And during all this time, although he was living a life of the most savage conflict, the most blazing energy, wrestling day by day with the herculean forces of the million-footed city, listening to a million words and peering into a hundred thousand faces, he would nevertheless spend a life of such utter loneliness that he would go for days at a time without seeing a face or hearing a voice that he knew, and until the sound of his own voice seemed strange and phantasmal to him.
Then suddenly he would seem to awake out of this terrific vision, which had been so savage, mad, and literal that its very reality had a fabulous3 and dreamlike quality, and time, strange million-visaged time, had been telescoped incredibly, so that weeks had passed by like a single day. He would awake out of this living dream and see the minutes, hours, and days, and all the acts and faces of the earth pass by him in their usual way. And instantly, when this happened, he would feel a bitter and intolerable loneliness — a loneliness so acrid4, grey, and bitter that he could taste its sharp thin crust around the edges of his mouth like the taste and odour of weary burnt-out steel, like a depleted6 storage battery or a light that had gone dim, and he could feel it greyly and intolerably in his entrails, the conduits of his blood, and in all the substance of his body.
When this happened, he would feel an almost unbearable7 need to hear the voice and see the face again of someone he had known and at such a time as this he would go to see his Uncle Bascom, that strange and extraordinary man who, born like the others in the wilderness9, the hills of home, had left these hills for ever.
Bascom now lived alone with his wife (for his four children were grown up and would have none of him) in a dingy10 section of one of the innumerable suburbs that form part of the terrific ganglia of Boston, and it was here that the boy would often go on Sundays.
After a long confusing journey that was made by subway, elevated, and street car, he would leave the chill and dismal12 street car at the foot of a hill on a long, wide, and frozen street lined with tall rows of wintry elms, with smoky wintry houses that had a look of solid, closed and mellow13 warmth, and with a savage frozen waste of tidal waters on the right — those New England waters that are so sparkling, fresh and glorious, like a tide of sapphires14, in the springtime, and so grim and savage in their frozen desolation in the winter.
Then the street car would bang its draughty sliding doors together, grind harshly off with its cargo15 of people with pinched lips, thin red pointed16 noses, and cod-fish faces, and vanish, leaving him with the kind of loneliness and absence which a street car always leaves when it has gone, and he would turn away from the tracks along a dismal road or street that led into the district where his uncle had his house. And stolidly17 he would plunge18 forward against the grey and frozen desolation of that place to meet him.
And at length he would pause before his uncle’s little house, and as he struck the knocker, he was always glad to hear the approaching patter of his Aunt Louise’s feet, and cheered by the brightening glance of her small birdy features, as she opened the door for him, inwardly exultant19 to hear her confirm in her bright ladylike tones his own prediction of what she would say: “Oh, THEAH you ah! I was wondering what was keeping you.”
A moment later he would be greeted from the cellar or the kitchen by his uncle Bascom’s high, husky and yet strangely remote yell, the voice of a prophet calling from a mountain:
“Hello, Eugene, my boy. Is that YOU?” And a moment later the old man would appear, coming up to meet him from some lower cellar-depth, swearing, muttering, and banging doors; and he would come toward him howling greetings, buttoned to his chin in the frayed21 and faded sweater, gnarled, stooped and frosty-looking, clutching his great hands together at his waist; then hold one gaunt hand out to him and howl:
“Hello, hello, hello, sit down, sit down, sit down,” after which, for no apparent reason, he would contort his gaunt face in a horrible grimace22, convolve his amazing rubbery lips, and close his eyes and his mouth tightly and laugh through his nose in forced snarls24: “Phuh! Phuh Phuh! Phuh! Phuh!”
Bascom Pentland had been the scholar of his amazing family: he was a man of powerful intelligence and disordered emotions. Even in his youth, his eccentricities25 of dress, speech, walk, manner had made him an object of ridicule26 to his Southern kinsmen27, but their ridicule was streaked28 with pride, since they accepted the impact of his personality as another proof that theirs was an extraordinary family. “He’s one of ’em, all right,” they said exultantly29, “queerer than any of us!”
Bascom’s youth, following the war between the States, had been seared by a bitter poverty, at once enriched and warped30 by a life that clung to the earth with a rootlike tenacity31 that was manual, painful, spare and stricken, and that rebuilt itself — fiercely, cruelly, and richly — from the earth. And because there burned and blazed in him from the first a hatred32 of human indignity33, a passionate34 avowal35 of man’s highness and repose36, he felt more bitterly than the others the delinquencies of his father, and the multiplication37 of his father’s offspring, who came regularly into a world of empty cupboards.
“As each of them made its unhappy entrance into the world,” he would say later, his voice tremulous with passion, “I went out into the woods striking my head against the trees, and blaspheming God in my anger. Yes, sir,” he continued, pursing his long lip rapidly against his few loose upper teeth, and speaking with an exaggerated pedantry38 of enunciation39, “I am not ashamed to confess that I did. For we were living in conditions unWORTHY— UNWORTHY”— his voice rising to an evangelical yell, “I had almost said — of the condition of animals. And — SAY— what do you think?”— he said, with a sudden shift in manner and tone, becoming, after his episcopal declaration, matter of fact and whisperingly confidential40. “Why, do you know, my boy, at one time I had to take my OWN father aside and point out to him we were living in no way becoming decent people.”— Here his voice sank to a whisper, and he tapped Eugene on the knee with his big, stiff finger, grimacing41 horribly and pursing his lip against his dry upper teeth.
Poverty had been the mistress of his youth and Bascom Pentland had not forgotten: poverty had burned its way into his heart. He took what education he could find in a backwoods school, read everything he could, taught, for two or three years, in a country school and, at the age of twenty-one, borrowing enough money for railway fare, went to Boston to enrol42 himself at Harvard. And, somehow, because of the fire that burned in him, the fierce determination of his soul, he had been admitted, secured employment waiting on tables, tutoring, and pressing everyone’s trousers but his own, and lived in a room with two other starved wretches43 on $3.50 a week, cooking, eating, sleeping, washing, and studying in the one place.
