On our way home we included a German University town, being wishful to obtain an insight into the ways of student life, a curiosity that the courtesy of German friends enabled us to gratify.
The English boy plays till he is fifteen, and works thence till twenty. In Germany it is the child that works; the young man that plays. The German boy goes to school at seven o’clock in the summer, at eight in the winter, and at school he studies. The result is that at sixteen he has a thorough knowledge of the classics and mathematics, knows as much history as any man compelled to belong to a political party is wise in knowing, together with a thorough grounding in modern languages. Therefore his eight College Semesters, extending over four years, are, except for the young man aiming at a professorship, unnecessarily ample. He is not a sportsman, which is a pity, for he should make good one. He plays football a little, bicycles still less; plays French billiards4 in stuffy5 cafés more. But generally speaking he, or the majority of him, lays out his time bummeling, beer drinking, and fighting. If he be the son of a wealthy father he joins a Korps—to belong to a crack Korps costs about four hundred pounds a year. If he be a middle-class young man, he enrols6 himself in a Burschenschaft, or a Landsmannschaft, which is a little cheaper. These companies are again broken up into smaller circles, in which attempt is made to keep to nationality. There are the Swabians, from Swabia; the Frankonians, descendants of the Franks; the Thuringians, and so forth7. In practice, of course, this results as all such attempts do result—I believe half our Gordon Highlanders are Cockneys—but the picturesque8 object is obtained of dividing each University into some dozen or so separate companies of students, each one with its distinctive9 cap and colours, and, quite as important, its own particular beer hall, into which no other student wearing his colours may come.
The chief work of these student companies is to fight among themselves, or with some rival Korps or Schaft, the celebrated10 German Mensur.
The Mensur has been described so often and so thoroughly11 that I do not intend to bore my readers with any detailed12 account of it. I merely come forward as an impressionist, and I write purposely the impression of my first Mensur, because I believe that first impressions are more true and useful than opinions blunted by intercourse14, or shaped by influence.
A Frenchman or a Spaniard will seek to persuade you that the bull-ring is an institution got up chiefly for the benefit of the bull. The horse which you imagined to be screaming with pain was only laughing at the comical appearance presented by its own inside. Your French or Spanish friend contrasts its glorious and exciting death in the ring with the cold-blooded brutality15 of the knacker’s yard. If you do not keep a tight hold of your head, you come away with the desire to start an agitation17 for the inception18 of the bull-ring in England as an aid to chivalry19. No doubt Torquemada was convinced of the humanity of the Inquisition. To a stout20 gentleman, suffering, perhaps, from cramp21 or rheumatism22, an hour or so on the rack was really a physical benefit. He would rise feeling more free in his joints—more elastic23, as one might say, than he had felt for years. English huntsmen regard the fox as an animal to be envied. A day’s excellent sport is provided for him free of charge, during which he is the centre of attraction.
Use blinds one to everything one does not wish to see. Every third German gentleman you meet in the street still bears, and will bear to his grave, marks of the twenty to a hundred duels25 he has fought in his student days. The German children play at the Mensur in the nursery, rehearse it in the gymnasium. The Germans have come to persuade themselves there is no brutality in it—nothing offensive, nothing degrading. Their argument is that it schools the German youth to coolness and courage. If this could be proved, the argument, particularly in a country where every man is a soldier, would be sufficiently26 one-sided. But is the virtue27 of the prize-fighter the virtue of the soldier? One doubts it. Nerve and dash are surely of more service in the field than a temperament28 of unreasoning indifference29 as to what is happening to one. As a matter of fact, the German student would have to be possessed30 of much more courage not to fight. He fights not to please himself, but to satisfy a public opinion that is two hundred years behind the times.
All the Mensur does is to brutalise him. There may be skill displayed—I am told there is,—but it is not apparent. The mere13 fighting is like nothing so much as a broadsword combat at a Richardson’s show; the display as a whole a successful attempt to combine the ludicrous with the unpleasant. In aristocratic Bonn, where style is considered, and in Heidelberg, where visitors from other nations are more common, the affair is perhaps more formal. I am told that there the contests take place in handsome rooms; that grey-haired doctors wait upon the wounded, and liveried servants upon the hungry, and that the affair is conducted throughout with a certain amount of picturesque ceremony. In the more essentially31 German Universities, where strangers are rare and not much encouraged, the simple essentials are the only things kept in view, and these are not of an inviting32 nature.
Indeed, so distinctly uninviting are they, that I strongly advise the sensitive reader to avoid even this description of them. The subject cannot be made pretty, and I do not intend to try.
The room is bare and sordid33; its walls splashed with mixed stains of beer, blood, and candle-grease; its ceiling, smoky; its floor, sawdust covered. A crowd of students, laughing, smoking, talking, some sitting on the floor, others perched upon chairs and benches form the framework.
In the centre, facing one another, stand the combatants, resembling Japanese warriors34, as made familiar to us by the Japanese tea-tray. Quaint35 and rigid36, with their goggle-covered eyes, their necks tied up in comforters, their bodies smothered37 in what looks like dirty bed quilts, their padded arms stretched straight above their heads, they might be a pair of ungainly clockwork figures. The seconds, also more or less padded—their heads and faces protected by huge leather-peaked caps,—drag them out into their proper position. One almost listens to hear the sound of the castors. The umpire takes his place, the word is given, and immediately there follow five rapid clashes of the long straight swords. There is no interest in watching the fight: there is no movement, no skill, no grace (I am speaking of my own impressions.) The strongest man wins; the man who, with his heavily-padded arm, always in an unnatural38 position, can hold his huge clumsy sword longest without growing too weak to be able either to guard or to strike.
The whole interest is centred in watching the wounds. They come always in one of two places—on the top of the head or the left side of the face. Sometimes a portion of hairy scalp or section of cheek flies up into the air, to be carefully preserved in an envelope by its proud possessor, or, strictly39 speaking, its proud former possessor, and shown round on convivial40 evenings; and from every wound, of course, flows a plentiful41 stream of blood. It splashes doctors, seconds, and spectators; it sprinkles ceiling and walls; it saturates42 the fighters, and makes pools for itself in the sawdust. At the end of each round the doctors rush up, and with hands already dripping with blood press together the gaping43 wounds, dabbing44 them with little balls of wet cotton wool, which an attendant carries ready on a plate. Naturally, the moment the men stand up again and commence work, the blood gushes45 out again, half blinding them, and rendering46 the ground beneath them slippery. Now and then you see a man’s teeth laid bare almost to the ear, so that for the rest of the duel24 he appears to be grinning at one half of the spectators, his other side, remaining serious; and sometimes a man’s nose gets slit47, which gives to him as he fights a singularly supercilious48 air.
As the object of each student is to go away from the University bearing as many scars as possible, I doubt if any particular pains are taken to guard, even to the small extent such method of fighting can allow. The real victor is he who comes out with the greatest number of wounds; he who then, stitched and patched almost to unrecognition as a human being, can promenade49 for the next month, the envy of the German youth, the admiration50 of the German maiden51. He who obtains only a few unimportant wounds retires sulky and disappointed.
But the actual fighting is only the beginning of the fun. The second act of the spectacle takes place in the dressing52-room. The doctors are generally mere medical students—young fellows who, having taken their degree, are anxious for practice. Truth compels me to say that those with whom I came in contact were coarse-looking men who seemed rather to relish53 their work. Perhaps they are not to be blamed for this. It is part of the system that as much further punishment as possible must be inflicted54 by the doctor, and the ideal medical man might hardly care for such job. How the student bears the dressing of his wounds is as important as how he receives them. Every operation has to be performed as brutally56 as may be, and his companions carefully watch him during the process to see that he goes through it with an appearance of peace and enjoyment57. A clean-cut wound that gapes58 wide is most desired by all parties. On purpose it is sewn up clumsily, with the hope that by this means the scar will last a lifetime. Such a wound, judiciously59 mauled and interfered60 with during the week afterwards, can generally be reckoned on to secure its fortunate possessor a wife with a dowry of five figures at the least.
These are the general bi-weekly Mensurs, of which the average student fights some dozen a year. There are others to which visitors are not admitted. When a student is considered to have disgraced himself by some slight involuntary movement of the head or body while fighting, then he can only regain61 his position by standing62 up to the best swordsman in his Korps. He demands and is accorded, not a contest, but a punishment. His opponent then proceeds to inflict55 as many and as bloody63 wounds as can be taken. The object of the victim is to show his comrades that he can stand still while his head is half sliced from his skull64.
Whether anything can properly be said in favour of the German Mensur I am doubtful; but if so it concerns only the two combatants. Upon the spectators it can and does, I am convinced, exercise nothing but evil. I know myself sufficiently well to be sure I am not of an unusually bloodthirsty disposition65. The effect it had upon me can only be the usual effect. At first, before the actual work commenced, my sensation was curiosity mingled66 with anxiety as to how the sight would trouble me, though some slight acquaintance with dissecting-rooms and operating tables left me less doubt on that point than I might otherwise have felt. As the blood began to flow, and nerves and muscles to be laid bare, I experienced a mingling67 of disgust and pity. But with the second duel, I must confess, my finer feelings began to disappear; and by the time the third was well upon its way, and the room heavy with the curious hot odour of blood, I began, as the American expression is, to see things red.
I wanted more. I looked from face to face surrounding me, and in most of them I found reflected undoubtedly68 my own sensations. If it be a good thing to excite this blood thirst in the modern man, then the Mensur is a useful institution. But is it a good thing? We prate69 about our civilisation70 and humanity, but those of us who do not carry hypocrisy71 to the length of self-deception know that underneath72 our starched73 shirts there lurks74 the savage2, with all his savage instincts untouched. Occasionally he may be wanted, but we never need fear his dying out. On the other hand, it seems unwise to over-nourish him.
In favour of the duel, seriously considered, there are many points to be urged. But the Mensur serves no good purpose whatever. It is childishness, and the fact of its being a cruel and brutal16 game makes it none the less childish. Wounds have no intrinsic value of their own; it is the cause that dignifies75 them, not their size. William Tell is rightly one of the heroes of the world; but what should we think of the members of a club of fathers, formed with the object of meeting twice a week to shoot apples from their sons’ heads with cross-bows? These young German gentlemen could obtain all the results of which they are so proud by teasing a wild cat! To join a society for the mere purpose of getting yourself hacked76 about reduces a man to the intellectual level of a dancing Dervish. Travellers tell us of savages in Central Africa who express their feelings on festive77 occasions by jumping about and slashing78 themselves. But there is no need for Europe to imitate them. The Mensur is, in fact, the reductio ad absurdum of the duel; and if the Germans themselves cannot see that it is funny, one can only regret their lack of humour.
But though one may be unable to agree with the public opinion that supports and commands the Mensur, it at least is possible to understand. The University code that, if it does not encourage it, at least condones79 drunkenness, is more difficult to treat argumentatively. All German students do not get drunk; in fact, the majority are sober, if not industrious80. But the minority, whose claim to be representative is freely admitted, are only saved from perpetual inebriety81 by ability, acquired at some cost, to swill82 half the day and all the night, while retaining to some extent their five senses. It does not affect all alike, but it is common in any University town to see a young man not yet twenty with the figure of a Falstaff and the complexion83 of a Rubens Bacchus. That the German maiden can be fascinated with a face, cut and gashed84 till it suggests having been made out of odd materials that never could have fitted, is a proved fact. But surely there can be no attraction about a blotched and bloated skin and a “bay window” thrown out to an extent threatening to overbalance the whole structure. Yet what else can be expected, when the youngster starts his beer-drinking with a “Fruhschoppen” at 10 a.m., and closes it with a “Kneipe” at four in the morning?
The Kneipe is what we should call a stag party, and can be very harmless or very rowdy, according to its composition. One man invites his fellow-students, a dozen or a hundred, to a café, and provides them with as much beer and as many cheap cigars as their own sense of health and comfort may dictate85, or the host may be the Korps itself. Here, as everywhere, you observe the German sense of discipline and order. As each new comer enters all those sitting round the table rise, and with heels close together salute86. When the table is complete, a chairman is chosen, whose duty it is to give out the number of the songs. Printed books of these songs, one to each two men, lie round the table. The chairman gives out number twenty-nine. “First verse,” he cries, and away all go, each two men holding a book between them exactly as two people might hold a hymn-book in church. There is a pause at the end of each verse until the chairman starts the company on the next. As every German is a trained singer, and as most of them have fair voices, the general effect is striking.
Although the manner may be suggestive of the singing of hymns87 in church, the words of the songs are occasionally such as to correct this impression. But whether it be a patriotic88 song, a sentimental89 ballad90, or a ditty of a nature that would shock the average young Englishman, all are sung through with stern earnestness, without a laugh, without a false note. At the end, the chairman calls “Prosit!” Everyone answers “Prosit!” and the next moment every glass is empty. The pianist rises and bows, and is bowed to in return; and then the Fräulein enters to refill the glasses.
Between the songs, toasts are proposed and responded to; but there is little cheering, and less laughter. Smiles and grave nods of approval are considered as more seeming among German students.
A particular toast, called a Salamander, accorded to some guest as a special distinction, is drunk with exceptional solemnity.
“We will now,” says the chairman, “a Salamander rub” (“Einen Salamander reiben”). We all rise, and stand like a regiment91 at attention.
“Is the stuff prepared?” (“Sind die stoffe parat?”) demands the chairman.
“Sunt,” we answer, with one voice.
“Ad exercitium Salamandri,” says the chairman, and we are ready.
“Eins!” We rub our glasses with a circular motion on the table.
“Drink!” (“Bibite!”)
“Eins!” says the chairman. The foot of every empty glass twirls upon the table, producing a sound as of the dragging back of a stony94 beach by a receding95 wave.
“Drei!” The glasses strike the table with a single crash, and we are in our seats again.
The sport at the Kneipe is for two students to insult each other (in play, of course), and to then challenge each other to a drinking duel. An umpire is appointed, two huge glasses are filled, and the men sit opposite each other with their hands upon the handles, all eyes fixed97 upon them. The umpire gives the word to go, and in an instant the beer is gurgling down their throats. The man who bangs his perfectly98 finished glass upon the table first is victor.
Strangers who are going through a Kneipe, and who wish to do the thing in German style, will do well, before commencing proceedings99, to pin their name and address upon their coats. The German student is courtesy itself, and whatever his own state may be, he will see to it that, by some means or another, his guest gets safely home before the morning. But, of course, he cannot be expected to remember addresses.
A story was told me of three guests to a Berlin Kneipe which might have had tragic100 results. The strangers determined101 to do the thing thoroughly. They explained their intention, and were applauded, and each proceeded to write his address upon his card, and pin it to the tablecloth102 in front of him. That was the mistake they made. They should, as I have advised, have pinned it carefully to their coats. A man may change his place at a table, quite unconsciously he may come out the other side of it; but wherever he goes he takes his coat with him.
Some time in the small hours, the chairman suggested that to make things more comfortable for those still upright, all the gentlemen unable to keep their heads off the table should be sent home. Among those to whom the proceedings had become uninteresting were the three Englishmen. It was decided103 to put them into a cab in charge of a comparatively speaking sober student, and return them. Had they retained their original seats throughout the evening all would have been well; but, unfortunately, they had gone walking about, and which gentleman belonged to which card nobody knew—least of all the guests themselves. In the then state of general cheerfulness, this did not to anybody appear to much matter. There were three gentlemen and three addresses. I suppose the idea was that even if a mistake were made, the parties could be sorted out in the morning. Anyhow, the three gentlemen were put into a cab, the comparatively speaking sober student took the three cards in his hand, and the party started amid the cheers and good wishes of the company.
There is this advantage about German beer: it does not make a man drunk as the word drunk is understood in England. There is nothing objectionable about him; he is simply tired. He does not want to talk; he wants to be let alone, to go to sleep; it does not matter where—anywhere.
The conductor of the party stopped his cab at the nearest address. He took out his worst case; it was a natural instinct to get rid of that first. He and the cabman carried it upstairs, and rang the bell of the Pension. A sleepy porter answered it. They carried their burden in, and looked for a place to drop it. A bedroom door happened to be open; the room was empty; could anything be better?—they took it in there. They relieved it of such things as came off easily, and laid it in the bed. This done, both men, pleased with themselves, returned to the cab.
