At one o’clock we turned into a restaurant for dinner. The Germans themselves always dine in the middle of the day, and a very substantial meal they make of it. At the hotels frequented by tourists table d’hôte is, during the season, fixed3 for about six or seven, but this is only done to meet the views of foreign customers.
I mention that we had dinner, not because I think that the information will prove exciting to the reader, but because I wish to warn my countrymen, travelling in Germany, against undue4 indulgence in Liptauer cheese.
I am fond of cheese, and of trying new varieties of cheese; so that when I looked down the cheese department of the bill of fare, and came across “liptauer garnit,” an article of diet I had never before heard of, I determined5 to sample it.
It was not a tempting6-looking cheese. It was an unhealthy, sad-looking cheese. It looked like a cheese that had seen trouble. In appearance it resembled putty more than anything else. It even tasted like putty—at least, like I should imagine putty would taste. To this hour I am not positive that it was not putty. The garnishing7 was even more remarkable8 than the cheese. All the way round the plate were piled articles that I had never before seen at a dinner, and that I do not ever want to see there again. There was a little heap of split-peas, three or four remarkably9 small potatoes—at least, I suppose they were potatoes; if not, they were pea-nuts boiled soft,—some caraway-seeds, a very young-looking fish, apparently10 of the stickleback breed, and some red paint. It was quite a little dinner all to itself.
What the red paint was for, I could not understand. B. thought that it was put there for suicidal purposes. His idea was that the customer, after eating all the other things in the plate, would wish he were dead, and that the restaurant people, knowing this, had thoughtfully provided him with red paint for one, so that he could poison himself off and get out of his misery11.
I thought, after swallowing the first mouthful, that I would not eat any more of this cheese. Then it occurred to me that it was a pity to waste it after having ordered it, and, besides, I might get to like it before I had finished. The taste for most of the good things of this world has to be acquired. I can remember the time when I did not like beer.
So I mixed up everything on the plate all together—made a sort of salad of it, in fact—and ate it with a spoon. A more disagreeable dish I have never tasted since the days when I used to do Willie Evans’s “dags,” by walking twice through a sewer12, and was subsequently, on returning home, promptly13 put to bed, and made to eat brimstone and treacle14.
I felt very sad after dinner. All the things I have done in my life that I should not have done recurred15 to me with painful vividness. (There seemed to be a goodish number of them, too.) I thought of all the disappointments and reverses I had experienced during my career; of all the injustice16 that I had suffered, and of all the unkind things that had been said and done to me. I thought of all the people I had known who were now dead, and whom I should never see again, of all the girls that I had loved, who were now married to other fellows, while I did not even know their present addresses. I pondered upon our earthly existence, upon how hollow, false, and transient it is, and how full of sorrow. I mused17 upon the wickedness of the world and of everybody in it, and the general cussedness of all things.
I thought how foolish it was for B. and myself to be wasting our time, gadding18 about Europe in this silly way. What earthly enjoyment19 was there in travelling—being jolted20 about in stuffy21 trains, and overcharged at uncomfortable hotels?
B. was cheerful and frivolously22 inclined at the beginning of our walk (we were strolling down the Maximilian Strasse, after dinner); but as I talked to him, I was glad to notice that he gradually grew more serious and subdued23. He is not really bad, you know, only thoughtless.
B. bought some cigars and offered me one. I did not want to smoke. Smoking seemed to me, just then, a foolish waste of time and money. As I said to B.:
“In a few more years, perhaps before this very month is gone, we shall be lying in the silent tomb, with the worms feeding on us. Of what advantage will it be to us then that we smoked these cigars to-day?”
B. said:
“Well, the advantage it will be to me now is, that if you have a cigar in your mouth I shan’t get quite so much of your chatty conversation. Take one, for my sake.”
To humour him, I lit up.