At the end of seven years he had gone through the college and the school of theology, performing brilliantly in Greek, Hebrew, and metaphysics.
Poverty, fanatical study, the sexual meagreness of his surroundings, had made of him a gaunt zealot: at thirty he was a lean fanatic44, a true Yankee madman, high-boned, with grey thirsty eyes and a thick flaring45 sheaf of oaken hair — six feet three inches of gangling46 and ludicrous height, gesticulating madly and obliviously47 before a grinning world. But he had a grand lean head: he looked somewhat like the great Ralph Waldo Emerson — with the brakes off.
About this time he married a young Southern woman of a good family: she was from Tennessee, her parents were both dead, and in the ‘seventies she had come North and had lived for several years with an uncle in Providence48, who had been constituted guardian49 of her estate, amounting probably to about $75,000, although her romantic memory later multiplied the sum to $200,000. The man squandered50 part of her money and stole the rest: she came, therefore, to Bascom without much dowry, but she was pretty, bright, intelligent, and had a good figure. Bascom smote51 the walls of his room with bloody52 knuckles53, and fell down before God.
When Bascom met her she was a music student in Boston: she had a deep full-toned contralto voice which was wrung54 from her somewhat tremulously when she sang. She was a small woman, birdlike and earnest, delicately fleshed and boned, quick and active in her movements and with a crisp tart55 speech which still bore, curiously56, traces of a Southern accent. She was a brisk, serious, ladylike little person, without much humour, and she was very much in love with her gaunt suitor. They saw each other for two years: they went to concerts, lectures, sermons; they talked of music, poetry, philosophy and of God, but they never spoke57 of love. But one night Bascom met her in the parlour of her boarding-house on Huntington Avenue, and with a voice vibrant58 and portentous59 with the importance of the words he had to utter, began as follows: “Miss Louise!” he said carefully, gazing thoughtfully over the apex61 of his hands, “there comes a time when a man, having reached an age of discretion62 and mature judgment63, must begin to consider one of the GRAVEST— yes! by all means one of the most important events in human life. The event I refer to is — matrimony.” He paused, a clock was beating out its punctual measured tock upon the mantel, and a horse went by with ringing hoofs64 upon the street. As for Louise, she sat quietly erect65, with dignified66 and ladylike composure, but it seemed to her that the clock was beating in her own breast, and that it might cease to beat at any moment.
“For a minister of the Gospel,” Bascom continued, “the decision is particularly grave, because, for him — once made, it is IRREVOCABLE, once determined67 upon, it must be followed INEXORABLY, RELENTLESSLY— aye! to the edge of the grave, to the UTTERMOST gates of death, so that the possibility of an error in judgment is FRAUGHT68”— his voice sinking to a boding69 whisper —“is FRAUGHT with the most terrible consequences. Accordingly,” Uncle Bascom said in a deliberate tone, “having decided70 to take this step, realizing to the FULL— to the FULL, mind you — its gravity, I have searched my soul, I have questioned my heart. I have gone up into the mountings and out into the desert and communed with my MAKER71 until”— his voice rose like a demon’s howl —“there no longer remains72 an ATOM of doubt, a PARTICLE of uncertainty73, a VESTIGE74 of DISBELIEF! Miss Louise, I have decided that the young lady best fitted in every way to be my helpmate, the partner of my joys and griefs, the confidante of my dearest hopes, the inSPIR-ation of my noblest endeavours, the companion of my declining years, and the SPIRIT that shall accompany me along each step of life’s vexed75 and troubled way, sharing with me whatever God in His INSCRUTABLE Providence shall will, whether of wealth or poverty, grief or happiness — I have decided, Miss Louise, that that lady must be-yourself! — and, therefore, I request,” he said slowly and impressively, “the honour of your hand in mar-ri-age.”
She loved him, she had hoped, prayed, and agonized76 for just such a moment, but now that it had come she rose immediately with ladylike dignity, and said: “Mistah Pentland: I am honuhed by this mahk of yoah esteem77 and affection, and I pwomise to give it my most UNnest considahwation without delay. I wealize fully60, Mistah Pentland, the gwavity of the wuhds you have just uttuhed. Foh my paht, I must tell you, Mistah Pentland, that if I accept yoah pwoposal, I shall come to you without the fawchun which was WIGHTfully mine, but of which I have been depwived and defwauded by the WASCALITY— yes! the WASCALITY of my gahdian. I shall come to you, theahfoh, without the dow’y I had hoped to be able to contwibute to my husband’s fawchuns.”
“Oh, my DEAR Miss Louise! My DEAR young lady!” Uncle Bascom cried, waving his great hand through the air with a dismissing gesture. “Do not suppose — do not for one instant suppose, I beg of you! — that consideration of a monetary78 nature could influence my decision. Oh, not in the slightest!” he cried. “Not at all, not at all!”
“Fawchnatly,” Louise continued, “my inhewitance was not WHOLLY dissipated by this scoundwel. A pohtion, a vewy small pohtion, remains.”
“My dear girl! My dear young lady!” Uncle Bascom cried. “It is not of the SLIGHTEST consequence. . . . How much did he leave?” he added.
Thus they were married.
Bascom immediately got a church in the Middle West: good pay and a house. But during the course of the next twenty years he was shifted from church to church, from sect11 to sect — to Brooklyn, then back to the Middle West, to the Dakotas, to Jersey79 City, to Western Massachusetts, and finally back to the small towns surrounding Boston.
When Bascom talked, you may be sure God listened: he preached magnificently, his gaunt face glowing from the pulpit, his rather high, enormously vibrant voice husky with emotion. His prayers were fierce solicitations of God, so mad with fervour that his audiences uncomfortably felt they came close to blasphemy80. But, unhappily, on occasions his own mad eloquence81 grew too much for him: his voice, always too near the heart of passion, would burst in splinters, and he would fall violently forward across his lectern, his face covered by his great gaunt fingers, sobbing82 horribly.
This, in the Middle West, where his first church had been, does not go down so well — yet it may be successful if one weeps mellowly83, joyfully84 — smiling bravely through the tears — at a lovely aisle85 processional of repentant86 sinners; but Bascom, who chose uncomfortable titles for his sermons, would be overcome by his powerful feelings on those occasions when his topic was “Potiphar’s Wife,” “Ruth, the Girl in the Corn,” “The Whore of Babylon,” “The Woman on the Roof,” and so on.
His head was too deeply engaged with his conscience — he was in turn Episcopal, Presbyterian, Unitarian, searching through the whole roaring confusion of Protestantism for a body of doctrine87 with which he could agree. And he was for ever finding it, and later for ever renouncing88 what he had found. At forty, the most liberal of Unitarians, the strains of agnosticism were piping madly through his sermons: he began to hint at his new faith in prose which he modelled on the mighty89 utterance90 of Carlyle, and in poetry, in what he deemed the manner of Matthew Arnold. His professional connection with the Unitarians, and indeed with the Baptists, Methodists, Holy Rollers, and Seventh Day Adventists, came to an abrupt91 ending after he read from his pulpit one morning a composition in verse entitled “The Agnostic,” which made up in concision92 what it lacked in melody, and which ended each stanza93 sadly, but very plainly, on this recurrence94:
“I do not know:
It may be so.”
Thus, when he was almost fifty, Bascom Pentland stopped preaching in public. There was no question where he was going. He had his family’s raging lust95 for property. He became a “conveyancer”; he acquired enough of the law of property to convey titles; but he began to buy pieces of land in the suburbs of Boston and to build small cheap houses, using his own somewhat extraordinary designs to save the architect’s fees and, wherever possible, doing such odd jobs as laying the foundations, installing the plumbing96, and painting the structure.
The small houses that he — no, he did not build them! — he went through the agonies of monstrous97 childbirth to produce them, he licked, nursed, and fondled them into stunted99 growth, and he sold them on long but profitable terms to small Irish, Jewish, Negro, Belgian, Italian and Greek labourers and tradesmen. And at the conclusion of a sale, or after receiving from one of these men the current payment, Uncle Bascom went homeward in a delirium100 of joy, shouting in a loud voice, to all who might be compelled to listen, the merits of the Jews, Belgians, Irish, Swiss or Greeks.
“Finest people in the world! No question about it!”— this last being his favourite exclamation101 in all moments of payment or conviction.
For when they paid he loved them. Often on Sundays they would come to pay him, tramping over the frozen ground or the packed snow through street after street of smutty grey-looking houses in the flat weary-looking suburb where he lived. To this dismal heath, therefore, they came, the swarthy children of a dozen races, clad in the hard and decent blacks in which the poor pay debts and go to funerals. They would advance across the barren lands, the harsh sere102 earth scarred with its wastes of rust5 and rubbish, going stolidly by below the blank board fences of a brick yard, crunching103 doggedly104 through the lanes of dirty rutted ice, passing before the grey besmutted fronts of wooden houses which in their stark105, desolate106, and unspeakable ugliness seemed to give a complete and final utterance to an architecture of weariness, sterility107 and horror, so overwhelming in its absolute desolation that it seemed as if the painful and indignant soul of man must sicken and die at length before it, stricken, stupefied, and strangled without a tongue to articulate the curse that once had blazed in him.
And at length they would pause before the old man’s little house — one of a street of little houses which he had built there on the barren flatlands of the suburb, and to which he had given magnificently his own name — Pentland Heights — although the only eminence108 in all that flat and weary waste was an almost imperceptible rise a half-mile off. And here along this street which he had built, these little houses, warped yet strong and hardy109, seemed to burrow110 down solidly like moles111 for warmth into the ugly stony112 earth on which they were built and to cower113 and huddle114 doggedly below the immense and terrible desolation of the northern sky, with its rimy sun-hazed lights, its fierce and cruel rags and stripes of wintry red, its raw and savage harshness. And then, gripping their greasy115 little wads of money, as if in the knowledge that all reward below these fierce and cruel skies must be wrenched116 painfully and minutely from a stony earth, they went in to pay him. He would come up to meet them from some lower cellar-depth, swearing, muttering, and banging doors; and he would come toward them howling greetings, buttoned to his chin in the frayed and faded sweater, gnarled, stooped and frosty-looking, clutching his great hands together at his waist. Then they would wait, stiffly, clumsily, fingering their hats, while with countless117 squints118 and grimaces119 and pursings of the lip, he scrawled120 out painfully their receipts — their fractional release from debt and labour, one more hard-won step toward the freedom of possession.
At length, having pocketed their money and finished the transaction, he would not permit them to depart at once; he would howl urgently at them an invitation to stay, he would offer long weedy-looking cigars to them, and they would sit uncomfortably, crouching121 on their buttock bones like stalled oxen, at the edges of chairs, shyly and dumbly staring at him, while he howled question, comment, and enthusiastic tribute at them.
“Why, my dear sir!” he would yell at Makropolos, the Greek. “You have a glorious past, a history of which any nation might well be proud!”
“Sure, sure!” said Makropolos, nodding vigorously. “Beeg Heestory!”
“The isles122 of Greece, the isles of Greece!” the old man howled, “where burning Sappho loved and sung —” (Phuh! phuh! phuh! phuh! phuh!)
“Sure, sure!” said Makropolos again, nodding good-naturedly but wrinkling his lowering finger’s-breadth of brow in a somewhat puzzled fashion. “Tha’s right! You got it!”
“Why, my dear sir!” Uncle Bascom cried. “It has been the ambition of my lifetime to visit those hallowed scenes, to stand at sunrise on the Acropolis, to explore the glory that was Greece, to see the magnificent ruins of the noblest of ancient civ-i-LIZ-ations!”