At the next address they stopped again. This time, in answer to their summons, a lady appeared, dressed in a tea gown, with a book in her hand. The German student looked at the top one of two cards remaining in his hand, and enquired104 if he had the pleasure of addressing Frau Y. It happened that he had, though so far as any pleasure was concerned that appeared to be entirely105 on his side. He explained to Frau Y. that the gentleman at that moment asleep against the wall was her husband. The reunion moved her to no enthusiasm; she simply opened the bedroom door, and then walked away. The cabman and the student took him in, and laid him on the bed. They did not trouble to undress him, they were feeling tired! They did not see the lady of the house again, and retired106 therefore without adieus.
The last card was that of a bachelor stopping at an hotel. They took their last man, therefore, to that hotel, passed him over to the night porter, and left him.
To return to the address at which the first delivery was made, what had happened there was this. Some eight hours previously107 had said Mr. X. to Mrs. X.: “I think I told you, my dear, that I had an invitation for this evening to what, I believe, is called a Kneipe?”
“You did mention something of the sort,” replied Mrs. X. “What is a Kneipe?”
“Well, it’s a sort of bachelor party, my dear, where the students meet to sing and talk and—and smoke, and all that sort of thing, you know.”
“Oh, well, I hope you will enjoy yourself!” said Mrs. X., who was a nice woman and sensible.
“It will be interesting,” observed Mr. X. “I have often had a curiosity to see one. I may,” continued Mr. X.,—“I mean it is possible, that I may be home a little late.”
“What do you call late?” asked Mrs. X.
“It is somewhat difficult to say,” returned Mr. X. “You see these students, they are a wild lot, and when they get together—And then, I believe, a good many toasts are drunk. I don’t know how it will affect me. If I can see an opportunity I shall come away early, that is if I can do so without giving offence; but if not—”
Said Mrs. X., who, as I remarked before, was a sensible woman: “You had better get the people here to lend you a latchkey. I shall sleep with Dolly, and then you won’t disturb me whatever time it may be.”
“I think that an excellent idea of yours,” agreed Mr. X. “I should hate disturbing you. I shall just come in quietly, and slip into bed.”
Some time in the middle of the night, or maybe towards the early morning, Dolly, who was Mrs. X.’s sister, sat up in bed and listened.
“Jenny,” said Dolly, “are you awake?”
“Yes, dear,” answered Mrs. X. “It’s all right. You go to sleep again.”
“But whatever is it?” asked Dolly. “Do you think it’s fire?”
“I expect,” replied Mrs. X., “that it’s Percy. Very possibly he has stumbled over something in the dark. Don’t you worry, dear; you go to sleep.”
But so soon as Dolly had dozed108 off again, Mrs. X., who was a good wife, thought she would steal off softly and see to it that Percy was all right. So, putting on a dressing-gown and slippers109, she crept along the passage and into her own room. To awake the gentleman on the bed would have required an earthquake. She lit a candle and stole over to the bedside.
It was not Percy; it was not anyone like Percy. She felt it was not the man that ever could have been her husband, under any circumstances. In his present condition her sentiment towards him was that of positive dislike. Her only desire was to get rid of him.
But something there was about him which seemed familiar to her. She went nearer, and took a closer view. Then she remembered. Surely it was Mr. Y., a gentleman at whose flat she and Percy had dined the day they first arrived in Berlin.
But what was he doing here? She put the candle on the table, and taking her head between her hands sat down to think. The explanation of the thing came to her with a rush. It was with this Mr. Y. that Percy had gone to the Kneipe. A mistake had been made. Mr. Y. had been brought back to Percy’s address. Percy at this very moment—
The terrible possibilities of the situation swam before her. Returning to Dolly’s room, she dressed herself hastily, and silently crept downstairs. Finding, fortunately, a passing night-cab, she drove to the address of Mrs. Y. Telling the man to wait, she flew upstairs and rang persistently110 at the bell. It was opened as before by Mrs. Y., still in her tea-gown, and with her book still in her hand.
“Mrs. X.!” exclaimed Mrs. Y. “Whatever brings you here?”
“My husband!” was all poor Mrs. X. could think to say at the moment, “is he here?”
“Mrs. X.,” returned Mrs. Y., drawing herself up to her full height, “how dare you?”