I do not admire the German cigar. B. says that when you consider they only cost a penny, you cannot grumble24. But what I say is, that when you consider they are dear at six a half-penny, you can grumble. Well boiled, they might serve for greens; but as smoking material they are not worth the match with which you light them, especially not if the match be a German one. The German match is quite a high art work. It has a yellow head and a magenta25 or green stem, and can certainly lay claim to being the handsomest match in Europe.
We smoked a good many penny cigars during our stay in Germany, and that we were none the worse for doing so I consider as proof of our splendid physique and constitution. I think the German cigar test might, with reason, be adopted by life insurance offices.—Question: “Are you at present, and have you always been, of robust26 health?” Answer: “I have smoked a German cigar, and still live.” Life accepted.
Towards three o’clock we worked our way round to the station, and began looking for our train. We hunted all over the place, but could not find it anywhere. The central station at Munich is an enormous building, and a perfect maze27 of passages and halls and corridors. It is much easier to lose oneself in it, than to find anything in it one may happen to want. Together and separately B. and I lost ourselves and each other some twenty-four times. For about half an hour we seemed to be doing nothing else but rushing up and down the station looking for each other, suddenly finding each other, and saying, “Why, where the dickens have you been? I have been hunting for you everywhere. Don’t go away like that,” and then immediately losing each other again.
And what was so extraordinary about the matter was that every time, after losing each other, we invariably met again—when we did meet—outside the door of the third-class refreshment28 room.
We came at length to regard the door of the third-class refreshment room as “home,” and to feel a thrill of joy when, in the course of our weary wanderings through far-off waiting-rooms and lost-luggage bureaus and lamp depots29, we saw its old familiar handle shining in the distance, and knew that there, beside it, we should find our loved and lost one.
When any very long time elapsed without our coming across it, we would go up to one of the officials, and ask to be directed to it.
“Please can you tell me,” we would say, “the nearest way to the door of the third-class refreshment room?”
When three o’clock came, and still we had not found the 3.10 train, we became quite anxious about the poor thing, and made inquiries30 concerning it.
“The 3.10 train to Ober-Ammergau,” they said. “Oh, we’ve not thought about that yet.”
“Haven’t thought about it!” we exclaimed indignantly. “Well, do for heaven’s sake wake up a bit. It is 3.5 now!”
“Yes,” they answered, “3.5 in the afternoon; the 3.10 is a night train. Don’t you see it’s printed in thick type? All the trains between six in the evening and six in the morning are printed in fat figures, and the day trains in thin. You have got plenty of time. Look around after supper.”
I do believe I am the most unfortunate man at a time-table that ever was born. I do not think it can be stupidity; for if it were mere31 stupidity, I should occasionally, now and then when I was feeling well, not make a mistake. It must be fate.
If there is one train out of forty that goes on “Saturdays only” to some place I want to get to, that is the train I select to travel by on a Friday. On Saturday morning I get up at six, swallow a hasty breakfast, and rush off to catch a return train that goes on every day in the week “except Saturdays.”
I go to London, Brighton and South Coast Railway-stations and clamour for South-Eastern trains. On Bank Holidays I forget it is Bank Holiday, and go and sit on draughty platforms for hours, waiting for trains that do not run on Bank Holidays.
To add to my misfortunes, I am the miserable32 possessor of a demon33 time-table that I cannot get rid of, a Bradshaw for August, 1887. Regularly, on the first of each month, I buy and bring home with me a new Bradshaw and a new A.B.C. What becomes of them after the second of the month, I do not know. After the second of the month, I never see either of them again. What their fate is, I can only guess. In their place is left, to mislead me, this wretched old 1887 corpse34.
For three years I have been trying to escape from it, but it will not leave me.
I have thrown it out of the window, and it has fallen on people’s heads, and those people have picked it up and smoothed it out, and brought it back to the house, and members of my family—“friends” they call themselves—people of my own flesh and blood—have thanked them and taken it in again!
