depart! In Newark, a city to which before this I had paid not the slightest attention, he found himself most happy; and I, living in New York close at hand, felt that I possessed in it and him an earthly paradise. Although it contained no more than 300,000 people and seemed, or had, a drear factory realm only, he soon revealed it to me in quite another light, because he was there. Very swiftly he found a wondrous canal running right through it, under its market even, and we went walking along its banks, out into the woods and fields. He found or created out of an existing boardinghouse in a back street so colorful and gay a thing that after a time it seemed to me to outdo that one of Philadelphia. He joined a country club near Passaic, on the river of that name, on the veranda300 of which we often dined. He found a Chinese quarter with a restaurant or two; an amazing Italian section with a restaurant; a man who had a $40,000 collection of rare Japanese and Chinese curios, all in his rooms at the Essex County Insane Asylum301, for he was the chemist there; a man who was a playwright302 and manager in New York; another who owned a newspaper syndicate; another who directed a singing society; another who was president of a gun club; another who owned and made or rather fired pottery for others. Peter was so restless and vital that he was always branching out in a new direction. To my astonishment303 he now took up the making and firing of pottery for himself, being interested in reproducing various Chinese dishes and vases of great beauty, the originals of which were in the Metropolitan304 Museum of Art. His plan was first to copy the design, then buy, shape or bake the clay at some pottery, then paint or decorate with liquid porcelain at his own home, and fire. In the course of six or eight months, working in his rooms Saturdays and Sundays and some mornings before going to the office, he managed to produce three or four which satisfied him and which he kept plates of real beauty. The others he gave away.
A little later, if you please, it was Turkish rug-making on a small scale, the frame and materials for which he slowly accumulated, and then providing himself with a pillow, Turkish-fashion, he crossed his legs before it and began slowly but surely to produce a rug, the colors and design of which were entirely305 satisfactory to me. As may be imagined, it was slow and tedious work, undertaken at odd moments and when there was nothing else for him to do, always when the light was good and never at night, for he maintained that the coloring required the best of light. Before this odd, homely, wooden machine, a combination of unpainted rods and cords, he would sit, cross-legged or on a bench at times, and pound and pick and tie and unravel—a most wearisome-looking task to me.
"For heaven's sake," I once observed, "couldn't you think of anything more interestingly insane to do than this? It's the slowest, most painstaking306 work I ever saw."
"That's just it, and that's just why I like it," he replied, never looking at me but proceeding307 with his weaving in the most industrious308 fashion. "You have just one outstanding fault, Dreiser. You don't know how to make anything out of the little things of life. You want to remember that this is an art, not a job. I'm discovering whether I can make a Turkish carpet or not, and it gives me pleasure. If I can get so much as one good spot of color worked out, one small portion of the design, I'll be satisfied. I'll know then that I can do it, the whole thing, don't you see? Some of these things have been the work of a lifetime of one man. You call that a small thing? I don't. The pleasure is in doing it, proving that you can, not in the rug itself." He clacked and tied, congratulating himself vastly. In due course of time three or four inches were finished, a soft and yet firm silky fabric309, and he was in great glee over it, showing it to all and insisting that in time (how long? I often wondered) he would complete it and would then own a splendid carpet.
It was at this time that he built about him in Newark a structure of friendships and interests which, it seemed to me, promised to be for life. He interested himself intensely in the paper with which he was connected and although he was only the cartoonist, still it was not long before various departments and elements in connection with it seemed to reflect his presence and to be alive with his own good will and enthusiasm. Publisher, editor, art director, managing editor and business manager, were all in friendly contact with him. He took out life insurance for the benefit of the wife and children he was later to have! With the manager of the engraving department he was working out problems in connection with copperplate engraving and printing; with the official photographer, art photography; with the art director, some scheme for enlarging the local museum in some way. With his enduring love of the fantastic and ridiculous it was not long before he had successfully planned and executed a hoax310 of the most ridiculous character, a piece of idle drollery311 almost too foolish to think of, and yet which eventually succeeded in exciting the natives of at least four States and was telegraphed to and talked about in a Sunday feature way, by newspapers all over the country, and finally involved Peter as an actor and stage manager of the most vivid type imaginable. And yet it was all done really to amuse himself, to see if he could do it, as he often told me.
This particular hoax related to that silly old bugaboo of our boyhood days, the escaped and wandering wild man, ferocious313, blood-loving, terrible. I knew nothing of it until Peter, one Sunday afternoon when we were off for a walk a year or two after he had arrived in Newark, suddenly announced apropos of nothing at all, "Dreiser, I've just hit upon a great idea which I am working out with some of the boys down on our paper. It's a dusty old fake, but it will do as well as any other, better than if it were a really decent idea. I'm inventing a wild man. You know how crazy the average dub314 is over anything strange, different,'terrible.' Barnum was right, you know. There's one born every minute. Well, I'm just getting this thing up now. It's as good as the sacred white elephant or the blood-sweating hippopotamus315. And what's more, I'm going to stage it right here in little old Newark—and they'll all fall for it, and don't you think they won't," and he chuckled most ecstatically.
"For heaven's sake, what's coming now?" I sighed.
"Oh, very well. But I have it all worked out just the same. We're beginning to run the preliminary telegrams every three or four days—one from Ramblersville, South Jersey316, let us say, another from Hohokus, twenty-five miles farther on, four or five days later. By degrees as spring comes on I'll bring him north—right up here into Essex County—a genuine wild man, see, something fierce and terrible. We're giving him long hair like a bison, red eyes, fangs317, big hands and feet. He's entirely naked—or will be when he gets here. He's eight feet tall. He kills and eats horses, dogs, cattle, pigs, chickens. He frightens men and women and children. I'm having him bound across lonely roads, look in windows at night, stampede cattle and drive tramps and peddlers out of the country. But say, wait and see. As summer comes on we'll make a regular headliner of it. We'll give it pages on Sunday. We'll get the rubes to looking for him in posses, offer rewards. Maybe some one will actually capture and bring in some poor lunatic, a real wild man. You can do anything if you just stir up the natives enough."
I laughed. "You're crazy," I said. "What a low comedian you really are, Peter!"
Well, the weeks passed, and to mark progress he occasionally sent me clippings of telegrams, cut not from his pages, if you please, but from such austere318 journals as the Sun and World of New York, the North American of Philadelphia, the Courant of Hartford, recording319 the antics of his imaginary thing of the woods. Longish articles actually began to appear here and there, in Eastern papers especially, describing the exploits of this very elusive320 and moving demon321. He had been seen in a dozen fairly widely distributed places within the month, but always coming northward322. In one place he had killed three cows at once, in another two, and eaten portions of them raw! Old Mrs. Gorswitch of Dutchers Run, Pennsylvania, returning from a visit to her daughter-in-law, Annie A. Gorswitch, and ambling257 along a lonely road in Osgoroola County, was suddenly descended upon by a most horrific figure, half man, half beast, very tall and with long hair and red, all but bloody323 eyes who, looking at her with avid324 glance, made as if to seize her, but a wagon325 approaching along the road from another direction, he had desisted and fled, leaving old Mrs. Gorswitch in a faint upon the ground. Barns and haystacks had been fired here and there, lonely widows in distant cotes been made to abandon their homes through fear.... I marveled at the assiduity and patience of the man.