For the first time a dark flush, a flush of outraged123 patriotism124, began to burn upon the swarthy yellow of Mr. Makropolos’s cheek: his manner became heavy and animated125, and in a moment he said with passionate conviction:
“No, no, no! No ruin! Wat you t’ink, eh! Athens fine town! We got a million pipples dere!” He struggled for a word, then cupped his hairy paws indefinitely: “YOU know? BEEG! O, ni-ez!” he added greasily126, with a smile. “Everyt’ing good! We got everyt’ing good dere as you got here! YOU know?” he said with a confiding127 and painful effort. “Everyt’ing ni-ez! Not old! No, no, no!” he cried with a rising and indignant vigour128. “New! de same as here. Ni-ez! You get good and cheap — everyt’ing! Beeg place, new house, dumbwaiter, elevator — wat chew like! — oh, ni-ez!” he said earnestly. “Wat chew t’ink it cost, eh? Feefateen dollar a month! Sure, sure!” he nodded with a swarthy earnestness. “I wouldn’t keed you!”
“Finest people on earth!” Uncle Bascom cried with an air of great conviction and satisfaction. “No question about it!”— and he would usher129 his visitor to the door, howling farewells into the terrible desolation of those savage skies.
Meanwhile, Aunt Louise, although she had not heard a word of what was said, although she had listened to nothing except the periods of Uncle Bascom’s heavily accented and particular speech, kept up a constant snuffling laughter punctuated130 momently by faint whoops131 as she bent132 over her pots and pans in the kitchen, pausing from time to time as if to listen, and then snuffling to herself as she shook her head in pitying mirth which rose again up to the crisis of a faint crazy cackle as she scoured133 the pan; because, of course, during the forty-five years of her life with him she had gone thoroughly134, imperceptibly, and completely mad, and no longer knew or cared to know whether these words had just been spoken or were the echoes of lost voices long ago.
And again, she would pause to listen, with her small birdlike features uplifted gleefully in a kind of mad attentiveness135 as the door slammed and he stumped136 muttering back into the house, intent upon the secret designs of his own life, as remote and isolate137 from her as if they had each dwelt on separate planets, although the house they lived in was a small one.
Such had been the history of the old man. His life had come up from the wilderness, the buried past, the lost America. The potent138 mystery of old events and moments had passed around him, and the magic light of dark time fell across him.
Like all men in this land, he had been a wanderer, an exile on the immortal139 earth. Like all of us, he had no home. Wherever great wheels carried him was home.
As the old man and his nephew talked together, Louise would prepare the meal in the kitchen, which gave on the living-room where they ate, by a swing door that she kept open, in order that she might hear what went on. And, while they waited, Uncle Bascom would talk to the boy on a vast range of subjects, dealing140 with that literature in which he had once been deep — the poetry of the Old Testament141, the philosophy of Hegel, Carlyle, and Matthew Arnold, whom he worshipped, or some question in the daily papers.
Uncle Bascom, seated, his fine gaunt face grave, magnificently composed now above his arched gnarled hands, spoke with eloquent143 deliberation. He became triumphant144 reasoning mind: he talked with superb balanced judgment. All the tumult145 and insanity146 of his life had been forgotten: no question of money or of self was involved. Meanwhile, from the kitchen Aunt Louise kept up a constant snuffling laughter, punctuated momently by faint whoops. She was convinced, of course, that her husband was mad and all his opinions nonsensical. Yet she had not listened to a word of what he was saying, but only to the sound of his heavily accented, precise, and particular speech. From time to time, snuffling to herself, she would look in on Eugene, trembling with laughter, and shake her head at him in pitying mirth.
“BEYOND a doubt! Beyond a DOUBT!” Uncle Bascom would say. “The quality of the best writing in the books of the Old Testament may take rank with the best writing that has ever been done, but you are right in believing, too, the amount of great writing is less than it is commonly supposed to be. There are passages, nay147! BOOKS”— his voice rising strangely to a husky howl —“of the vilest148 rubbish — Noah, Shem, Ham and Japheth — O vile149! vile!” he cried. . . . “And Azariah begat Amariah and Amariah begat Ahitub (Phuh! Phuh! Phuh!). AHITUB!” he sneered151. “And Azariah begat Seraiah, and Seraiah begat Jehozadak (Phuh! Phuh! Phuh!) JEHOZADAK”— he sneered with his precise articulation152, finally letting out the last syllable153 with a kind of snarling154 contempt. “Can you IMAGINE, can you even DREAM,” he howled, “of calling anyone a name like that! ‘And Jehozadak went into captivity’— as, indeed, he ought! (phuh! phuh! phuh!)— his VERY name would constitute a PENAL155 offence! (Phuh! Phuh! Phuh!) JeHOZadak!” Uncle Bascom sneered. “But,” he proceeded deliberately156 in a moment, as he stared calmly over his great arched hands, “— but — the quality of some of the language is God-intoxicated: the noblest poetry ever chanted in the service of eternity157.”
“The Book of Wevelations,” cried Aunt Louise, suddenly rushing out of the kitchen with a carving-knife in her hand, having returned to earth for a moment to hear him. “The Book of Wevelations!” she said in a hoarse158 whisper, her mouth puckered159 with disgust. “EUGENE! A WICKED, bloo-o-edy, kwu-u-el monument to supahstition. Twibute to an avenging160 and MUH-DUH-WOUS GAWD!” The last word uttered in a hoarse almost inaudible whisper would find his aunt bent double, clutching a knife in one hand, with her small bright eyes glaring madly at us.
“Oh no, my dear, oh no,” said Uncle Bascom, with astonishing, unaccustomed sadness, with almost exquisite161 gentleness. And, his vibrant passionate voice thrilling suddenly with emotion, he added:
“The triumphant music of one of the mightiest162 of earth’s poets: the sublime163 utterance of a man for whom God had opened the mysteries of heaven and hell.”
He paused a moment, then quietly in a remote voice — in that remote and magnificent voice which could thrill men so deeply when it uttered poetry, he continued: “‘I am Alpha and Omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end’— the mightiest line, my dear boy, the most magnificent poetry, that was ever written.” And suddenly Uncle Bascom threw his gaunt hands before his face, and wept in strong hoarse sobs164: “Oh, my God, my God! — the beauty, the pity of it all! . . . You must pardon me,” he whispered after a moment, drawing his faded sweater sleeve across his eyes. “You must pardon me. It brought back — memories.”