I have kicked it into a dozen pieces, and kicked the pieces all the way downstairs and out into the garden, and persons—persons, mind you, who will not sew a button on the back of my shirt to save me from madness—have collected the pieces and stitched them carefully together, and made the book look as good as new, and put it back in my study!
It has acquired the secret of perpetual youth, has this time-table. Other time-tables that I buy become dissipated-looking wrecks35 in about a week. This book looks as fresh and new and clean as it did on the day when it first lured36 me into purchasing it. There is nothing about its appearance to suggest to the casual observer that it is not this month’s Bradshaw. Its evident aim and object in life is to deceive people into the idea that it is this month’s Bradshaw.
It is undermining my moral character, this book is. It is responsible for at least ten per cent. of the bad language that I use every year. It leads me into drink and gambling37. I am continually finding myself with some three or four hours to wait at dismal38 provincial39 railway stations. I read all the advertisements on both platforms, and then I get wild and reckless, and plunge40 into the railway hotel and play billiards41 with the landlord for threes of Scotch42.
I intend to have that Bradshaw put into my coffin43 with me when I am buried, so that I can show it to the recording44 angel and explain matters. I expect to obtain a discount of at least five-and-twenty per cent. off my bill of crimes for that Bradshaw.
The 3.10 train in the morning was, of course, too late for us. It would not get us to Ober-Ammergau until about 9 a.m. There was a train leaving at 7.30 (I let B. find out this) by which we might reach the village some time during the night, if only we could get a conveyance45 from Oberau, the nearest railway-station. Accordingly, we telegraphed to Cook’s agent, who was at Ober-Ammergau (we all of us sneer46 at Mr. Cook and Mr. Gaze, and such-like gentlemen, who kindly47 conduct travellers that cannot conduct themselves properly, when we are at home; but I notice most of us appeal, on the quiet, to one or the other of them the moment we want to move abroad), to try and send a carriage to meet us by that train; and then went to an hotel, and turned into bed until it was time to start.
We had another grand railway-ride from Munich to Oberau. We passed by the beautiful lake of Starnberg just as the sun was setting and gilding48 with gold the little villages and pleasant villas49 that lie around its shores. It was in the lake of Starnberg, near the lordly pleasure-house that he had built for himself in that fair vale, that poor mad Ludwig, the late King of Bavaria, drowned himself. Poor King! Fate gave him everything calculated to make a man happy, excepting one thing, and that was the power of being happy. Fate has a mania50 for striking balances. I knew a little shoeblack once who used to follow his profession at the corner of Westminster Bridge. Fate gave him an average of sixpence a day to live upon and provide himself with luxuries; but she also gave him a power of enjoying that kept him jolly all day long. He could buy as much enjoyment for a penny as the average man could for a ten-pound note—more, I almost think. He did not know he was badly off, any more than King Ludwig knew he was well off; and all day long he laughed and played, and worked a little—not more than he could help—and ate and drank, and gambled. The last time I saw him was in St. Thomas’s Hospital, into which he had got himself owing to his fatal passion for walking along outside the stone coping of Westminster Bridge. He thought it was “prime,” being in the hospital, and told me that he was living like a fighting-cock, and that he did not mean to go out sooner than he could help. I asked him if he were not in pain, and he said “Yes,” when he “thought about it.”
Poor little chap! he only managed to live like a “fighting-cock” for three days more. Then he died, cheerful up to the last, so they told me, like the plucky51 little English game-cock he was. He could not have been more than twelve years old when he crowed his last. It had been a short life for him, but a very merry one.
Now, if only this little beggar and poor old Ludwig could have gone into partnership52, and so have shared between them the shoeblack’s power of enjoying and the king’s stock of enjoyments53, what a good thing it would have been for both of them—especially for King Ludwig. He would never have thought of drowning himself then—life would have been too delightful54.
But that would not have suited Fate. She loves to laugh at men, and to make of life a paradox55. To the one, she played ravishing strains, having first taken the precaution to make him stone-deaf. To the other, she piped a few poor notes on a cracked tin-whistle, and he thought it was music, and danced!