One day in June or July following, being in Newark and asking Peter quite idly about his wild man, he replied, "Oh, it's great, great! Couldn't be better! He'll soon be here now. We've got the whole thing arranged now for next Sunday or Saturday—depends on which day I can get off. We're going to photograph him. Wanto come over?"
"What rot!" I said. "Who's going to pose? Where?"
"Well," he chuckled, "come along and see. You'll find out fast enough. We've got an actual wild man. I got him. I'll have him out here in the woods. If you don't believe it, come over. You wouldn't believe me when I said I could get the natives worked up. Well, they are. Look at these," and he produced clippings from rival papers. The wild man was actually being seen in Essex County, not twenty-five miles from Newark. He had ravaged326 the property of people in five different States. It was assumed that he was a lunatic turned savage, or that he had escaped from a circus or trading-ship wrecked327 on the Jersey coast (suggestions made by Peter himself). His depredations328, all told, had by now run into thousands, speaking financially. Staid residents were excited. Rewards for his capture were being offered in different places. Posses of irate329 citizens were, and would continue to be, after him, armed to the teeth, until he was captured. Quite remarkable330 developments might be expected at any time ... I stared. It seemed too ridiculous, and it was, and back of it all was smirking331, chuckling332 Peter, the center and fountain of it!
"You dog!" I protested. "You clown!" He merely grinned.
Not to miss so interesting a dénouement as the actual capture of this prodigy333 of the wilds, I was up early and off the following Sunday to Newark, where in Peter's apartment in due time I found him, his rooms in a turmoil334, he himself busy stuffing things into a bag, outside an automobile waiting and within it the staff photographer as well as several others, all grinning, and all of whom, as he informed me, were to assist in the great work of tracking, ambushing335 and, if possible, photographing the dread102 peril336.
"Yes, well, who's going to be him?" I insisted.
"Never mind! Never mind! Don't be so inquisitive," chortled Peter. "A wild man has his rights and privileges, as well as any other. Remember, I caution all of you to be respectful in his presence. He's very sensitive, and he doesn't like newspapermen anyhow. He'll be photographed, and he'll be wild. That's all you need to know."
In due time we arrived at as comfortable an abode337 for a wild man as well might be. It was near the old Essex and Morris Canal, not far from Boonton. A charming clump338 of brush and rock was selected, and here a snapshot of a posse hunting, men peering cautiously from behind trees in groups and looking as though they were most eager to discover something, was made. Then Peter, slipping away—I suddenly saw him ambling toward us, hair upstanding, body smeared339 with black muck, daubs of white about the eyes, little tufts of wool about wrists and ankles and loins—as good a figure of a wild man as one might wish, only not eight feet tall.
"Peter!" I said. "How ridiculous! You loon!"
"Have a care how you address me," he replied with solemn dignity. "A wild man is a wild man. Our punctilio is not to be trifled with. I am of the oldest, the most famous line of wild men extant. Touch me not." He strode the grass with the air of a popular movie star, while he discussed with the art director and photographer the most terrifying and convincing attitudes of a wild man seen by accident and unconscious of his pursuers.
"But you're not eight feet tall!" I interjected at one point.
"A small matter. A small matter," he replied airily. "I will be in the picture. Nothing easier. We wild men, you know—"
Some of the views were excellent, most striking. He leered most terribly from arras of leaves or indicated fright or cunning. The man was a good actor. For years I retained and may still have somewhere a full set of the pictures as well as the double-page spread which followed the next week.
Well, the thing was appropriately discussed, as it should have been, but the wild man got away, as was feared. He went into the nearby canal and washed away all his terror, or rather he vanished into the dim recesses340 of Peter's memory. He was only heard of a few times more in the papers, his supposed body being found in some town in northeast Pennsylvania—or in the small item that was "telegraphed" from there. As for Peter, he emerged from the canal, or from its banks, a cleaner if not a better man. He was grinning, combing his hair, adjusting his tie.
"What a scamp!" I insisted lovingly. "What an incorrigible341 trickster!"
"Dreiser, Dreiser," he chortled, "there's nothing like it. You should not scoff342. I am a public benefactor343. I am really a creator. I have created a being as distinct as any that ever lived. He is in many minds—mine, yours. You know that you believe in him really. There he was peeking344 out from between those bushes only fifteen minutes ago. And he has made, and will make, thousands of people happy, thrill them, give them a new interest. If Stevenson can create a Jekyll and Hyde, why can't I create a wild man? I have. We have his picture to prove it. What more do you wish?"
I acquiesced345. All told, it was a delightful bit of foolery and art, and Peter was what he was first and foremost, an artist in the grotesque and the ridiculous.
For some time thereafter peace seemed to reign346 in his mind, only now it was that the marriage and home and children idea began to grow. From much of the foregoing it may have been assumed that Peter was out of sympathy with the ordinary routine of life, despised the commonplace, the purely practical. As a matter of fact it was just the other way about. I never knew a man so radical347 in some of his viewpoints, so versatile348 and yet so wholly, intentionally and cravingly, immersed in the usual as Peter. He was all for creating, developing, brightening life along simple rather than outré lines, in so far as he himself was concerned. Nearly all of his arts and pleasures were decorative349 and homey. A good grocer, a good barber, a good saloon-keeper, a good tailor, a shoe maker350, was just as interesting in his way to Peter as any one or anything else, if not a little more so. He respected their lines, their arts, their professions, and above all, where they had it, their industry, sobriety and desire for fair dealing. He believed that millions of men, especially those about him were doing the best they could under the very severe conditions which life offered. He objected to the idle, the too dull the swindlers and thieves as well as the officiously puritanic or dogmatic. He resented, for himself at least, solemn pomp and show. Little houses, little gardens, little porches, simple cleanly neighborhoods with their air of routine, industry, convention and order, fascinated him as apparently nothing else could. He insisted that they were enough. A man did not need a great house unless he was a public character with official duties.
"Dreiser," he would say in Philadelphia and Newark, if not before, "it's in just such a neighborhood as this that some day I'm going to live. I'm going to have my little frau, my seven children, my chickens, dog, cat, canary, best German style, my garden, my birdbox, my pipe; and Sundays, by God, I'll march 'em all off to church, wife and seven kids, as regular as clockwork, shined shoes, pigtails and all, and I'll lead the procession."
"Yes, yes," I said. "You talk."
"Well, wait and see. Nothing in this world means so much to me as the good old orderly home stuff. One ought to live and die in a family. It's the right way. I'm cutting up now, sowing my wild oats, but that's nothing. I'm just getting ready to eventually settle down and live, just as I tell you, and be an ideal orderly citizen. It's the only way. It's the way nature intends us to do. All this early kid stuff is passing, a sorting-out process. We get over it. Every fellow does, or ought to be able to, if he's worth anything, find some one woman that he can live with and stick by her. That makes the world that you and I like to live in, and you know it. There's a psychic351 call in all of us to it, I think. It's the genius of our civilization, to marry one woman and settle down. And when I do, no more of this all-night stuff with this, that and the other lady. I'll be a model husband and father, sure as you're standing there. Don't you think I won't. Smile if you want to—it's so. I'll have my garden. I'll be friendly with my neighbors. You can come over then and help us put the kids to bed."
"Oh, all right. Scoff if you want to. You'll see."