“Oh, please don’t misunderstand me!” pleaded Mrs. X. “It’s all a terrible mistake. They must have brought poor Percy here instead of to our place, I’m sure they must. Do please look and see.”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Y., who was a much older woman, and more motherly, “don’t excite yourself. They brought him here about half an hour ago, and, to tell you the truth, I never looked at him. He is in here. I don’t think they troubled to take off even his boots. If you keep cool, we will get him downstairs and home without a soul beyond ourselves being any the wiser.
Indeed, Mrs. Y. seemed quite eager to help Mrs. X.
She pushed open the door, and Mrs. X, went in. The next moment she came out with a white, scared face.
“It isn’t Percy,” she said. “Whatever am I to do?”
“I wish you wouldn’t make these mistakes,” said Mrs. Y., moving to enter the room herself.
Mrs. X. stopped her. “And it isn’t your husband either.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Y.
“It isn’t really,” persisted Mrs. X. “I know, because I have just left him, asleep on Percy’s bed.”
“What’s he doing there?” thundered Mrs. Y.
“They brought him there, and put him there,” explained Mrs. X., beginning to cry. “That’s what made me think Percy must be here.”
The two women stood and looked at one another; and there was silence for awhile, broken only by the snoring of the gentleman the other side of the half-open door.
“Then who is that, in there?” demanded Mrs. Y., who was the first to recover herself.
“I don’t know,” answered Mrs. X., “I have never seen him before. Do you think it is anybody you know?”
But Mrs. Y. only banged to the door.
“What are we to do?” said Mrs. X.
“I know what I am going to do,” said Mrs. Y. “I’m coming back with you to fetch my husband.”
“He’s very sleepy,” explained Mrs. X.
“I’ve known him to be that before,” replied Mrs. Y., as she fastened on her cloak.
“That my dear,” said Mrs. Y., “will be a question for you to ask him.”
“If they go about making mistakes like this,” said Mrs. X., “it is impossible to say what they may not have done with him.”
“We will make enquiries in the morning, my dear,” said Mrs. Y., consolingly.
“I think these Kneipes are disgraceful affairs,” said Mrs. X. “I shall never let Percy go to another, never—so long as I live.”
“My dear,” remarked Mrs. Y., “if you know your duty, he will never want to.” And rumour113 has it that he never did.
But, as I have said, the mistake was in pinning the card to the tablecloth instead of to the coat. And error in this world is always severely114 punished.
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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enrols
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| v.招收( enrol的第三人称单数 )；吸收；入学；加入 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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inception
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| n.开端，开始，取得学位 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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cramp
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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duels
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| n.两男子的决斗( duel的名词复数 )；竞争，斗争 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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27
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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28
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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29
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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30
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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31
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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32
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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33
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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34
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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35
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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36
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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37
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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38
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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39
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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40
convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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41
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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42
saturates
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| 浸湿，浸透( saturate的第三人称单数 )； 使…大量吸收或充满某物 | |
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43
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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44
dabbing
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| 石面凿毛，灰泥抛毛 | |
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45
gushes
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| n.涌出，迸发( gush的名词复数 )v.喷，涌( gush的第三人称单数 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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46
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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47
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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48
supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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49
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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50
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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51
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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52
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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53
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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54
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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56
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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57
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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58
gapes
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的第三人称单数 )；张开，张大 | |
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59
judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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60
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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61
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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66
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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67
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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68
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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69
prate
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| v.瞎扯，胡说 | |
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70
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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71
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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72
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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73
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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75
dignifies
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| 使显得威严( dignify的第三人称单数 )； 使高贵； 使显赫； 夸大 | |
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76
hacked
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| 生气 | |
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77
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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78
slashing
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| adj.尖锐的；苛刻的；鲜明的；乱砍的v.挥砍( slash的现在分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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79
condones
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| v.容忍，宽恕，原谅( condone的第三人称单数 ) | |
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80
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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81
inebriety
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| n.醉，陶醉 | |
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82
swill
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| v.冲洗；痛饮；n.泔脚饲料；猪食；（谈话或写作中的）无意义的话 | |
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83
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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84
gashed
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| v.划伤，割破( gash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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86
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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87
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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88
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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89
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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90
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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91
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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92
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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93
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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94
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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95
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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96
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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97
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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98
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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99
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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100
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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101
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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102
tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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103
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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104
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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105
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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106
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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107
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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108
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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110
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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111
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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112
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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113
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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114
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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