A few years later on, at the very same spot where King Ludwig threw back to the gods their gift of life, a pair of somewhat foolish young lovers ended their disappointments, and, finding they could not be wedded56 together in life, wedded themselves together in death. The story, duly reported in the newspapers as an item of foreign intelligence, read more like some old Rhine-legend than the record of a real occurrence in this prosaic57 nineteenth century.
He was a German Count, if I remember rightly, and, like most German Counts, had not much money; and her father, as fathers will when proposed to by impecunious58 would-be sons-in-law, refused his consent. The Count then went abroad to try and make, or at all events improve, his fortune. He went to America, and there he prospered59. In a year or two he came back, tolerably rich—to find, however, that he was too late. His lady, persuaded of his death, had been urged into a marriage with a rich somebody else. In ordinary life, of course, the man would have contented60 himself with continuing to make love to the lady, leaving the rich somebody else to pay for her keep. This young couple, however, a little lighter61 headed, or a little deeper hearted than the most of us, whichever it may have been, and angry at the mocking laughter with which the air around them seemed filled, went down one stormy night together to the lake, and sobered droll62 Fate for an instant by turning her grim comedy into a somewhat grimmer tragedy.
Soon after losing sight of Starnberg’s placid63 waters, we plunged64 into the gloom of the mountains, and began a long, winding65 climb among their hidden recesses66. At times, shrieking67 as if in terror, we passed some ghostly hamlet, standing68 out white and silent in the moonlight against the shadowy hills; and, now and then, a dark, still lake, or mountain torrent69 whose foaming70 waters fell in a long white streak71 across the blackness of the night.
We passed by Murnau in the valley of the Dragon, a little town which possessed72 a Passion Play of its own in the olden times, and which, until a few years ago, when the railway-line was pushed forward to Partenkirchen, was the nearest station to Ober-Ammergau. It was a tolerably steep climb up the road from Murnau, over Mount Ettal, to Ammergau—so steep, indeed, that one stout73 pilgrim not many years ago, died from the exertion74 while walking up. Sturdy-legged mountaineer and pulpy75 citizen both had to clamber up side by side, for no horses could do more than drag behind them the empty vehicle.
Every season, however, sees the European tourist more and more pampered76, and the difficulties and consequent pleasure and interest of his journey more and more curtailed77 and spoilt. In a few years’ time, he will be packed in cotton-wool in his own back-parlour, labelled for the place he wants to go to, and unpacked78 and taken out when he gets there. The railway now carries him round Mount Ettal to Oberau, from which little village a tolerably easy road, as mountain roadways go, of about four or five English miles takes him up to the valley of the Ammer.
It was midnight when our train landed us at Oberau station; but the place was far more busy and stirring than on ordinary occasions it is at mid-day. Crowds of tourists and pilgrims thronged79 the little hotel, wondering, as also did the landlord, where they were all going to sleep; and wondering still more, though this latter consideration evidently did not trouble their host, how they were going to get up to Ober-Ammergau in the morning in time for the play, which always begins at 8 a.m.
Some were engaging carriages at fabulous80 prices to call for them at five; and others, who could not secure carriages, and who had determined to walk, were instructing worried waiters to wake them at 2.30, and ordering breakfast for a quarter-past three sharp. (I had no idea there were such times in the morning!)
We were fortunate enough to find our land-lord, a worthy81 farmer, waiting for us with a tumble-down conveyance, in appearance something between a circus-chariot and a bath-chair, drawn82 by a couple of powerful-looking horses; and in this, after a spirited skirmish between our driver and a mob of twenty or so tourists, who pretended to mistake the affair for an omnibus, and who would have clambered into it and swamped it, we drove away.