Time went by. He was doing all the things I have indicated, living in a kind of whirl of life. At the same time, from time to time, he would come back to this thought. Once, it is true, I thought it was all over with the little yellow-haired girl in Philadelphia. He talked of her occasionally, but less and less. Out on the golf links near Passaic he met another girl, one of a group that flourished there. I met her. She was not unpleasing, a bit sensuous352, rather attractive in dress and manners, not very well informed, but gay, clever, up-to-date; such a girl as would pass among other women as fairly satisfactory.
For a time Peter seemed greatly attracted to her. She danced, played a little, was fair at golf and tennis, and she was, or pretended to be, intensely interested in him. He confessed at last that he believed he was in love with her.
"So it's all day with Philadelphia, is it?" I asked.
"It's a shame," he replied, "but I'm afraid so. I'm having a hell of a time with myself, my alleged353 conscience, I tell you."
I heard little more about it. He had a fad200 for collecting rings at this time, a whole casket full, like a Hindu prince, and he told me once he was giving her her choice of them.
Suddenly he announced that it was "all off" and that he was going to marry the maid of Philadelphia. He had thrown the solitaire engagement ring he had given her down a sewer354! At first he would confess nothing as to the reason or the details, but being so close to me it eventually came out. Apparently, to the others as to myself, he had talked much of his simple home plans, his future children—the good citizen idea. He had talked it to his new love also, and she had sympathized and agreed. Yet one day, after he had endowed her with the engagement ring, some one, a member of the golf club, came and revealed a tale. The girl was not "straight." She had been, mayhap was even then, "intimate" with other men—one anyhow. She was in love with Peter well enough, as she insisted afterward, and willing to undertake the life he suggested, but she had not broken with the old atmosphere completely, or if she had it was still not believed that she had. There were those who could not only charge, but prove. A compromising note of some kind sent to some one was involved, turned over to Peter.
"Dreiser," he growled355 as he related the case to me, "it serves me right. I ought to know better. I know the kind of woman I need. This one has handed me a damned good wallop, and I deserve it. I might have guessed that she wasn't suited to me. She was really too free—a life-lover more than a wife. That home stuff! She was just stringing me because she liked me. She isn't really my sort, not simple enough."
"But you loved her, I thought?"
"I did, or thought I did. Still, I used to wonder too. There were many ways about her that troubled me. You think I'm kidding about this home and family idea, but I'm not. It suits me, however flat it looks to you. I want to do that, live that way, go through the normal routine experience, and I'm going to do it."
"But how did you break it off with her so swiftly?" I asked curiously.
"Well, when I heard this I went direct to her and put it up to her. If you'll believe me she never even denied it. Said it was all true, but that she was in love with me all right, and would change and be all that I wanted her to be."
"Well, that's fair enough," I said, "if she loves you. You're no saint yourself, you know. If you'd encourage her, maybe she'd make good."
"Well, maybe, but I don't think so really," he returned, shaking his head. "She likes me, but not enough, I'm afraid. She wouldn't run straight, now that she's had this other. She'd mean to maybe, but she wouldn't. I feel it about her. And anyhow I don't want to take any chances. I like her—I'm crazy about her really, but I'm through. I'm going to marry little Dutchy if she'll have me, and cut out this old-line stuff. You'll have to stand up with me when I do."
In three months more the new arrangement was consummated356 and little Dutchy—or Zuleika, as he subsequently named her—was duly brought to Newark and installed, at first in a charming apartment in a conventionally respectable and cleanly neighborhood, later in a small house with a "yard," lawn front and back, in one of the homiest of home neighborhoods in Newark. It was positively entertaining to observe Peter not only attempting to assume but assuming the rôle of the conventional husband, and exactly nine months after he had been married, to the hour, a father in this humble357 and yet, in so far as his particular home was concerned, comfortable world. I have no space here for more than the barest outline. I have already indicated his views, most emphatically expressed and forecasted. He fulfilled them all to the letter, up to the day of his death. In so far as I could make out, he made about as satisfactory a husband and father and citizen as I have ever seen. He did it deliberately, in cold reason, and yet with a warmth and flare358 which puzzled me all the more since it was based on reason and forethought. I misdoubted. I was not quite willing to believe that it would work out, and yet if ever a home was delightful, with a charming and genuinely "happy" atmosphere, it was Peter's.
"Here she is," he observed the day he married her, "me frau—Zuleika. Isn't she a peach? Ever see any nicer hair than that? And these here, now, pink cheeks? What? Look at 'em! And her little Dutchy nose! Isn't it cute? Oh, Dutchy! And right here in me vest pocket is the golden band wherewith I am to be chained to the floor, the domestic hearth359. And right there on her finger is my badge of prospective360 serfdom." Then, in a loud aside to me, "In six months I'll be beating her. Come now, Zuleika. We have to go through with this. You have to swear to be my slave."
And so they were married.
And in the home afterward he was as busy and helpful and noisy as any man about the house could ever hope to be. He was always fussing about after hours "putting up" something or arranging his collections or helping361 Zuleika wash and dry the dishes, or showing her how to cook something if she didn't know how. He was running to the store or bringing home things from the downtown market. Months before the first child was born he was declaring most shamelessly, "In a few months now, Dreiser, Zuleika and I are going to have our first calf362. The bones roll for a boy, but you never can tell. I'm offering up prayers and oblations—both of us are. I make Zuleika pray every night. And say, when it comes, no spoiling-the-kid stuff. No bawling363 or rocking it to sleep nights permitted. Here's one kid that's going to be raised right. I've worked out all the rules. No trashy baby-foods. Good old specially15 brewed364 Culmbacher for the mother, and the kid afterwards if it wants it. This is one family in which law and order are going to prevail—good old 'dichtig, wichtig' law and order."
I used to chuckle the while I verbally denounced him for his coarse, plebeian365 point of view and tastes.
In a little while the child came, and to his immense satisfaction it was a boy. I never saw a man "carry on" so, make over it, take such a whole-souled interest in all those little things which supposedly made for its health and well-being. For the first few weeks he still talked of not having it petted or spoiled, but at the same time he was surely and swiftly changing, and by the end of that time had become the most doting366, almost ridiculously fond papa that I ever saw. Always the child must be in his lap at the most unseemly hours, when his wife would permit it. When he went anywhere, or they, although they kept a maid the child must be carried along by him on his shoulder. He liked nothing better than to sit and hold it close, rocking in a rocking-chair American style and singing, or come tramping into my home in New York, the child looking like a woolen367 ball. At night if it stirred or whimpered he was up and looking. And the baby-clothes!—and the cradle!—and the toys!—colored rubber balls and soldiers the first or second or third week!
"What about that stern discipline that was to be put in force here—no rocking, no getting up at night to coddle a weeping infant?"
"Yes, I know. That's all good stuff before you get one. I've got one of my own now, and I've got a new light on this. Say, Dreiser, take my advice. Go through the routine. Don't try to escape. Have a kid or two or three. There's a psychic punch to it you can't get any other way. It's nature's way. It's a great scheme. You and your girl and your kid."
As he talked he rocked, holding the baby boy to his breast. It was wonderful.
And Mrs. Peter—how happy she seemed. There was light in that house, flowers, laughter, good fellowship. As in his old rooms so in this new home he gathered a few of his old friends around him and some new ones, friends of this region. In the course of a year or two he was on the very best terms of friendship with his barber around the corner, his grocer, some man who had a saloon and bowling alley368 in the neighborhood, his tailor, and then just neighbors. The milkman, the coal man, the druggist and cigar man at the next corner—all could tell you where Peter lived. His little front "yard" had two beds of flowers all summer long, his lot in the back was a garden—lettuce, onions, peas, beans. Peter was always happiest when he could be home working, playing with the baby, pushing him about in a go-cart, working in his garden, or lying on the floor making something—an engraving or print or a box which he was carving, the infant in some simple gingham romper crawling about. He was always busy, but never too much so for a glance or a mock-threatening, "Now say, not so much industry there. You leave my things alone," to the child. Of a Sunday he sat out on the front porch smoking, reading the Sunday paper, congratulating himself on his happy married life, and most of the time holding the infant. Afternoons he would carry it somewhere, anywhere, in his arms to his friends, the Park, New York, to see me. At breakfast, dinner, supper the heir presumptive was in a high-chair beside him.
"Ah, now, here's a rubber spoon. Beat with that. It's less destructive and less painful physically."
"How about a nice prust" (crust) "dipped in bravery" (gravy) "—heh? Do you suppose that would cut any of your teeth?"
"Zuleika, this son of yours seems to think a spoonful of beer or two might not hurt him. What do you say?"
Occasionally, especially of a Saturday evening, he wanted to go bowling and yet he wanted his heir. The problem was solved by fitting the latter into a tight little sweater and cap and carrying him along on his shoulder, into the bar for a beer, thence to the bowling alley, where young hopeful was fastened into a chair on the side lines while Peter and myself or some of his friends bowled. At ten or ten-thirty or eleven, as the case might be, he was ready to leave, but before that hour les ongfong might be sound asleep, hanging against Peter's scarf, his interest in his toes or thumbs having given out.
"Peter, look at that," I observed once. "Don't you think we'd better take him home?"
"Home nothing! Let him sleep. He can sleep here as well as anywhere, and besides I like to look at him." And in the room would be a great crowd, cigars, beers, laughter, and Peter's various friends as used to the child's presence and as charmed by it as he was. He was just the man who could do such things. His manner and point of view carried conviction. He believed in doing all that he wanted to do simply and naturally, and more and more as he went along people not only respected, I think they adored him, especially the simple homely souls among whom he chose to move and have his being.
About this time there developed among those in his immediate208 neighborhood a desire to elect him to some political position, that of councilman, or State assemblyman, in the hope or thought that he would rise to something higher. But he would none of it—not then anyhow. Instead, about this time or a very little later, after the birth of his second child (a girl), he devoted369 himself to the composition of a brilliant piece of prose poetry ("Wolf"), which, coming from him, did not surprise me in the least. If he had designed or constructed a great building, painted a great picture, entered politics and been elected governor or senator, I would have taken it all as a matter of course. He could have. The material from which anything may rise was there. I asked him to let me offer it to the publishing house with which I was connected, and I recall with interest the comment of the oldest and most experienced of the bookmen and salesmen among us. "You'll never make much, if anything, on this book. It's too good, too poetic. But whether it pays or not, I vote yes. I'd rather lose money on something like this than make it on some of the trash we do make it on."
Amen. I agreed then, and I agree now.
The last phase of Peter was as interesting and dramatic as any of the others. His married life was going forward about as he had planned. His devotion to his home and children, his loving wife, his multiplex interests, his various friends, was always a curiosity to me, especially in view of his olden days. One day he was over in New York visiting one of his favorite Chinese importing companies, through which he had secured and was still securing occasional objects of art. He had come down to me in my office at the Butterick Building to see if I would not come over the following Saturday as usual and stay until Monday. He had secured something, was planning something. I should see. At the elevator he waved me a gay "so long—see you Saturday!"
But on Friday, as I was talking with some one at my desk, a telegram was handed me. It was from Mrs. Peter and read: "Peter died today at two of pneumonia370. Please come."
I could scarcely believe it. I did not know that he had even been sick. His little yellow-haired wife! The two children! His future! His interests! I dropped everything and hurried to the nearest station. En route I speculated on the mysteries on which he had so often speculated—death, dissolution, uncertainty371, the crude indifference or cruelty of Nature. What would become of Mrs. Peter? His children?
I arrived only to find a home atmosphere destroyed as by a wind that puts out a light. There was Peter, stiff and cold, and in the other rooms his babies, quite unconscious of what had happened, prattling372 as usual, and Mrs. Peter practically numb164 and speechless. It had come so suddenly, so out of a clear sky, that she could not realize, could not even tell me at first. The doctor was there—also a friend of his, the nearest barber! Also two or three representatives from his paper, the owner of the bowling alley, the man who had the $40,000 collection of curios. All were stunned373, as I was. As his closest friend, I took charge: wired his relatives, went to an undertaker who knew him to arrange for his burial, in Newark or Philadelphia, as his wife should wish, she having no connection with Newark other than Peter.
It was most distressing374, the sense of dull despair and unwarranted disaster which hung over the place. It was as though impish and pagan forces, or malign375 ones outside life, had committed a crime of the ugliest character. On Monday, the day he saw me, he was well. On Tuesday morning he had a slight cold but insisted on running out somewhere without his overcoat, against which his wife protested. Tuesday night he had a fever and took quinine and aspirin376 and a hot whiskey. Wednesday morning he was worse and a doctor was called, but it was not deemed serious. Wednesday night he was still worse and pneumonia had set in. Thursday he was lower still, and by noon a metal syphon of oxygen was sent for, to relieve the sense of suffocation377 setting in. Thursday night he was weak and sinking, but expected to come round—and still, so unexpected was the attack, so uncertain the probability of anything fatal, that no word was sent, even to me. Friday morning he was no worse and no better. "If he was no worse by night he might pull through." At noon he was seized with a sudden sinking spell. Oxygen was applied by his wife and a nurse, and the doctor sent for. By one-thirty he was lower still, very low. "His face was blue, his lips ashen," his wife told me. "We put the oxygen tube to his mouth and I said 'Can you speak, Peter?' I was so nervous and frightened. He moved his head a little to indicate 'no.' 'Peter,' I said, 'you mustn't let go! You must fight! Think of me! Think of the babies!' I was a little crazy, I think, with fear. He looked at me very fixedly378. He stiffened379 and gritted381 his teeth in a great effort. Then suddenly he collapsed382 and lay still. He was dead."
I could not help thinking of the force and energy—able at the last minute, when he could not speak—to "grit380 his teeth" and "fight," a minute before his death. What is the human spirit, or mind, that it can fight so, to the very last? I felt as though some one, something, had ruthlessly killed him, committed plain, unpunished murder—nothing more and nothing less.
And there were his cases of curios, his rug, his prints, his dishes, his many, many schemes, his book to come out soon. I gazed and marveled. I looked at his wife and babies, but could say nothing. It spelled, what such things always spell, in the face of all our dreams, crass chance or the willful, brutal227 indifference of Nature to all that relates to man. If he is to prosper383 he must do so without her aid.
That same night, sleeping in the room adjoining that in which was the body, a pale candle burning near it, I felt as though Peter were walking to and fro, to and fro, past me and into the room of his wife beyond, thinking and grieving. His imagined wraith384 seemed horribly depressed and distressed385. Once he came over and moved his hand (something) over my face. I felt him walking into the room where were his wife and kiddies, but he could make no one see, hear, understand. I got up and looked at his cadaver386 a long time, then went to bed again.
The next day and the next and the next were filled with many things. His mother and sister came on from the West as well as the mother and brother of his wife. I had to look after his affairs, adjusting the matter of insurance which he left, his art objects, the burial of his body "in consecrated387 ground" in Philadelphia, with the consent and aid of the local Catholic parish rector, else no burial. His mother desired it, but he had never been a good Catholic and there was trouble. The local parish assistant refused me, even the rector. Finally I threatened the good father with an appeal to the diocesan bishop388 on the ground of plain common sense and courtesy to a Catholic family, if not charity to a tortured mother and wife—and obtained consent. All along I felt as if a great crime had been committed by some one, foul389 murder. I could not get it out of my mind, and it made me angry, not sad.
Two, three, five, seven years later, I visited the little family in Philadelphia. The wife was with her mother and father in a simple little home street in a factory district, secretary and stenographer390 to an architect. She was little changed—a little stouter391, not so carefree, industrious, patient. His boy, the petted F——, could not even recall his father, the girl not at all of course. And in the place were a few of his prints, two or three Chinese dishes, pottered by himself, his loom76 with the unfinished rug. I remained for dinner and dreamed old dreams, but I was uncomfortable and left early. And Mrs. Peter, accompanying me to the steps, looked after me as though I, alone, was all that was left of the old life.
点击收听单词发音
1 dreariness | |
沉寂,可怕,凄凉 | |
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2 oasis | |
n.(沙漠中的)绿洲,宜人的地方 | |
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3 inexplicable | |
adj.无法解释的,难理解的 | |
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4 physically | |
adj.物质上,体格上,身体上,按自然规律 | |
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5 aces | |
abbr.adjustable convertible-rate equity security (units) 可调节的股本证券兑换率;aircraft ejection seat 飞机弹射座椅;automatic control evaluation simulator 自动控制评估模拟器n.擅长…的人( ace的名词复数 );精于…的人;( 网球 )(对手接不到发球的)发球得分;爱司球 | |
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6 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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7 deliberately | |
adv.审慎地;蓄意地;故意地 | |
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8 courageous | |
adj.勇敢的,有胆量的 | |
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9 intentionally | |
ad.故意地,有意地 | |
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10 contemplate | |
vt.盘算,计议;周密考虑;注视,凝视 | |
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11 well-being | |
n.安康,安乐,幸福 | |
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12 belied | |
v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 );证明(或显示)…为虚假;辜负;就…扯谎 | |
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13 genial | |
adj.亲切的,和蔼的,愉快的,脾气好的 | |
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14 grotesque | |
adj.怪诞的,丑陋的;n.怪诞的图案,怪人(物) | |
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15 specially | |
adv.特定地;特殊地;明确地 | |
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16 den | |
n.兽穴;秘密地方;安静的小房间,私室 | |
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17 sniff | |
vi.嗅…味道;抽鼻涕;对嗤之以鼻,蔑视 | |
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18 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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19 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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20 portray | |
v.描写,描述;画(人物、景象等) | |
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21 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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22 artistically | |
adv.艺术性地 | |
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23 relatively | |
adv.比较...地,相对地 | |
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24 brawling | |
n.争吵,喧嚷 | |
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25 virgin | |
n.处女,未婚女子;adj.未经使用的;未经开发的 | |
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26 starry | |
adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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27 hoarding | |
n.贮藏;积蓄;临时围墙;囤积v.积蓄并储藏(某物)( hoard的现在分词 ) | |
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28 temperament | |
n.气质,性格,性情 | |
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29 texture | |
n.(织物)质地;(材料)构造;结构;肌理 | |
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30 loon | |
n.狂人 | |
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31 rave | |
vi.胡言乱语;热衷谈论;n.热情赞扬 | |
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32 dealing | |
n.经商方法,待人态度 | |
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33 apropos | |
adv.恰好地;adj.恰当的;关于 | |
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34 yokel | |
n.乡下人;农夫 | |
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35 prosecuted | |
a.被起诉的 | |
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36 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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37 virile | |
adj.男性的;有男性生殖力的;有男子气概的;强有力的 | |
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38 temperaments | |
性格( temperament的名词复数 ); (人或动物的)气质; 易冲动; (性情)暴躁 | |
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39 garish | |
adj.华丽而俗气的,华而不实的 | |
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40 denizen | |
n.居民,外籍居民 | |
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41 denizens | |
n.居民,住户( denizen的名词复数 ) | |
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42 automobile | |
n.汽车,机动车 | |
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43 comedian | |
n.喜剧演员;滑稽演员 | |
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44 glistening | |
adj.闪耀的,反光的v.湿物闪耀,闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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45 reassuring | |
a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的,使人放心的 | |
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46 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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47 imminence | |
n.急迫,危急 | |
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48 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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49 illustrating | |
给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 ); 说明; 表明; (用示例、图画等)说明 | |
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50 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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51 astounding | |
adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊,使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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52 concoctions | |
n.编造,捏造,混合物( concoction的名词复数 ) | |
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53 reptilian | |
adj.(像)爬行动物的;(像)爬虫的;卑躬屈节的;卑鄙的n.两栖动物;卑劣的人 | |
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54 distended | |
v.(使)膨胀,肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55 jaws | |
n.口部;嘴 | |
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56 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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57 brass | |
n.黄铜;黄铜器,铜管乐器 | |
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58 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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59 ebullience | |
n.沸腾,热情,热情洋溢 | |
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60 unfamiliarity | |
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61 sepulchral | |
adj.坟墓的,阴深的 | |
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62 trumpery | |
n.无价值的杂物;adj.(物品)中看不中用的 | |
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63 folly | |
n.愚笨,愚蠢,蠢事,蠢行,傻话 | |
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64 scaly | |
adj.鱼鳞状的;干燥粗糙的 | |
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65 vitality | |
n.活力,生命力,效力 | |
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66 condescending | |
adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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67 illustrated | |
adj. 有插图的,列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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68 emphatic | |
adj.强调的,着重的;无可置疑的,明显的 | |
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69 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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70 poseur | |
n.装模作样的人 | |
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71 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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72 linen | |
n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
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73 cane | |
n.手杖,细长的茎,藤条;v.以杖击,以藤编制的 | |
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74 eastward | |
adv.向东;adj.向东的;n.东方,东部 | |
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75 locust | |
n.蝗虫;洋槐,刺槐 | |
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76 loom | |
n.织布机,织机;v.隐现,(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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77 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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78 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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79 boisterous | |
adj.喧闹的,欢闹的 | |
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80 reverence | |
n.敬畏,尊敬,尊严;Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称;v.尊敬,敬畏,崇敬 | |
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81 pretensions | |
自称( pretension的名词复数 ); 自命不凡; 要求; 权力 | |
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82 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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84 hearty | |
adj.热情友好的;衷心的;尽情的,纵情的 | |
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85 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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86 breweries | |
酿造厂,啤酒厂( brewery的名词复数 ) | |
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87 awe | |
n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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88 manifestation | |
n.表现形式;表明;现象 | |
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89 vile | |
adj.卑鄙的,可耻的,邪恶的;坏透的 | |
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90 investigation | |
n.调查,调查研究 | |
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91 flute | |
n.长笛;v.吹笛 | |
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92 tambourine | |
n.铃鼓,手鼓 | |
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93 inmates | |
n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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94 weird | |
adj.古怪的,离奇的;怪诞的,神秘而可怕的 | |
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95 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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96 revels | |
n.作乐( revel的名词复数 );狂欢;着迷;陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 );狂欢;着迷;陶醉 | |
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97 picturesque | |
adj.美丽如画的,(语言)生动的,绘声绘色的 | |
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98 attest | |
vt.证明,证实;表明 | |
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99 tonic | |
n./adj.滋补品,补药,强身的,健体的 | |
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100 toxic | |
adj.有毒的,因中毒引起的 | |
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101 prying | |
adj.爱打听的v.打听,刺探(他人的私事)( pry的现在分词 );撬开 | |
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102 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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103 contagion | |
n.(通过接触的疾病)传染;蔓延 | |
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104 positively | |
adv.明确地,断然,坚决地;实在,确实 | |
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105 unintelligible | |
adj.无法了解的,难解的,莫明其妙的 | |
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106 sinuous | |
adj.蜿蜒的,迂回的 | |
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107 winding | |
n.绕,缠,绕组,线圈 | |
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108 lengthened | |
(时间或空间)延长,伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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110 saner | |
adj.心智健全的( sane的比较级 );神志正常的;明智的;稳健的 | |
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111 wholesome | |
adj.适合;卫生的;有益健康的;显示身心健康的 | |
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112 instinctively | |
adv.本能地 | |
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113 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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114 inanities | |
n.空洞( inanity的名词复数 );浅薄;愚蠢;空洞的言行 | |
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115 illuminating | |
a.富于启发性的,有助阐明的 | |
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116 sculptors | |
雕刻家,雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 ); [天]玉夫座 | |
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117 fascination | |
n.令人着迷的事物,魅力,迷恋 | |
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118 beetle | |
n.甲虫,近视眼的人 | |
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119 burrowed | |
v.挖掘(洞穴),挖洞( burrow的过去式和过去分词 );翻寻 | |
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120 beetles | |
n.甲虫( beetle的名词复数 ) | |
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121 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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122 immortality | |
n.不死,不朽 | |
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123 beads | |
n.(空心)小珠子( bead的名词复数 );水珠;珠子项链 | |
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124 elevation | |
n.高度;海拔;高地;上升;提高 | |
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125 rumor | |
n.谣言,谣传,传说 | |
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126 outlawed | |
宣布…为不合法(outlaw的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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127 applied | |
adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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128 pottery | |
n.陶器,陶器场 | |
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129 engraving | |
n.版画;雕刻(作品);雕刻艺术;镌版术v.在(硬物)上雕刻(字,画等)( engrave的现在分词 );将某事物深深印在(记忆或头脑中) | |
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130 carving | |
n.雕刻品,雕花 | |
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131 obsession | |
n.困扰,无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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132 butts | |
笑柄( butt的名词复数 ); (武器或工具的)粗大的一端; 屁股; 烟蒂 | |
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133 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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134 appreciation | |
n.评价;欣赏;感谢;领会,理解;价格上涨 | |
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135 craftsman | |
n.技工,精于一门工艺的匠人 | |
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136 deferred | |
adj.延期的,缓召的v.拖延,延缓,推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 );服从某人的意愿,遵从 | |
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137 persuasive | |
adj.有说服力的,能说得使人相信的 | |
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138 pertaining | |
与…有关系的,附属…的,为…固有的(to) | |
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139 condescended | |
屈尊,俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 ); 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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140 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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141 titillation | |
n.搔痒,愉快;搔痒感 | |
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142 crooks | |
n.骗子( crook的名词复数 );罪犯;弯曲部分;(牧羊人或主教用的)弯拐杖v.弯成钩形( crook的第三人称单数 ) | |
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143 celestial | |
adj.天体的;天上的 | |
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144 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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145 knack | |
n.诀窍,做事情的灵巧的,便利的方法 | |
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146 constructive | |
adj.建设的,建设性的 | |
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147 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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148 laborers | |
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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149 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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150 coffins | |
n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 );使某人早亡[死,完蛋,垮台等]之物 | |
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151 analyze | |
vt.分析,解析 (=analyse) | |
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152 jade | |
n.玉石;碧玉;翡翠 | |
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153 porcelain | |
n.瓷;adj.瓷的,瓷制的 | |
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154 porcelains | |
n.瓷,瓷器( porcelain的名词复数 ) | |
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155 monograph | |
n.专题文章,专题著作 | |
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156 subsided | |
v.(土地)下陷(因在地下采矿)( subside的过去式和过去分词 );减弱;下降至较低或正常水平;一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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157 chuckle | |
vi./n.轻声笑,咯咯笑 | |
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158 ascend | |
vi.渐渐上升,升高;vt.攀登,登上 | |
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159 anticipatory | |
adj.预想的,预期的 | |
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160 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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161 gilding | |
n.贴金箔,镀金 | |
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162 vaulting | |
n.(天花板或屋顶的)拱形结构 | |
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163 sonnets | |
n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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164 numb | |
adj.麻木的,失去感觉的;v.使麻木 | |
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165 literally | |
adv.照字面意义,逐字地;确实 | |
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166 conspicuous | |
adj.明眼的,惹人注目的;炫耀的,摆阔气的 | |
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167 depressed | |
adj.沮丧的,抑郁的,不景气的,萧条的 | |
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168 bovine | |
adj.牛的;n.牛 | |
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169 dressing | |
n.(食物)调料;包扎伤口的用品,敷料 | |
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170 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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171 poetic | |
adj.富有诗意的,有诗人气质的,善于抒情的 | |
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172 gilded | |
a.镀金的,富有的 | |
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173 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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174 aspire | |
vi.(to,after)渴望,追求,有志于 | |
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175 ambled | |
v.(马)缓行( amble的过去式和过去分词 );从容地走,漫步 | |
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176 gee | |
n.马;int.向右!前进!,惊讶时所发声音;v.向右转 | |
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177 swell | |
vi.膨胀,肿胀;增长,增强 | |
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178 bluff | |
v.虚张声势,用假象骗人;n.虚张声势,欺骗 | |
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179 strictly | |
adv.严厉地,严格地;严密地 | |
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180 writhed | |
(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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181 mansion | |
n.大厦,大楼;宅第 | |
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182 jaunty | |
adj.愉快的,满足的;adv.心满意足地,洋洋得意地;n.心满意足;洋洋得意 | |
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183 aggravating | |
adj.恼人的,讨厌的 | |
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184 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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185 nonchalance | |
n.冷淡,漠不关心 | |
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186 afterward | |
adv.后来;以后 | |
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187 wilt | |
v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎;(指人)疲倦,衰弱 | |
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188 badger | |
v.一再烦扰,一再要求,纠缠 | |
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189 evaded | |
逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 ); 避开; 回避; 想不出 | |
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190 expatiate | |
v.细说,详述 | |
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191 inane | |
adj.空虚的,愚蠢的,空洞的 | |
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192 waning | |
adj.(月亮)渐亏的,逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 );(月)亏;变小;变暗淡 | |
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193 plaza | |
n.广场,市场 | |
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194 rendezvous | |
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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195 smirkily | |
阴暗地; 混浊地; 可疑地; 黝暗地 | |
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196 bustling | |
adj.喧闹的 | |
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197 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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198 apoplectic | |
adj.中风的;愤怒的;n.中风患者 | |
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199 bluffing | |
n. 威吓,唬人 动词bluff的现在分词形式 | |
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200 fad | |
n.时尚;一时流行的狂热;一时的爱好 | |
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201 desultory | |
adj.散漫的,无方法的 | |
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202 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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203 engrave | |
vt.(在...上)雕刻,使铭记,使牢记 | |
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204 posthumous | |
adj.遗腹的;父亡后出生的;死后的,身后的 | |
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205 autobiography | |
n.自传 | |
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206 facet | |
n.(问题等的)一个方面;(多面体的)面 | |
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207 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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208 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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209 lesser | |
adj.次要的,较小的;adv.较小地,较少地 | |
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210 dominant | |
adj.支配的,统治的;占优势的;显性的;n.主因,要素,主要的人(或物);显性基因 | |
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211 binding | |
有约束力的,有效的,应遵守的 | |
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212 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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213 graveyards | |
墓地( graveyard的名词复数 ); 垃圾场; 废物堆积处; 收容所 | |
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214 rambles | |
(无目的地)漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 ); (喻)漫谈; 扯淡; 长篇大论 | |
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215 gushed | |
v.喷,涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 );滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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216 mosaic | |
n./adj.镶嵌细工的,镶嵌工艺品的,嵌花式的 | |
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217 variegated | |
adj.斑驳的,杂色的 | |
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218 pompous | |
adj.傲慢的,自大的;夸大的;豪华的 | |
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219 intensity | |
n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
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220 contemned | |
v.侮辱,蔑视( contemn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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221 bigoted | |
adj.固执己见的,心胸狭窄的 | |
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222 dice | |
n.骰子;vt.把(食物)切成小方块,冒险 | |
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223 savagely | |
adv. 野蛮地,残酷地 | |
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224 interpretations | |
n.解释( interpretation的名词复数 );表演;演绎;理解 | |
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225 crass | |
adj.愚钝的,粗糙的;彻底的 | |
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226 wrecks | |
n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 );(事故中)遭严重毁坏的汽车(或飞机等);(身体或精神上)受到严重损伤的人;状况非常糟糕的车辆(或建筑物等)v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 );使(船舶)失事,使遇难,使下沉 | |
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227 brutal | |
adj.残忍的,野蛮的,不讲理的 | |
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228 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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229 wondrous | |
adj.令人惊奇的,奇妙的;adv.惊人地;异乎寻常地;令人惊叹地 | |
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230 morbid | |
adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
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231 shards | |
n.(玻璃、金属或其他硬物的)尖利的碎片( shard的名词复数 ) | |
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232 inscriptions | |
(作者)题词( inscription的名词复数 ); 献词; 碑文; 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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233 raved | |
v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 );愤怒地说;咆哮;痴心地说 | |
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234 dealers | |
n.商人( dealer的名词复数 );贩毒者;毒品贩子;发牌者 | |
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235 homely | |
adj.家常的,简朴的;不漂亮的 | |
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236 aloof | |
adj.远离的;冷淡的,漠不关心的 | |
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237 eke | |
v.勉强度日,节约使用 | |
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238 flirting | |
v.调情,打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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239 harp | |
n.竖琴;天琴座 | |
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240 outrageous | |
adj.无理的,令人不能容忍的 | |
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241 apron | |
n.围裙;工作裙 | |
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242 gathering | |
n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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243 intriguing | |
adj.有趣的;迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词);激起…的好奇心 | |
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244 impartial | |
adj.(in,to)公正的,无偏见的 | |
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245 confessions | |
n.承认( confession的名词复数 );自首;声明;(向神父的)忏悔 | |
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246 gargoyle | |
n.笕嘴 | |
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247 clogs | |
木屐; 木底鞋,木屐( clog的名词复数 ) | |
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248 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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249 embalming | |
v.保存(尸体)不腐( embalm的现在分词 );使不被遗忘;使充满香气 | |
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250 Bungler | |
n.笨拙者,经验不够的人 | |
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251 follower | |
n.跟随者;随员;门徒;信徒 | |
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252 censors | |
删剪(书籍、电影等中被认为犯忌、违反道德或政治上危险的内容)( censor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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253 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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254 bowling | |
n.保龄球运动 | |
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255 billiards | |
n.台球 | |
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256 gambling | |
n.赌博;投机 | |
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257 ambling | |
v.(马)缓行( amble的现在分词 );从容地走,漫步 | |
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258 mania | |
n.疯狂;躁狂症,狂热,癖好 | |
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259 momentary | |
adj.片刻的,瞬息的;短暂的 | |
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260 relaxation | |
n.松弛,放松;休息;消遣;娱乐 | |
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261 poker | |
n.扑克;vt.烙制 | |
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262 pitcher | |
n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐;(棒球)投手 | |
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263 awry | |
adj.扭曲的,错的 | |
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264 lighting | |
n.照明,光线的明暗,舞台灯光 | |
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265 aglow | |
adj.发亮的;发红的;adv.发亮地 | |
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266 softening | |
变软,软化 | |
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267 pals | |
n.朋友( pal的名词复数 );老兄;小子;(对男子的不友好的称呼)家伙 | |
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268 seduced | |
诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 ); 勾引; 诱使堕落; 使入迷 | |
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269 camaraderie | |
n.同志之爱,友情 | |
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270 behold | |
v.看,注视,看到 | |
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271 inadequate | |
adj.(for,to)不充足的,不适当的 | |
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272 inefficient | |
adj.效率低的,无效的 | |
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273 perspiring | |
v.出汗,流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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274 implement | |
n.(pl.)工具,器具;vt.实行,实施,执行 | |
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275 grill | |
n.烤架,铁格子,烤肉;v.烧,烤,严加盘问 | |
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276 dens | |
n.牙齿,齿状部分;兽窝( den的名词复数 );窝点;休息室;书斋 | |
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277 laconically | |
adv.简短地,简洁地 | |
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278 autocracy | |
n.独裁政治,独裁政府 | |
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279 oligarchy | |
n.寡头政治 | |
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280 chuckles | |
轻声地笑( chuckle的名词复数 ) | |
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281 gall | |
v.使烦恼,使焦躁,难堪;n.磨难 | |
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282 colossal | |
adj.异常的,庞大的 | |
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283 disciples | |
n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 );门徒;耶稣的信徒;(尤指)耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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284 discourse | |
n.论文,演说;谈话;话语;vi.讲述,著述 | |
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285 discourses | |
论文( discourse的名词复数 ); 演说; 讲道; 话语 | |
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286 humane | |
adj.人道的,富有同情心的 | |
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287 meditating | |
a.沉思的,冥想的 | |
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288 sodium | |
n.(化)钠 | |
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289 calcium | |
n.钙(化学符号Ca) | |
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290 magnesium | |
n.镁 | |
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291 metallic | |
adj.金属的;金属制的;含金属的;产金属的;像金属的 | |
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292 blues | |
n.抑郁,沮丧;布鲁斯音乐 | |
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293 speculations | |
n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 );思考;投机活动;推断 | |
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294 eels | |
abbr. 电子发射器定位系统(=electronic emitter location system) | |
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295 chuckled | |
轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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296 heartily | |
adv.衷心地,诚恳地,十分,很 | |
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297 pollination | |
n.授粉 | |
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298 guild | |
n.行会,同业公会,协会 | |
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299 quotation | |
n.引文,引语,语录;报价,牌价,行情 | |
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300 veranda | |
n.走廊;阳台 | |
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301 asylum | |
n.避难所,庇护所,避难 | |
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302 playwright | |
n.剧作家,编写剧本的人 | |
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303 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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304 metropolitan | |
adj.大城市的,大都会的 | |
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305 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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306 painstaking | |
adj.苦干的;艰苦的,费力的,刻苦的 | |
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307 proceeding | |
n.行动,进行,(pl.)会议录,学报 | |
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308 industrious | |
adj.勤劳的,刻苦的,奋发的 | |
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309 fabric | |
n.织物,织品,布;构造,结构,组织 | |
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310 hoax | |
v.欺骗,哄骗,愚弄;n.愚弄人,恶作剧 | |
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311 drollery | |
n.开玩笑,说笑话;滑稽可笑的图画(或故事、小戏等) | |
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312 bug | |
n.虫子;故障;窃听器;vt.纠缠;装窃听器 | |
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313 ferocious | |
adj.凶猛的,残暴的,极度的,十分强烈的 | |
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314 dub | |
vt.(以某种称号)授予,给...起绰号,复制 | |
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315 hippopotamus | |
n.河马 | |
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316 jersey | |
n.运动衫 | |
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317 fangs | |
n.(尤指狗和狼的)长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 );(蛇的)毒牙;罐座 | |
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318 austere | |
adj.艰苦的;朴素的,朴实无华的;严峻的 | |
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319 recording | |
n.录音,记录 | |
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320 elusive | |
adj.难以表达(捉摸)的;令人困惑的;逃避的 | |
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321 demon | |
n.魔鬼,恶魔 | |
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322 northward | |
adv.向北;n.北方的地区 | |
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323 bloody | |
adj.非常的的;流血的;残忍的;adv.很;vt.血染 | |
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324 avid | |
adj.热心的;贪婪的;渴望的;劲头十足的 | |
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325 wagon | |
n.四轮马车,手推车,面包车;无盖运货列车 | |
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326 ravaged | |
毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 ); 蹂躏; 劫掠; 抢劫 | |
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327 wrecked | |
adj.失事的,遇难的 | |
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328 depredations | |
n.劫掠,毁坏( depredation的名词复数 ) | |
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329 irate | |
adj.发怒的,生气 | |
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330 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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331 smirking | |
v.傻笑( smirk的现在分词 ) | |
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332 chuckling | |
轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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333 prodigy | |
n.惊人的事物,奇迹,神童,天才,预兆 | |
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334 turmoil | |
n.骚乱,混乱,动乱 | |
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335 ambushing | |
v.埋伏( ambush的现在分词 );埋伏着 | |
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336 peril | |
n.(严重的)危险;危险的事物 | |
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337 abode | |
n.住处,住所 | |
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338 clump | |
n.树丛,草丛;vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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339 smeared | |
弄脏; 玷污; 涂抹; 擦上 | |
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340 recesses | |
n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 );(工作或业务活动的)中止或暂停期间;学校的课间休息;某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 );将(墙)做成凹形,在(墙)上做壁龛;休息,休会,休庭 | |
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341 incorrigible | |
adj.难以纠正的,屡教不改的 | |
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342 scoff | |
n.嘲笑,笑柄,愚弄;v.嘲笑,嘲弄,愚弄,狼吞虎咽 | |
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343 benefactor | |
n. 恩人,行善的人,捐助人 | |
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344 peeking | |
v.很快地看( peek的现在分词 );偷看;窥视;微露出 | |
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345 acquiesced | |
v.默认,默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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346 reign | |
n.统治时期,统治,支配,盛行;v.占优势 | |
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347 radical | |
n.激进份子,原子团,根号;adj.根本的,激进的,彻底的 | |
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348 versatile | |
adj.通用的,万用的;多才多艺的,多方面的 | |
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349 decorative | |
adj.装饰的,可作装饰的 | |
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350 maker | |
n.制造者,制造商 | |
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351 psychic | |
n.对超自然力敏感的人;adj.有超自然力的 | |
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352 sensuous | |
adj.激发美感的;感官的,感觉上的 | |
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353 alleged | |
a.被指控的,嫌疑的 | |
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354 sewer | |
n.排水沟,下水道 | |
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355 growled | |
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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356 consummated | |
v.使结束( consummate的过去式和过去分词 );使完美;完婚;(婚礼后的)圆房 | |
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357 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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358 flare | |
v.闪耀,闪烁;n.潮红;突发 | |
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359 hearth | |
n.壁炉炉床,壁炉地面 | |
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360 prospective | |
adj.预期的,未来的,前瞻性的 | |
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361 helping | |
n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的,辅助的 | |
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362 calf | |
n.小牛,犊,幼仔,小牛皮 | |
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363 bawling | |
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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364 brewed | |
调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 ); 酝酿; 沏(茶); 煮(咖啡) | |
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365 plebeian | |
adj.粗俗的;平民的;n.平民;庶民 | |
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366 doting | |
adj.溺爱的,宠爱的 | |
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367 woolen | |
adj.羊毛(制)的;毛纺的 | |
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368 alley | |
n.小巷,胡同;小径,小路 | |
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369 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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370 pneumonia | |
n.肺炎 | |
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371 uncertainty | |
n.易变,靠不住,不确知,不确定的事物 | |
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372 prattling | |
v.(小孩般)天真无邪地说话( prattle的现在分词 );发出连续而无意义的声音;闲扯;东拉西扯 | |
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373 stunned | |
adj. 震惊的,惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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374 distressing | |
a.使人痛苦的 | |
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375 malign | |
adj.有害的;恶性的;恶意的;v.诽谤,诬蔑 | |
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376 aspirin | |
n.阿司匹林 | |
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377 suffocation | |
n.窒息 | |
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378 fixedly | |
adv.固定地;不屈地,坚定不移地 | |
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379 stiffened | |
加强的 | |
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380 grit | |
n.沙粒,决心,勇气;v.下定决心,咬紧牙关 | |
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381 gritted | |
v.以沙砾覆盖(某物),撒沙砾于( grit的过去式和过去分词 );咬紧牙关 | |
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382 collapsed | |
adj.倒塌的 | |
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383 prosper | |
v.成功,兴隆,昌盛;使成功,使昌隆,繁荣 | |
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384 wraith | |
n.幽灵;骨瘦如柴的人 | |
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385 distressed | |
痛苦的 | |
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386 cadaver | |
n.尸体 | |
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387 consecrated | |
adj.神圣的,被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣,给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 );奉献 | |
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388 bishop | |
n.主教,(国际象棋)象 | |
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389 foul | |
adj.污秽的;邪恶的;v.弄脏;妨害;犯规;n.犯规 | |
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390 stenographer | |
n.速记员 | |
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391 stouter | |
粗壮的( stout的比较级 ); 结实的; 坚固的; 坚定的 | |
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