Aunt Louise, who had been stricken with a kind of fear and horror when he began to weep, now looked at Eugene with an expression of strong physical disgust, almost of nausea165, shaking her head slightly in an affronted166 and ladylike manner as might one who, having achieved healthy and courageous167 discipline over all the excesses of emotion, feels only contempt for him who gives way to them.
She retired168 now with exaggerated dignity to the kitchen, served the meal, and addressed Eugene for some time thereafter with absurd quietness and restraint of manner, and a kind of stiff primness169 about her backbone170. She was an excellent cook; there was magic in her treatment of food, and on the occasions when Eugene was coming out, she insisted that Bascom get her a decent piece of meat to work with.
There would be a juicy fragrant171 piece of lamb, or a boiled leg of mutton with currant jelly, or perhaps a small crisply browned roast of beef, with small flaky biscuits, smoking hot, two or three vegetables, and rich coffee. Uncle Bascom, quite unperturbed by his outbreak, would stamp into the kitchen, where he could be heard swearing and muttering to himself, as he searched for various things. Later he would appear at the table bearing a platter filled with some revolting mess of his own concoction172 — a mixture of raw vegetables, chopped up — onions, carrots, beans, and raw potatoes — for he had the full strength of his family’s mania173 concerning food, violent prejudices about its preparation, and deep-seated distrust of everybody’s cleanliness but his own.
“Have some, my boy. Have some!” he would yell huskily, seating himself and lunging toward Eugene with the awful mess, in a gesture of violent invitation.
“Thank you, no.” Eugene would try to keep his eyes averted174 from the mess and focus on the good food heaping his plate.
“You may eat that slop if you want to,” Uncle Bascom would exclaim with a scornful and sneering175 laugh. “It would give ME my death of dyspepsia.” And the silence of their eating would be broken by the recurrent snuffling whoops of Aunt Louise, accompanied by many pitying looks and head-shakes as she trembled with laughter and hid her mouth.
Or, suddenly, in the full rich progress of the meal, Eugene would be shocked out of his pleasure in the food by the mad bright eyes of Aunt Louise bearing fiercely down upon him:
“Eugene! — don’t bwood, boy! Don’t bwood! You’ve got it in you — it’s in the blood! You’re one of them. You’re one of THEM! — a PENTLAND,” she croaked176 fatally.
“Ah-h — you DON’T know what you’re talking about”— thus suddenly in fierce distemper Uncle Bascom. “SCOTCH! SCOTCH-Irish! Finest people on earth! No question about it whatever.”
“Fugitive177 ideation! Fugitive ideation!” she chattered178 like a monkey over a nut. “Mind goes off in all diwections. Can’t stick to anything five minutes at a time. The same thing that’s wong with the moduhn decadents179. Wead Nordau’s book, Eugene. It will open yoah eyes,” and she whispered hoarsely180 again: “You’re OVAH-SEXED— ALL of you!”
“Bosh! Bosh!” growled181 Uncle Bascom. “Some more of your psychology182 — the BASTARD183 of superstition184 and quackery185: the black magic of little minds — the effort of a blind man (phuh! phuh! phuh!) crawling about in a dark room (phuh! phuh!) looking for a BLACK CAT (phuh! phuh!) that ISN’T THERE,” he yelled triumphantly186, and closed his eyes and snarled187 and snuffled down his nose with laughter.
He knew nothing about it: occasionally he still read Kant, and he could be as deep in absolute categories, moments of negation188, and definitions of a concept as she with all of her complicated and extensive paraphernalia189 of phobias, complexes, fixations, and repressions190.
“Well, Eugene,” thus Aunt Louise with light raillery and yet with eager curiosity, “have you found you a nice wosy-cheeked New England gul yet? You had bettah watch OUT, boy! I tell you, you had bettah watch OUT!” she declared, kittenishly, wagging her finger at him, before he had time to answer.
“If he has,” said Uncle Bascom grimly, “he will find her sadly lacking in the qualities of delicacy191, breeding, and womanly decorum that the Southern girl has. Oh, yes! No question about that whatever!” for Uncle Bascom still had the passionate loyalty192 and sentimental193 affection for the South that many Southerners have who could not be induced, under any circumstances, to return.
“Take a Nawthun gul, Eugene.” Aunt Louise became at once combative194. “They’re bettah for you! They are BETTAH. They are BETTAH!” she declared, shaking her head in an obdurate195 manner, as if further argument was useless. “Moah independence! Bettah minds! They won’t choke yoah life out by hanging awound yoah neck,” she concluded crisply.
“I will tell you a story,” Uncle Bascom continued deliberately as if she had not spoken, “that will illustrate196 admirably what I mean.” Here he cleared his throat, as if he were preparing to deliver a set speech, and began in a deliberate and formal tone: “Some years ago I had occasion to go to Portland, Maine, on business. When I arrived at the North Station I found a crowd waiting before the window: it was necessary for me to wait in line. I was carrying a small valise which I placed on the floor between my legs in order to get out the money for my ticket. At this moment the woman who stood behind me, apparently197 not given to noticing very well where she was going,” he snarled bitterly, “started to move forward and stubbed her toe against the valise. Before I had time to turn round and apologize”— he stopped abruptly198, then, leaning forward with a horrible grimace, he tapped Eugene stiffly with his great bony fingers and continued in a lowered voice: “Say! Have you any idea what she did, my boy?”
“No,” Eugene said.
“Why, I give you my word, my boy,” he whispered solemnly, “without so much as ‘By your leave,’ she lifted her leg and KICKED me, KICKED me”— he howled —“in the STERN! And SHE, my boy, was a New England woman.”
“Whoo-o-op!” Aunt Louise was off again, rocking back and forth199, holding her napkin over her mouth.
“Can you IMAGINE, can you DREAM,” said Bascom, his voice an intense whisper of disgust, “of a Southern lady, the flower of modesty200 and the old aristocracy, doing such a thing as that?”
“Yes-s,” hissed201 Aunt Louise, her cackle subsiding202, leaning intensely across the table and glaring at him, “and it SUHVED you wight! It SUHVED you wight! It SUHVED you wight! These things would nevah happen if you thought of any one’s convenience but yoah own. What WIGHT did you have to put yoah baggage there? What WIGHT?”
“Ah,” he replied, with a kind of precise snarl23, profoundly contemptuous of her opinion, “you-don’t-know-what-you’retalking-about! What RIGHT? she says — Why all the right in the world,” he yelled. “Have you ever read the conditions enumerated203 upon the back of railway tickets concerning the transportation of baggage?”
“Suttinly not!” she retorted crisply. “One does not need to wead the backs of wailway tickets to learn how to behave like a civilized205 pusson!”
“Well, I will tell them to you,” said Uncle Bascom, licking his lips, and with a look of joy upon his face. And, at great length, with infinite gusto, lip-pursing, and legal pedantry of elocution, he would enumerate204 them all.
“And say, by the way, Eugene,” he would continue without a halt, “there is a very charming young lady who occasionally comes to my office (with her mother, of course) who is very anxious to meet you. She is a musician: she appears quite often in public. They live in Melrose, but they came, originally, I believe, from New Hampshire. Finest people in the world: no question about it,” his uncle said.
And suddenly alert, scenting206 adventure and seduction, the young man got the address from him immediately.
“Yes, my boy”— here Uncle Bascom fumbled207 through a mass of envelopes —“you may call her, without indiscretion, over the telephone at any time. I have spoken to her frequently about you: no doubt you’ll find much in common. Or, SAY!”— here a flash of inspiration aroused him to volcanic208 action —“I could call her now and let you talk to her.” And he plunged209 violently toward the telephone.
“No, no, no, no, no!” Eugene sprang after him and checked him. For he wanted to make his own appointment luxuriously210 in private, sealed darkly in a telephone booth, craftily211 to feel his way, speculating on the curve of the unseen hip142 by the sound of the voice; probing, with the most delicate innuendo212, the depth and richness of the promise. He loathed213 all family intercession and interference: they placed, he felt, at the outset, a crushing restraint upon the adventure from which it could never recover.
“I had rather call her myself,” he added, “when I have more time. I don’t know when I could see her now: it might be awkward calling at just this time.”
Later, while Uncle Bascom was poking214 furiously at the meagre coals of the tiny furnace in the cellar, setting up a clangorous and smoky din8 all through the house, Aunt Louise would bear down madly upon the boy, whispering:
“Did you hear him! Did you hear him! Still mad about the women at his age! Can’t keep his hands off them! The lechewous old fool!” and she cackled bitterly. Then, with a fierce change: “He’s MAD about them, Eugene. He’s had one after anothah for the last twenty yeahs! He has spent FAW-CHUNS on them! Have you seen that gul in his office yet? The stenographer215?”
He had, and believed he had rarely seen a more solidly dull unattractive female than this pallid216 course-featured girl. But he only said: “Yes.”
“He has spent thousands on her, Gene20! THOUSANDS! The old fool! And all they do is laugh at him behind his back. Why, even at home heah,” her eyes darting217 madly about the place, “he can hardly keep his hands off me at times! I have to lock myself in my woom to secure pwotection,” and her bright old eyes muttered crazily about in her head.
He thought these outbursts the result of frantic218 and extravagant219 jealousy220: fruit of some passionate and submerged affection that his aunt still bore for her husband. This, perhaps, was true, but later he was to find there was a surprising modicum221 of fact in what she had said.
During the wintry afternoon, he would sit and smoke one of his uncle’s corn-cob pipes, filling it with the coarse cheap powerful tobacco that lay, loosely spread, upon a bread-board in the kitchen.
Meanwhile, his aunt, on these usual Sundays when she must remain at home, played entire operas from Wagner on her small victrola.
Most of the records had been given her by her two daughters, and during the week the voices of the music afforded her the only companionship she had. The boy listened attentively222 to all she said about music, because he knew little about it, and had got from poetry the kind of joy that music seemed to give to others. Shifting the records quickly, his aunt would point out the melodramatic effervescence of the Italians, the metallic223 precision, the orderly profusion224, the thrill, the vibration225, the emptiness of French composition. She liked the Germans and the Russians. She liked what she called the “barbaric splendour” of Rimsky, but was too late, of course, either to have heard or to care much for the modern composers.
She would play Wagner over and over again, lost in the enchanted226 forests of the music, her spirit wandering drunkenly down vast murky227 aisles228 of sound, through which the great hoarse throats of horns were baying faintly. And occasionally, on Sundays, on one of her infrequent excursions into the world, when her daughters bought her tickets for concerts at Symphony Hall — that great grey room lined on its sides with pallid plaster shells of Greece — she would sit perched high, a sparrow held by the hypnotic serpent’s eye of music — following each motif229, hearing minutely each subtle entry of the mellow flutes230, the horns, the spinal231 ecstasy232 of violins — until her lonely and desolate life was spun233 out of her into aerial fabrics234 of bright sound.
During this time, Uncle Bascom, who also knew nothing about music, and cared so little for it that he treated his wife’s passion for it with contempt, would bury himself in the Sunday papers, or thumb deliberately through the pages of an ancient edition of the Encyclop?dia Britannica in search of arbitrament for some contested point.
“Ah! Here we are, just as I thought,” he would declare suddenly, with triumphant satisfaction. “‘Upon the fifth, however, in spite of the heavy rains which had made of the roads quaking bogs235, Jackson appeared suddenly from the South, at the head of an army of 33,000 men.’”
Then they would wrangle236 furiously over the hour, the moment, the place of dead event: each rushing from the room fiercely to produce the document which would support his own contention237.
“Your aunt, my boy, is not the woman she once was,” Bascom would say regretfully during her absence. “No question about that! At one time she was a very remarkable238 woman! Yes, sir, a woman of very considerable intelligence — considerable, that is, for a woman,” he said, with a slight sneer150.
And she, whispering, when he had gone: “You have noticed, of course, Gene?”
“What?”
“His mind’s going,” she muttered. “What a head he had fifteen years ago! But NOW! — Senile decay — G. Stanley Hall — forgets everything —” she whispered hoarsely, as she heard his returning footfalls.
Or, as the winter light darkened greyly, slashed239 on the western sky by fierce cold red, his uncle passed sheaf after sheaf of his verse to him, sniggering nosily240, and prodding241 the boy with his great fingers, while his aunt cleared the table or listened to the music. The great majority of these verses, laboured and pedantic242 as they were, were variations of the motif of agnosticism, the horn on which his ministry243 in the Church had fatally gored244 itself — and still a brand that smouldered in his brain — not now so much from an all-mastering conviction, as from some desire to justify245 himself. These verses, which he asserted were modelled on those of his great hero, Matthew Arnold, were all remarkably246 like this one:
MY CREED247
“Is there a land beyond the stars
Where we may find eternal day,
Life after death, peace after wars?
Is there? I cannot say.
Shall we find there a happier life,
All joy that here we never know,
Love in all things, an end of strife248?
Perhaps: it may be so.”
And so on.
And sniggering down his nose, Bascom would prod98 the young man stiffly with his great fingers, saying, as he slyly thrust another verse into his hand:
“Something in a lighter249 vein250, my boy. Just a little foolishness, you know. (Phuh! Phuh! Phuh! Phuh! Phuh)” Which was:
“Mary had a little calf251,
It followed up her leg,
And everywhere that Mary went,
The boys were sure to beg.”
And so on.
Uncle Bascom had hundreds of them: Poems — Chiefly Religious, he sent occasionally to the morning papers. They were sometimes printed in the Editor’s Correspondence or The Open Forum252. But Poems — Chiefly Profane253 he kept apparently for his own regalement254.
Then, as it darkened, toward five o’clock, the boy would depart, leaving them at times bitterly involved in a political wrangle, with the strewn Sunday numbers of The Boston Herald256 and The Boston Post around them, she parroting intensely the newspaper jargon257, assaulting Borah and “the Senate iwweconcilables,” he angrily defending Senator Lodge258 as a scholar and a gentleman, with whom he had not always been in agreement, but from whom he had once received a most courteous259 letter — a fact which seemed to distinguish him in Bascom’s mind as the paragon260 of statesmanship.
And as Eugene left, he would note, with a swift inchoate261 pang262, the sudden mad loneliness in Aunt Louise’s eyes, doomed263 for another week to her grim imprisonment264. But he did not know that her distended265 and exhausted266 heart hissed audibly each time she ascended267 from futile268 labour on the cold furnace, stoked with cheap slag269 and coke, and that her thin blood was fed by gristly butcher’s leavings, in answer to the doctor’s call for meat.
And his aunt would go with Eugene to the frost-glazed door, open it, and stand huddled270 meagrely and hugging herself together beneath the savage desolation of the Northern cold; talking to him for a moment and calling brightly after him as he went down the icy path: “Come again, boy! Always glad to see you!”
And in the dull cold Sunday light he strode away, his spirit braced271 by the biting air, the Northern cold, the ragged272 bloody sky, which was somehow prophetic to him of glorious fulfilment, and at the same time depressed273 by the grey enormous weight of Sunday tedium274 and dreariness275 all around him.
And yet, he never lost heart that out of this dullness he would draw some rich adventure. He strode away with quickening pulse, hoping to see it issue from every warmly lighted house, to find it in the street cars, the subway or at a restaurant. Then he would go back into the city and dine at one of the restaurants where the pretty waitresses served him. Later he would go out on the sparsely276 peopled Sunday streets, turning finally, as a last resort, into Washington Street, where the moving-picture places and cheap vaudeville277 houses were filled with their Sunday Irish custom.
Sometimes he went in, but as one weary act succeeded the other, and the empty brutal278 laughter of the people echoed in his ears, seeming to him forced and dishonest, as if people laughed at the ghosts of mirth, the rotten husks of stale wit, the sordidness279, hopelessness, and sterility of their lives oppressed him hideously281. On the stage he would see the comedian282 again display his red neck-tie with a leer, and hear the people laugh about it; he would hear again that someone was a big piece of cheese, and listen to them roar; he would observe again the pert and cheap young comedian with nothing to offer waste time portentously283, talk in a low voice with the orchestra leader; and the only thing he liked would be the strength and balance of the acrobats284.
Finally, drowned in a sea-depth of grey horror, and with the weary brutal laughter of the audience ringing in his ears, he would rush out on the street again, filled with its hideous280 Sunday dullness and the sterile285 wink286 of the chop-suey signs, and take the train to Cambridge.
And there, as the night grew late, his spirit would surge up in him; sunken in books at midnight, with the soft numb255 prescience of brooding snow upon the air, the feeling of exultancy287, joy, and invincible288 strength would come back; and he was sure that the door would open for him, the magic word be spoken, and that he would make all of the glory, power, and beauty of the earth his own.
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1
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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masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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3
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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depleted
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| adj. 枯竭的, 废弃的 动词deplete的过去式和过去分词 | |
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7
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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14
sapphires
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| n.蓝宝石，钢玉宝石( sapphire的名词复数 )；蔚蓝色 | |
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cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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18
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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gene
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| n.遗传因子，基因 | |
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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23
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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24
snarls
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| n.（动物的）龇牙低吼( snarl的名词复数 )；愤怒叫嚷（声）；咆哮（声）；疼痛叫声v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的第三人称单数 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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25
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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kinsmen
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| n.家属，亲属( kinsman的名词复数 ) | |
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28
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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29
exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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30
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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31
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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32
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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35
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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37
multiplication
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| n.增加，增多，倍增；增殖，繁殖；乘法 | |
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38
pedantry
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| n.迂腐，卖弄学问 | |
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39
enunciation
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| n.清晰的发音；表明，宣言；口齿 | |
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40
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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41
grimacing
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的现在分词 ) | |
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42
enrol
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| v.（使）注册入学，（使）入学，（使）入会 | |
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43
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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44
fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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45
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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46
gangling
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| adj.瘦长得难看的 | |
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47
obliviously
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48
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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49
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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50
squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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52
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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53
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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54
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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55
tart
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| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
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56
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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57
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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58
vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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61
apex
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| n.顶点，最高点 | |
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62
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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63
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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64
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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65
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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66
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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67
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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68
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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69
boding
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| adj.凶兆的，先兆的n.凶兆，前兆，预感v.预示，预告，预言( bode的现在分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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70
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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71
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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72
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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73
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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74
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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75
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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76
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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77
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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78
monetary
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| adj.货币的，钱的；通货的；金融的；财政的 | |
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79
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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80
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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81
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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82
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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83
mellowly
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| 柔软且甜地，成熟地 | |
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84
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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85
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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86
repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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87
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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88
renouncing
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的现在分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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89
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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90
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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91
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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92
concision
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| n.简明，简洁 | |
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93
stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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94
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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95
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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96
plumbing
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| n.水管装置；水暖工的工作；管道工程v.用铅锤测量（plumb的现在分词）；探究 | |
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97
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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98
prod
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| vt.戳，刺；刺激，激励 | |
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99
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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100
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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101
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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102
sere
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| adj.干枯的；n.演替系列 | |
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103
crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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104
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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105
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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106
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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107
sterility
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| n.不生育，不结果，贫瘠，消毒，无菌 | |
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108
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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109
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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110
burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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111
moles
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| 防波堤( mole的名词复数 )； 鼹鼠； 痣； 间谍 | |
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112
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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113
cower
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| v.畏缩，退缩，抖缩 | |
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114
huddle
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| vi.挤作一团；蜷缩；vt.聚集；n.挤在一起的人 | |
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115
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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116
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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117
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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118
squints
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| 斜视症( squint的名词复数 )； 瞥 | |
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119
grimaces
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| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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120
scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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122
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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123
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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124
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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125
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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126
greasily
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| adv.多脂，油腻，滑溜地 | |
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127
confiding
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|
| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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128
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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129
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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130
punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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131
whoops
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| int.呼喊声 | |
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132
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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133
scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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134
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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135
attentiveness
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| [医]注意 | |
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136
stumped
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的过去式和过去分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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137
isolate
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| vt.使孤立，隔离 | |
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138
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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139
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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140
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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141
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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142
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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143
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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144
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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145
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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146
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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147
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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148
vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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149
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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150
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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151
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
articulation
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| n.（清楚的）发音；清晰度，咬合 | |
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153
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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154
snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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155
penal
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| adj.刑罚的；刑法上的 | |
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156
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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157
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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158
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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159
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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160
avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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161
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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162
mightiest
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| adj.趾高气扬( mighty的最高级 )；巨大的；强有力的；浩瀚的 | |
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163
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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164
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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165
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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166
affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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167
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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168
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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169
primness
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| n.循规蹈矩，整洁 | |
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170
backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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171
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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172
concoction
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| n.调配(物)；谎言 | |
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173
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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174
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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175
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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176
croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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177
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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178
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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179
decadents
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| n.颓废派艺术家（decadent的复数形式） | |
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180
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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181
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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182
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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183
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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184
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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185
quackery
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| n.庸医的医术，骗子的行为 | |
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186
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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187
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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188
negation
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| n.否定；否认 | |
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189
paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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190
repressions
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| n.压抑( repression的名词复数 )；约束；抑制；镇压 | |
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191
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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192
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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193
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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194
combative
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| adj.好战的；好斗的 | |
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195
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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196
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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197
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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198
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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199
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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200
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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201
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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202
subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；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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203
enumerated
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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204
enumerate
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| v.列举，计算，枚举，数 | |
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205
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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206
scenting
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| vt.闻到（scent的现在分词形式） | |
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207
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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208
volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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209
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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210
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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211
craftily
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| 狡猾地，狡诈地 | |
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212
innuendo
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| n.暗指，讽刺 | |
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213
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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214
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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215
stenographer
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| n.速记员 | |
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216
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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217
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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218
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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219
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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220
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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221
modicum
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| n.少量，一小份 | |
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222
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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223
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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224
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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225
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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226
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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227
murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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228
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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229
motif
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| n.(图案的)基本花纹，(衣服的)花边；主题 | |
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230
flutes
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| 长笛( flute的名词复数 )； 细长香槟杯（形似长笛） | |
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231
spinal
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| adj.针的，尖刺的，尖刺状突起的；adj.脊骨的，脊髓的 | |
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232
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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233
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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234
fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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235
bogs
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| n.沼泽，泥塘( bog的名词复数 )；厕所v.（使）陷入泥沼， （使）陷入困境( bog的第三人称单数 )；妨碍，阻碍 | |
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236
wrangle
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| vi.争吵 | |
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237
contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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238
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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239
slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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240
nosily
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| 好打听地，爱管闲事地 | |
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241
prodding
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| v.刺，戳( prod的现在分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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242
pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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243
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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244
gored
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| v.（动物）用角撞伤，用牙刺破( gore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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245
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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246
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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247
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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248
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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249
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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250
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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251
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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252
forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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253
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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254
regalement
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| n.盛宴，丰餐 | |
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255
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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256
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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257
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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258
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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259
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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260
paragon
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| n.模范，典型 | |
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261
inchoate
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| adj.才开始的，初期的 | |
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262
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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263
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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264
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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265
distended
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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266
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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267
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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268
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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269
slag
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| n.熔渣，铁屑，矿渣；v.使变成熔渣，变熔渣 | |
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270
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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271
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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272
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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273
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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274
tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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275
dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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276
sparsely
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| adv.稀疏地；稀少地；不足地；贫乏地 | |
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277
vaudeville
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| n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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278
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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279
sordidness
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| n.肮脏；污秽；卑鄙；可耻 | |
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280
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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281
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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282
comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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283
portentously
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284
acrobats
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| n.杂技演员( acrobat的名词复数 )；立场观点善变的人，主张、政见等变化无常的人 | |
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285
sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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286
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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287
exultancy
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| n.大喜，狂喜 | |
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288
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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