Higher and higher we climbed, and grander and grander towered the frowning moon-bathed mountains round us, and chillier83 and chillier grew the air. For most of the way we crawled along, the horses tugging84 us from side to side of the steep road; but, wherever our coachman could vary the monotony of the pace by a stretch-gallop85—as, for instance, down the precipitous descents that occasionally followed upon some extra long and toilsome ascent—he thoughtfully did so. At such times the drive became really quite exciting, and all our weariness was forgotten.
The steeper the descent, the faster, of course, we could go. The rougher the road, the more anxious the horses seemed to be to get over it quickly. During the gallop, B. and I enjoyed, in a condensed form, all the advantages usually derived86 from crossing the Channel on a stormy day, riding on a switchback railway, and being tossed in a blanket—a hard, nobbly blanket, full of nasty corners and sharp edges. I should never have thought that so many different sensations could have been obtained from one machine!
About half-way up we passed Ettal, at the entrance to the Valley of the Ammer. The great white temple, standing, surrounded by its little village, high up amid the mountain solitudes87, is a famous place of pilgrimage among devout88 Catholics. Many hundreds of years ago, one of the early Bavarian kings built here a monastery as a shrine89 for a miraculous90 image of the Virgin91 that had been sent down to him from Heaven to help him when, in a foreign land, he had stood sore in need, encompassed92 by his enemies. Maybe the stout arms and hearts of his Bavarian friends were of some service in the crisis also; but the living helpers were forgotten. The old church and monastery, which latter was a sort of ancient Chelsea Hospital for decayed knights93, was destroyed one terrible night some hundred and fifty years ago by a flash of lightning; but the wonder-working image was rescued unhurt, and may still be seen and worshipped beneath the dome94 of the present much less imposing95 church which has been reared upon the ruins of its ancestor.
The monastery, which was also rebuilt at the same time, now serves the more useful purpose of a brewery96.
From Ettal the road is comparatively level, and, jolting97 swiftly over it, we soon reached Ober-Ammergau. Lights were passing to and fro behind the many windows of the square stone houses, and dark, strange-looking figures were moving about the streets, busy with preparations for the great business that would commence with the dawn.
We rattled98 noisily through the village, our driver roaring out “Good Night!” to everyone he passed in a voice sufficient to wake up everybody who might be sleeping within a mile, charged light-heartedly round half-a-dozen corners, trotted99 down the centre path of somebody’s front garden, squeezed our way through a gate, and drew up at an open door, through which the streaming light poured out upon two tall, comely100 lasses, our host’s daughters, who were standing waiting for us in the porch. They led us into a large, comfortably furnished room, where a tempting supper of hot veal101-chops (they seem to live on veal in Germany) and white wine was standing ready. Under ordinary circumstances I should have been afraid that such a supper would cause me to be more eager for change and movement during the ensuing six hours than for sleep; but I felt that to-night it would take a dozen half-baked firebricks to keep me awake five seconds after I had got my head on the pillow—or what they call a pillow in Germany; and so, without hesitation102, I made a very satisfactory meal.
After supper our host escorted us to our bedroom, an airy apartment adorned103 with various highly-coloured wood-carvings of a pious104 but somewhat ghastly character, calculated, I should say, to exercise a disturbing influence upon the night’s rest of a nervous or sensitive person.
“Mind that we are called at proper time in the morning,” said B. to the man. “We don’t want to wake up at four o’clock in the afternoon and find that we have missed the play, after coming all this way to see it.”
“Oh! that will be all right,” answered the old fellow. “You won’t get much chance of oversleeping yourself. We shall all be up and about, and the whole village stirring, before five; and besides, the band will be playing at six just beneath the window here, and the cannon105 on the Kofel goes off at—”
“Look here,” I interrupted, “that won’t do for me, you know. Don’t you think that I am going to be woke up by mere riots outside the window, and brass-band contests, and earthquakes, and explosions, and those sort of things, because it can’t be done that way. Somebody’s got to come into this room and haul me out of bed, and sit down on the bed and see that I don’t get into it again, and that I don’t go to sleep on the floor. That will be the way to get me up to-morrow morning. Don’t let’s have any nonsense about stirring villages and guns and German bands. I know what all that will end in, my going back to England without seeing the show. I want to be roused in the morning, not lulled106 off to sleep again.”
B. translated the essential portions of this speech to the man, and he laughed and promised upon his sacred word of honour that he would come up himself and have us both out; and as he was a stalwart and determined-looking man, I felt satisfied, and wished him “Good-night,” and made haste to get off my boots before I fell asleep.
该作者其它作品
《The End of the Rainbow》
该作者其它作品
《The End of the Rainbow》
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
pauper
|
|
| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
monastery
|
|
| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
undue
|
|
| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
determined
|
|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
tempting
|
|
| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
garnishing
|
|
| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
remarkable
|
|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
remarkably
|
|
| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
misery
|
|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
sewer
|
|
| n.排水沟，下水道 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
promptly
|
|
| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
treacle
|
|
| n.糖蜜 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
recurred
|
|
| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
injustice
|
|
| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
mused
|
|
| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
gadding
|
|
| n.叮搔症adj.蔓生的v.闲逛( gad的现在分词 )；游荡；找乐子；用铁棒刺 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
enjoyment
|
|
| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
jolted
|
|
| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
stuffy
|
|
| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
frivolously
|
|
| adv.轻浮地，愚昧地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
subdued
|
|
| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
grumble
|
|
| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
magenta
|
|
| n..紫红色（的染料）；adj.紫红色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
robust
|
|
| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
maze
|
|
| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
refreshment
|
|
| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
depots
|
|
| 仓库( depot的名词复数 )； 火车站； 车库； 军需库 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
inquiries
|
|
| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
demon
|
|
| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
corpse
|
|
| n.尸体，死尸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
lured
|
|
| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
gambling
|
|
| n.赌博；投机 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
dismal
|
|
| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
provincial
|
|
| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
plunge
|
|
| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
billiards
|
|
| n.台球 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
scotch
|
|
| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
coffin
|
|
| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
recording
|
|
| n.录音，记录 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
conveyance
|
|
| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
sneer
|
|
| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
gilding
|
|
| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
villas
|
|
| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
mania
|
|
| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
plucky
|
|
| adj.勇敢的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
partnership
|
|
| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
enjoyments
|
|
| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
delightful
|
|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
paradox
|
|
| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
wedded
|
|
| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
prosaic
|
|
| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
impecunious
|
|
| adj.不名一文的，贫穷的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
prospered
|
|
| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
contented
|
|
| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
lighter
|
|
| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
droll
|
|
| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
placid
|
|
| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
plunged
|
|
| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
winding
|
|
| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
shrieking
|
|
| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
torrent
|
|
| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
foaming
|
|
| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
streak
|
|
| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
possessed
|
|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
exertion
|
|
| n.尽力，努力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
pulpy
|
|
| 果肉状的，多汁的，柔软的； 烂糊； 稀烂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
pampered
|
|
| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
curtailed
|
|
| v.截断，缩短( curtail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
unpacked
|
|
| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
thronged
|
|
| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
fabulous
|
|
| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
chillier
|
|
| adj.寒冷的，冷得难受的( chilly的比较级 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
tugging
|
|
| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
gallop
|
|
| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
derived
|
|
| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
solitudes
|
|
| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
devout
|
|
| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
shrine
|
|
| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
miraculous
|
|
| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
virgin
|
|
| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
encompassed
|
|
| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
knights
|
|
| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
dome
|
|
| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
imposing
|
|
| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
brewery
|
|
| n.啤酒厂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
jolting
|
|
| adj.令人震惊的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
rattled
|
|
| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
trotted
|
|
| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
comely
|
|
| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
veal
|
|
| n.小牛肉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
hesitation
|
|
| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
adorned
|
|
| [计]被修饰的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
pious
|
|
| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
cannon
|
|
| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
lulled
|
|
| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |