For this austere11 cell, Professor Hatcher’s dramatist paid Mrs. Mary Grogan fifteen dollars every month. Therefore, when the primary fees of tuition and matriculation and the cell in Mrs. Grogan’s house had been accounted for, Oswald Ten Eyck had all of $300 left to take care of clothing, food, tobacco, books, and plays during the ensuing period of nine months. This sum perhaps was adequate, but it was not grand, and Ten Eyck, poet though he was, was subject to all those base cravings of sensual desire that 100 pounds of five feet five is heir to.
This weakness of the flesh was unhappily reflected in the artist’s work. During the brief period of his sojourn13 in Professor Hatcher’s class, his plays were numerous but for the most part low. Ten Eyck turned them out with the feverish14 haste which only a trained newspaper-man can achieve when driven on by the cherished ambition of a lifetime and the knowledge that art is long and $300 very fleeting15. He had started out most promisingly17 in the fleshless ethers of mystic fantasy, but he became progressively more sensual until at the end he was practically wallowing in a trough of gluttony.
The man, in fact, became all belly18 when he wrote — and this was strange in a frail19 creature with the large burning eyes of a religious zealot, hands small-boned, fleshless as a claw, and a waist a rubber band would have snapped round comfortably. He seemed compact of flame and air and passion and an agonizing20 shyness. Professor Hatcher had great hopes for him — the whole atom was framed, Professor Hatcher thought, for what the true Hatcherian called “the drama of revolt,” but the flaming atom fooled him, fooled him cruelly. For after the brilliant promise of that first beginning — a delicate, over-the-hills-and-far-away fantasy reminiscent of Synge, Yeats, and the Celtic Dawn — brain bowed to belly, Ten Eyck wrote of food.
His second effort was a one-act play whose action took place on the sidewalk in front of a Childs restaurant, while a white-jacketed attendant deftly21 flipped22 brown wheat-cakes on a plate. The principal character, and in fact the only speaker in this play, was a starving poet who stood before the window and delivered himself of a twenty-minute monologue23 on a poet’s life and the decay of modern society, in the course of which most of the staple24 victuals25 on the Childs menu were mentioned frequently and with bitter relish26.
Professor Hatcher felt his interest waning27: he had hoped for finer things. Yet a wise caution learned from errors in the past had taught him to forbear. He knew that out of man’s coarse earth the finer flowers of his spirit sometimes grew. Some earlier members of his class had taught him this, some who had written coarsely of coarse things. They wrote of sailors, niggers, thugs, and prostitutes, of sunless lives and evil strivings, of murder, hunger, rape28, and incest, a black picture of man’s life unlighted by a spark of grace, a ray of hope, a flicker29 of the higher vision. Professor Hatcher had not always asked them to return — to “come back for a second year,” which was the real test of success and future promise in the Hatcherian world. And yet, unknighted by this accolade30, some had gone forth31 and won renown32: their grim plays had been put on everywhere and in all languages. And the only claim the true Hatcherian could make of them was: “Yes, they were with us but not of us: they were not asked to come back for a second year.”
There were some painful memories, but Professor Hatcher had derived33 from them a wise forbearance. His hopes for Oswald Ten Eyck were fading fast, but he had determined35 to hold his judgment36 in abeyance37 until Oswald’s final play. But, as if to relieve his distinguished38 tutor from a painful choice, Ten Eyck himself decided39 it. After his third play there was no longer any doubt of the decision. For that play, which Oswald called “Dutch Fugue,” would more aptly have been entitled “No Return.”
It was a piece in four acts dealing40 with the quaintly41 flavoured life and customs of his own people, the Hudson River Dutch. The little man was hotly proud of his ancestry42, and always insisted with a slight sneer43 of aristocratic contempt: “Not the Pennsylvania Dutch — Good God, no! THEY’RE not Dutch but German: the REAL Dutch, the OLD Dutch, CATSKILL Dutch!” And if Ten Eyck’s interest in food had been uncomfortably pronounced in his earlier work, in this final product of his curious genius, his sensual appetites became indecent in their unrestraint. It is doubtful if the long and varied44 annals of the stage have ever offered such a spectacle: the play became a sort of dramatic incarnation of the belly, acted by a cast of fourteen adults, male and female, all of whom were hearty45 eaters.
The central events of that extraordinary play, which were a birth, a death, a wedding, were all attended by eating, drinking, and the noises of the feast. Scene followed scene with kaleidoscopic46 swiftness: the jubilant merry-making of the christening had hardly died away before the stage was set, the trestles groaning47, with the more sombre, sober and substantial victuals of the funeral; and the wheels of the hearse had hardly echoed away into the distance before the scene burst out in all the boisterous48 reel and rout49 and feasting of the wedding banquet. Of no play that was ever written could it be more aptly said that “the funeral baked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables,” and what is more, they almost furnished forth the casket and the corpse51 as well. Finally, the curtain fell as it had risen, upon a groaning table surrounded by the assembled cast of fourteen famished52 gluttons53 — a scene in which apparently54 the only sound and action were provided by the thrust of jowl and smack56 of lip, a kind of symphonic gluttony of reach and grab, cadenced57 by the stertorous58 breathing of the eaters, the clash of crockery, and the sanguinary drip of rare roast beef — the whole a prophetic augury59 that flesh was grass and man’s days fleeting, that life would change and reappear in an infinite succession of births and deaths and marriages, but that the holy rites60 of eating and the divine permanence of good dinners and roast beef were indestructible and would endure for ever.
Ten Eyck read the play himself one Friday afternoon to Professor Hatcher and his assembled following. He read in a rapid high-pitched voice, turning the pages with a trembling claw, and thrusting his long fingers nervously61 through his disordered mop of jet-black hair. As he went on, the polite attention of the class was changed insensibly to a paralysis62 of stupefaction. Professor Hatcher’s firm thin lips became much firmer, thinner, tighter. A faint but bitter smile was printed at the edges of his mouth. Then, for a moment, when the playwright finished, there was silence: Professor Hatcher slowly raised his hand, detached his gold-rimmed glasses from his distinguished nose, and let them fall and dangle63 on their black silk cord. He looked around the class; his cultivated voice was low, controlled, and very quiet.
“Is there any comment?” Professor Hatcher said.
No one answered for a moment. Then Mr. Grey, a young patrician64 from Philadelphia, spoke65:
“I think,” he said with a quiet emphasis of scorn, “I think he might very well get it produced in the Chicago Stock Yards.”
Mr. Grey’s remark was ill-timed. For the Stock Yards brought to Ten Eyck’s mind a thought of beef, and beef brought back a memory of his palmy days with Mr. Hearst when beef was plenty and the pay-cheques fat, and all these thoughts brought back the bitter memory of the day before which was the day when he had eaten last: a single meal, a chaste66 and wholesome67 dinner of spaghetti, spinach68, coffee, and a roll. And thinking, Ten Eyck craned his scrawny neck convulsively along the edges of his fraying69 collar, looked desperately70 at Professor Hatcher, who returned his gaze inquiringly; ducked his head quickly, bit his nails and craned again. Then, suddenly, seeing the cold patrician features of young Mr. Grey, his blue shirt of costly71 madras, his limp crossed elegance72 of legs and pleated trousers, the little man half rose, scraping his chair back from the table round which the class was sitting, and with an inclusive gesture of his claw-like hand, screamed incoherently:
“These! These! . . . We have the English. . . . As for the Russians. . . . Take the Germans — Toller — Kaiser — the Expressionists. . . . But the Dutch, the Dutch, the CATSKILL Dutch . . . .” Pointing a trembling finger towards Mr. Grey, he shrieked74: “The Philadelphia Cricket Club. . . . God! God!” he bent75, racked with soundless laughter, his thin hands pressed against his sunken stomach. “That it should come to this!” he said, and suddenly, catching76 Professor Hatcher’s cold impassive eye upon him, he slumped77 down abruptly78 in his seat, and fell to biting his nails. “Well, I don’t know,” he said with a foolish little laugh. “Maybe — I guess . . .” his voice trailed off, he did not finish.
“Is there any other comment?” said Professor Hatcher.
There was none.
“Then,” said Professor Hatcher, “the class is dismissed until next Monday.”
Professor Hatcher did not look up as Ten Eyck went out.
When Oswald got out into the corridor, he could hear the last footfalls of the departing class echoing away around the corner. For a moment, he leaned against the wall: he felt hollow, weak, and dizzy: his knees bent under him like rubber, and his head, after its recent flood of blood and passion, felt swollen79, light, and floating as a toy balloon. Suddenly he remembered that it was Friday. Saturday, the day on which he could next allow himself to take a little from his dwindling80 hoard81 — for such was the desperate resolution made at the beginning and adhered to ever since — Saturday shone desperately far away, a small and shining disc of light at the black mouth of an interminable tunnel, and all giddy, weak, and hollow as he was, he did not see how he could wait! So he surrendered. He knew that if he hurried now he would be just in time for old Miss Potter’s Friday afternoon. And torn between hunger and disgust, Ten Eyck gave in again to hunger as he had done a score of times before, even when he knew that he must face again that crowning horror of modern life, the art party.
Miss Potter was a curious old spinster of some property, and she lived, with a companion, in a pleasant house on Garden Street, not far from the University. Miss Potter’s companion was also an aged82 spinster: her name was Miss Flitcroft; the two women were inseparable. Miss Potter was massively constructed; a ponderous83 woman who moved heavily and with wheezing84 difficulty, and whose large eyes bulged85 comically out of a face on which a strange fixed87 grin was always legible.
Miss Flitcroft was a wren88 of a woman, with bony little hands, and an old withered90, rather distinguished-looking face: she wore a band of velvet91 around her stringy neck. She was not only a companion, she was also a kind of nurse to Miss Potter, and she could give relief and comfort to the other woman as no one else could.
For Miss Potter was really very ill: she had a savage92 love of life, a desperate fear of death, and she knew that she was dying. But even the woman’s sufferings, which were obviously intense, were touched by that grotesque93 and ridiculous quality that made Ten Eyck want to howl with explosive laughter, even when he felt a rending94 pity for her. Thus, at table sometimes, with all her tribe of would-be poets, playwrights95, composers, novelists, painters, critics, and enfeebled litterateurs gathered around her, putting away the delicious food she had so abundantly provided, Miss Potter would suddenly begin to choke, gasp96, and cough horribly; her eyes would bulge86 out of her head in a fish-like stare, and looking desperately at Miss Flitcroft with an expression of unutterable terror, she would croak97: . . . “Dying! Dying! I tell you I’m dying!”
“Nonsense!” Miss Flitcroft would answer tartly98, jumping up and running around behind Miss Potter’s chair. “You’re no such thing! . . . You’ve only choked yourself on something you have eaten! There!” and she would deliver herself straightway of a resounding99 whack100 upon Miss Potter’s meaty, mottled back (for on these great Friday afternoons, Miss Potter came out sumptuously101 in velvet, which gave ample glimpses of her heavy arms and breasts and the broad thick surface of her shoulders).
“If you didn’t eat so fast these things would never happen!” Miss Flitcroft would say acidly, as she gave Miss Potter another resounding whack on her bare shoulders. “Now you get over this nonsense!” . . . whack! “There’s nothing wrong with you — do you hear?” . . . whack! “You’re frightened half out of your wits,” . . . whack! . . . “just because you’ve tried to stuff everything down your throat at once!” whack! whack!
And by this time Miss Potter would be on the road to recovery, gasping102 and panting more easily now, as she continued to look up with a fixed stare of her bulging103 eyes at Miss Flitcroft, with an expression full of entreaty104, dawning hopefulness, apology, and pitiable gratitude105.
As for Ten Eyck, his pain and embarrassment106 when one of these catastrophes107 occurred were pitiable. He would scramble109 to his feet, stand helplessly, half-crouched111, casting stricken glances toward the most convenient exit as if contemplating112 the possibility of a sudden and inglorious flight. Then he would turn again toward the two old women, his dark eyes fixed on them in a fascinated stare in which anguish113, sympathy, helplessness and horror were all legible.
For several years, in spite of her ill health, Miss Potter had fiddled114 around on the edges of Professor Hatcher’s celebrated course at the university. She had written a play or two herself, took a passionate115 interest in what she called “the work,” was present at the performances of all the plays, and was a charter member of Professor Hatcher’s carefully selected and invited audiences. Now, whether by appointment or self-election, she had come to regard herself as a kind of ambassadress for Professor Hatcher’s work and was the chief sponsor of its social life.
The grotesque good old woman was obsessed116 by that delusion117 which haunts so many wealthy people who have no talent and no understanding, but who are enchanted118 by the glamour119 which they think surrounds the world of art. Miss Potter thought that through these Friday afternoons she could draw together all the talent, charm, and brilliance120 of the whole community. She thought that she could gather here not only Professor Hatcher’s budding dramatists and some older representatives of the established order, but also poets, painters, composers, philosophers, “radical121 thinkers,” people “who did interesting things,” of whatever kind and quality. And she was sure that from his mad mélange everyone would derive34 a profitable and “stimulating122” intercourse123.
Here, from the great “art community” of Cambridge and Boston, came a whole tribe of the feeble, the sterile124, the venomous and inept126 — the meagre little spirits of no talent and of great pretensions127: the people who had once got an essay printed in The Atlantic Monthly or published “a slender volume” of bad verse; the composers who had had one dull academic piece performed a single time by the Boston Symphony; the novelists, playwrights, painters, who had none of the “popular success” at which they sneered128 and which they pretended to despise, but for which each would have sold his shabby little soul; the whole wretched poisonous and embittered129 crew of those who had “taken” someone’s celebrated course, or had spent a summer at the MacDowell Colony — in short, the true philistines130 of art — the true enemies of the artist’s living spirit, the true defilers and betrayers of creation — the impotent fumbling131 little half-men of the arts whose rootless, earthless, sunless lives have grown underneath132 a barrel, and who bitterly nurse their fancied injuries, the swollen image of their misjudged worth, and hiss133 and sting in all the impotent varieties of their small envenomed hate; who deal the stealthy traitor’s blow in darkness at the work and talent of far better men than they.
Usually, when Ten Eyck went to Miss Potter’s house he found several members of Professor Hatcher’s class who seemed to be in regular attendance on all these Friday afternoons. These others may have come for a variety of reasons: because they were bored, curious, or actually enjoyed these affairs, but the strange, horribly shy and sensitive little man who bore the name of Oswald Ten Eyck came from a kind of desperate necessity, the ravenous134 hunger of his meagre half-starved body, and his chance to get his one good dinner of the week.
It was evident that Ten Eyck endured agonies of shyness, boredom135, confusion, and tortured self-consciousness at these gatherings136, but he was always there, and when they sat down at the table he ate with the voracity138 of a famished animal. The visitor to Miss Potter’s reception room would find him, usually backed into an inconspicuous corner away from the full sound and tumult139 of the crowd, nervously holding a tea-cup in his hands, talking to someone in the strange blurted-out desperate fashion that was characteristic of him, or saying nothing for long periods, biting his nails, thrusting his slender hands desperately through his mop of black disordered hair, breaking from time to time into a shrill140, sudden, almost hysterical141 laugh, blurting142 out a few volcanic143 words, and then relapsing into his desperate hair-thrusting silence.
The man’s agony of shyness and tortured nerves was painful to watch: it made him say and do sudden, shocking and explosive things that could suddenly stun144 a gathering137 such as this, and plunge145 him back immediately into a black pit of silence, self-abasement and despair. And as great as his tortured sensitivity was, it was greater for other people than for himself. He could far better endure a personal affront146, a wounding of his own quick pride, than see another person wounded. His anguish, in fact, when he saw this kind of suffering in other people would become so acute that he was no longer responsible for his acts: he was capable of anything on such an occasion.
And such occasions were not lacking at Miss Potter’s Friday afternoons. For even if the entire diplomatic corps50 had gathered there in suavest147 mood, that good grotesque old woman, with her unfailing talent for misrule, would have contrived148 to set every urbane149 minister of grace snarling151 for the other’s blood before an hour had passed. And with that museum collection of freaks, embittered ?sthetes and envenomed misfits of the arts, that did gather there, she never failed. Her genius for confusion and unrest was absolute.
If there were two people in the community who had been destined152 from birth and by every circumstance of education, religious belief, and temperament153, to hate each other with a murderous hatred154 the moment that they met, Miss Potter would see to it instantly that the introduction was effected. If Father Davin, the passionate defender155 of the faith and the foe156 of modernism in all its hated forms, had been invited to one of Miss Potter’s Friday afternoons, he would find himself shaking hands before he knew it with Miss Shanksworth, the militant157 propagandist for free love, sterilization158 of the unfit, and the unlimited159 practice of birth control by every one, especially the lower classes.
If the editor of The Atlantic Monthly should be present, he would find himself, by that unerring drawing together of opposites which Miss Potter exercised with such accuracy, seated next to the person of one Sam Shulemovitch, who as leader and chief editorial writer of an organ known as Red Riot or The Worker’s Dawn, had said frequently and with violence that the sooner The Atlantic Monthly was extinguished, and its writers, subscribers, and editorial staff embalmed160 and put on exhibition in a museum, the better it would be for every one.
If the radical leader who had just served a sentence in prison for his speeches, pamphlets, and physical aggressions against the police, or members of the capitalist class, should come to one of Miss Potter’s Friday afternoons, he would find himself immediately debating the merits of the present system and the need for the swift extinction161 of the wealthy parasite162 with a maiden163 lady from Beacon164 Street who had a parrot, two Persian kittens, and a Pekinese, three maids, a cook, a butler, chauffeur165 and motor car, a place at Marblehead, and several thousand shares of Boston and Maine.
And so it went, all up and down the line, at one of Miss Potter’s Friday afternoons. There, in her house, you could be sure that if the lion and the lamb did not lie down together their hostess would seat then in such close proximity166 to each other that the ensuing slaughter167 would be made as easy, swift, and unadorned as possible.
And as the sound of snarl150 and curse grew louder in the clamorous168 tumult of these Friday afternoons, as the face grew livid with its hate, as the eye began to glitter and the vein169 to swell170 upon the temple, Miss Potter would look about her with triumphant171 satisfaction, seeing that her work was good, thinking with delight:
“How stimulating! How fine it is to see so many interesting people together — people who are really doing things! To see the flash and play of wit, to watch the clash of brilliant intellects, to think of all these fine young men and women have in common, and of the mutual172 benefits they will derive from contact with one another! — ah-ha! What a delightful173 thing to see — but who is this that just came —” she would mutter, peering toward the door, for she was very near-sighted —“who? WHO? — O-oh! Professor Lawes of the Art Department — oh, Professor Lawes, I’m so glad you could come. We have the most INTERESTING young man here today — Mr. Wilder, who painted that picture everyone’s talking about —“Portrait of a Nude174 Falling Upon Her Neck in a Wet Bathroom”— Mr. Wilder, this is Doctor Lawes, the author of Sanity175 and Tradition in the Renaissance176 — I know you’re going to find SO much in common.”
And having done her duty, she would wheeze177 heavily away, looking around with her strange fixed grin and bulging eyes to see if she had left anything or anyone undone178 or whether there was still hope of some new riot, chaos179, brawl180, or bitter argument.
And yet there was a kind of wisdom in her too, that few who came there to her house suspected: a kind of shrewdness in the fixed bulging stare of her old eyes that sometimes saw more than the others knew. Perhaps it was only a kind of instinct of the old woman’s warm humanity that made her speak to the fragile little man with burning eyes more gently than she spoke to others, to seat him on her right hand at the dinner table, and to say from time to time: “Give Mr. Ten Eyck some more of that roast beef. Oh, Mr. Ten Eyck, DO— you’ve hardly eaten anything.”
And he, stretched out upon the rack of pride and all the bitter longing181 of his hunger, would crane convulsively at his collar and laugh with a note of feeble protest, saying, “Well — I don’t know . . . I really think . . . if you want me to. . . . Oh! all right then,” as a plate smoking with her lavish182 helping183 was placed before him, and would straightway fall upon it with the voracity of a famished wolf.
When Ten Eyck reached Miss Potter’s on that final fateful Friday, the other guests were already assembled. Miss Thrall184, a student of the woman’s section of Professor Hatcher’s course, was reading her own translation of a German play which had only recently been produced. Miss Potter’s reception rooms — which were two large gabled rooms on the top floor of her house, ruggedly185 festooned with enormous fishing nets secured from Gloucester fishermen — were crowded with her motley parliament, and the whole gathering was discreetly186 hushed while the woman student read her play.
It was a scene to warm the heart of any veteran of ?sthetic parties. The lights were soft, shaded, quietly and warmly subdued187: the higher parts of the room were pools of mysterious gloom from which the Gloucester fishing nets depended, but within the radius188 of the little lamps, one could see groups of people tastefully arranged in all the attitudes of rapt attentiveness189. Some of the young women slouched dreamily upon sofas, the faces and bodies leaning toward the reader with a yearning190 movement, other groups could be vaguely191 discerned leaning upon the grand piano, or elegantly slumped against the walls with tea-cups in their hands. Mr. Cram110, the old composer, occupied a chosen seat on a fat sofa; he drew voluptuously192 on a moist cigarette which he held daintily between his dirty fingers, his hawk-like face turned meditatively193 away into the subtle mysteries of the fishing nets. From time to time he would thrust one dirty hand through the long sparse194 locks of his grey hair, and then draw deeply, thoughtfully on his cigarette.
Some of the young men were strewn about in pleasing postures195 on the floor, in attitudes of insouciant196 grace, gallantly197 near the ladies’ legs. Ten Eyck entered, looked round like a frightened rabbit, ducked his head, and then sat down jack-knife fashion beside them.
Miss Thrall sat on the sofa with the old composer, facing her audience. The play that she was reading was one of the new German Expressionist dramas, at that time considered one of “the most vital movements in the world theatre,” and the young lady’s translation of the play which bore the vigorous title of You Shall Be Free When You Have Cut Your Father’s Throat, ran somewhat in this manner:
Elektra: (advancing a step to the top of the raised dais, her face blue with a ghastly light, and her voice low and hoarse198 with passion as she addresses the dark mass of men below her.) Listen, man! To you it is now proper that I speak must. Do you by any manner of means know who this woman who now before you speaking stands may be? (With a sudden swift movement she, the purple-reddish silk-stuff of the tunic199 which she wearing is, asunder200 in two pieces rips, her two breasts exposing.)
(A low swiftly-growing-and-to-the-outer-edges-of-the-crowd-thunder-becoming mutter of astonishment201 through the great crowd surges.)
Elektra: (Thunder louder becomes, and even with every moment growing yet) Elektra! (The sound to a mighty202 roar arisen has, and now from every throat is in a single shout torn.) ELEKTRA!
Elektra: (quietly) Ja! Man, thou hast said it. I am Elektra!
The Crowd: (with from their throats an even-stronger roar yet) ELEKTRA. It is Elektra!
Elektra: (her voice even lower and more hoarse becoming, her eyes with the red blood-pains of all her heart-grief with still greater love-sorrow at the man-mass gleaming.) Listen, man. Slaves, workers, the of your fathers’ sons not yet awakened203 — hear! Out of the night-dark of your not yet born souls to deliver you have I come! So, hear! (Her voice even lower with the low blood-pain heart-hate hoarse becoming.) To-night must you your old with-crime-blackened and by-ignorance-blinded father’s throat cut! I have spoken: so must it be.
A voice, Homunculus: (from the crowd, pleadingly, with protest.) Ach! Elektra! Spare us! Please! With the blood-lust malice-blinded your old father’s throat to cut not nice is.
Elektra: (raising her arm with a cold imperious gesture of command.) As I have spoken, must it be! Silence!
(Homunculus starts to interrupt: again she speaks, her voice more loud and stern becoming.) Silence! Silence!
At this moment there was a loud and sibilant hiss from the door. Miss Potter, who had been on the point of entering the room, had been halted by the sight of Miss Thrall’s arm uplifted in command and by the imperious coldness of her voice as she said “Silence!” Now as Miss Thrall stopped and looked up in a startled manner, Miss Potter, still hissing204 loudly, tiptoed ponderously205 into the room. The old woman advanced with the grace of a hydropic hippopotamus206, laying her finger to her lips as she came on, looking all around her with her fixed grin and bulging eyes, and hissing loudly for the silence she had thus violently disrupted every time she laid her finger to her lips.
Every one STARED at her in a moment of blank and horrible fascination208. As for Miss Thrall, she gaped209 at her with an expression of stupefaction which changed suddenly to a cry of alarm as Miss Potter, tiptoeing blindly ahead, barged squarely into the small crouched figure of Oswald Ten Eyck, and went plunging210 over him to fall to her knees with a crash that made the fish-nets dance, the pictures swing, and even drew a sympathetic resonant211 vibration212 from the polished grand piano.
Then, for one never-to-beforgotten moment, while everyone STARED at her in a frozen paralysis of horrified213 astonishment, Miss Potter stayed there on her knees, too stunned214 to move or breathe, her eyes bulging from her head, her face turned blindly upward in an attitude of grotesque devotion. Then as she began to gasp and cough with terror, Ten Eyck came to life. He fairly bounded off the floor, glanced round him like a startled cat, and spying a pitcher215 on a tray, rushed toward it wildly, seized it in his trembling hands, and attempted to pour a glass of water, most of which spilled out. He turned, still clutching the glass in his hand, and panting out “Here! Here! . . . Take this!” he rushed toward Miss Potter. Then, terrified by her apoplectic216 stare, he dashed the contents of the glass full in her face.
A half-dozen young men sprang to her assistance and lifted her to her feet. The play was forgotten, the whole gathering broke into excited and clamorous talk, above which could be heard Miss Flitcroft’s tart16 voice, saying sharply, as she whacked217 the frightened and dripping old woman on the back:
“Nonsense! You’re not! You’re no such thing! . . . You’re just frightened out of your wits; that’s all that’s the matter with you — If you ever stopped to look where you were going, these things would never happen!”
Whack!
Both Oswald and Miss Potter had recovered by the time the guests were assembled round the table. As usual, Oswald found he had been seated on Miss Potter’s right hand: and the feeling of security this gave him, together with the maddening fragrance218 of food, the sense of ravenous hunger about to be appeased219, filled him with an almost delirious220 joy, a desire to shout out, to sing. Instead, he stood nervously beside his chair, looking about with a shy and timid smile, passing his fingers through his hair repeatedly, waiting for the other guests to seat themselves. Gallantly, he stood behind Miss Potter’s chair, and pushed it under her as she sat down. Then, with a feeling of jubilant elation221, he sat down beside her and drew his chair up. He wanted to talk, to prove himself a brilliant conversationalist, to surprise the whole gathering with his wit, his penetration222, his distinguished ease. Above all, he wanted to eat and eat and eat! His head felt light and drunk and giddy, but gloriously so — he had never been so superbly confident in his life. And in this mood, he unfolded his napkin, and smiling brightly, turned to dazzle his neighbour on his right with the brilliant effervescence of wit that already seemed to sparkle on his lips. One look, and the bright smile faded, wit and confidence fell dead together, his heart shrank instantly and seemed to drop out of his very body like a rotten apple. Miss Potter had not failed. Her unerring genius for calamity223 had held out to the finish. He found himself staring into the poisonous face of the one person in Cambridge that he hated most — the repulsive224 visage of the old composer, Cram.
An old long face, yellowed with malevolence225, a sudden fox-glint of small eyes steeped in a vitriol of ageless hate, a beak226 of cruel nose, and thin lips stained and hardened in a rust55 of venom125, the whole craftily227, slantingly astare between a dirty frame of sparse lank207 locks. Cackling with malignant228 glee, and cramming229 crusty bread into his mouth, the old composer turned and spoke:
“Heh! Heh! Heh!”— Crunch230, crunch —“It’s MISTER Ten Eyck, isn’t it? The man who wrote that play Professor Hatcher put on at his last performance — that mystical fantasy kind of thing. That was YOUR play, wasn’t it?”
The old yellow face came closer, and he snarled231 in a kind of gloating and vindictive232 whisper: “Most of the audience HATED it! They thought it very BAD, sir — very bad!” Crunch, crunch. “I am only telling you because I think you ought to know — that you may profit by the criticism.”
And Ten Eyck, hunger gone now, shrank back as if a thin poisoned blade had been driven in his heart and twisted there. “I— I— I thought some of them rather liked it. Of course I don’t know — I can’t say —” he faltered233 hesitantly, “but I— I really thought some of the audience — liked it.”
“Well, they DIDN’T,” the composer snarled, still crunching234 on his crust of bread. “Everyone that I saw thought that it was terrible. Heh! Heh! Heh! Heh! Except my wife and I—” Crunch, crunch. “We were the only ones who thought that it was any good at all, the only ones who thought there would ever be any HOPE for you. And we found parts of it — a phrase or sentence here and there — now and then a scene — that we LIKED. As for the rest of them,” he suddenly made a horrible downward gesture with a clenched235 fist and pointing thumb, “it was THUMBS DOWN, my boy! Done for! No good. . . . That’s what they thought of YOU, my boy. And that,” he snarled suddenly, glaring round him, “THAT is what they’ve thought of ME all these years — of ME, the greatest composer that they have, the man who has done more for the cause of American music than all the rest of them combined — ME! ME! ME! the prophet and the seer!” he fairly screamed, “THUMBS DOWN! Done for! No good any more!”
Then he grew suddenly quiet, and leaning toward Ten Eyck with a gesture of horrible clutching intimacy236, he whispered: “And THAT’S what they’ll always think of you, my boy — of anyone who has a grain of talent — Heh! Heh! Heh! Heh!” Peering into Ten Eyck’s white face, he shook him gently by the arm, and cackled softly a malevolent237 tenderness, as if the evidence of the anguish that his words had caused had given him a kind of paternal238 affection for his victim. “That’s what they said about your play, all right, but don’t take it too seriously. It’s live and learn, my boy, isn’t it? — profit by criticism — a few hard knocks will do you no harm. Heh! Heh! Heh! Heh! Heh!”
And turning, satisfied with the anguish he had caused, he thrust out his yellowed face with a vulture’s movement of his scrawny neck, and smacking239 his envenomed lips with relish, drew noisily inward with slobbering suction on a spoon of soup.
As for Ten Eyck, all hunger now destroyed by his sick shame and horror and despair, he turned, began to toy nervously with his food, and forcing his pale lips to a trembling and uncertain smile, tried desperately to compel his brain to pay attention to something that was being said by the man across the table who was the guest of honour for the day, and whose name was Hunt.
Hunt had been well known for his belligerent240 pacifism during the war, had been beaten by the police and put in jail more times than he could count, and now that he was temporarily out of jail, he was carrying on his assault against organized society with more ferocity than ever. He was a man of undoubted courage and deep sincerity241, but the suffering he had endured, and the brutal242 intolerance of which he had been the victim, had left its mutilating mark upon his life. His face was somehow like a scar, and his cut, cruel-looking mouth could twist like a snake to the corner of his face when he talked. And his voice was harsh and jeering243, brutally244 dominant245 and intolerant, when he spoke to anyone, particularly if the one he spoke to didn’t share his opinions.
On this occasion, Miss Potter, with her infallible talent for error, had seated next to Hunt a young Belgian student at the university, who had little English, but a profound devotion to the Roman Catholic Church. Within five minutes, the two were embroiled246 in a bitter argument, the Belgian courteous247, but desperately resolved to defend his faith, and because of his almost incoherent English as helpless as a lamb before the attack of Hunt, who went for him with the rending and pitiless savagery248 of a tiger. It was a painful thing to watch: the young man, courteous and soft-spoken, his face flushed with embarrassment and pain, badly wounded by the naked brutality249 of the other man’s assault.
As Ten Eyck listened, his spirit began to emerge from the blanket of shame and sick despair that had covered it, a spark of anger and resentment250, hot and bright, began to glow, to burn, to spread. His large dark eyes were shining now with a deeper, fiercer light than they had had before, and on his pale cheeks there was a flush of angry colour. And now he no longer had to force himself to listen to what Hunt was saying: anger had fanned his energy and his interest to a burning flame; he listened tensely, his ears seemed almost to prick251 forward on his head, from time to time he dug his fork viciously into the table-cloth. Once or twice, it seemed that he would interrupt. He cleared his throat, bent forward, nervously clutching the table with his claw-like hands, but each time ended up thrusting his fingers through his mop of hair, and gulping252 down a glass of wine.
As Hunt talked, his voice grew so loud in its rasping arrogance253 that everyone at the table had to stop and listen, which was what he most desired. And there was no advantage, however unjust, which the man did not take in this bitter argument with the young Belgian. He spoke jeeringly254 of the fat priests of the old corrupt255 Church, fattening256 themselves on the blood and life of the oppressed workers; he spoke of the bigotry257, oppression, and superstition258 of religion, and of the necessity for the workers to destroy this monster which was devouring259 them. And when the young Belgian, in his faltering260 and painful English, would try to reply to these charges, Hunt would catch him up on his use of words, pretend to be puzzled at his pronunciation, and bully261 him brutally in this manner:
“You think WHAT? . . . WHAT? . . . I don’t understand what you’re saying half the time. . . . It’s very difficult to talk to a man who can’t speak decent English.”
“I— vas — say — ink,” the young Belgian would answer slowly and painfully, his face flushed with embarrassment —"— vas — say — ink — zat — I sink — zat you — ex-ack — sher — ate —”
“That I WHAT? — WHAT? What is he trying to say, anyway?” demanded Hunt, brutally, looking around the table as if hoping to receive interpretation262 from the other guests. “Oh-h!” he cried suddenly, as if the Belgian’s meaning had just dawned on him. “EXAGGERATE! That’s the word you’re trying to say!” and he laughed in an ugly manner.
Oswald Ten Eyck had stopped eating and turned white as a sheet. Now he sat there, looking across in an agony of tortured sympathy at the young Belgian, biting his nails nervously, and thrusting his hands through his hair in a distracted manner. The resentment and anger that he had felt at first had now burned to a white-heat of choking, murderous rage. The little man was taken out of himself entirely263. Suddenly his sense of personal wrong, the humiliation264 and pain he had himself endured, was fused with a white-hot anger of resentment for every injustice265 and wrong that had ever been done to the wounded soul of man. United by that agony to a kind of savage fellowship with the young Belgian, with the insulted and the injured of the earth, of whatsoever266 class or creed267, that burning coal of five feet five flamed in one withering268 blaze of wrath269, and hurled270 the challenge of its scorn at the oppressor.
The thing happened like a flash. At the close of one of Hunt’s jeering tirades271, Ten Eyck jumped from his chair, and leaning half across the table, cried out in a high shrill voice that cut into the silence like a knife:
“Hunt! You are a swine, and everyone who ever had anything to do with you is likewise a swine!” For a moment he paused, breathing hard, clutching his napkin in a bony hand. Slowly his feverish eyes went round the table, and suddenly, seeing the malevolent stare of the old composer Cram fixed upon him, he hurled the wadded napkin down and pointing a trembling finger at that hated face, he screamed: “And that goes for you as well, you old bastard272! . . . It goes for all the rest of you,” he shrieked, gesturing wildly. “Hunt . . . Cram! CRAM! . . . God!” he cried, shaking with laughter. “THERE’S a name for you! . . . It’s perfect. . . . Yes, you! You swine!” he yelled again, thrusting his finger at Cram’s yellowed face so violently that the composer scrambled273 back with a startled yelp274. “And all the rest of you!” he pointed275 towards Miss Thrall —“You — the Expressionist!” And he paused, racked terribly again by soundless laughter —“The Greeks — the Russians — Oh how we love in Spain! — and fantasy — why, Goddam my soul to hell, but it’s delightful!” he fairly screamed, and then pointing a trembling finger at several in succession he yelled: “You? — And you? — And you? — What the hell do you know about anything? . . . Ibsen — Chekov — the Celtic Dawn — BOSH!” he snarled, “Food! Food! Food! — you Goddam fools! . . . That’s all that matters.” He picked up a morsel276 of his untouched bread and hurled it savagely277 upon the table —“Food! Food! — Ask Cram — he knows. . . . Now,” he said, panting for breath and pointing a trembling finger at Miss Potter —“Now,” he panted, “I want to tell YOU something.”
“Oh . . . Mr. . . . Ten . . . Eyck,” the old woman faltered in a tone of astonished reproach, “I . . . never . . . believed it possible . . . you could —”
Her voice trailed off helplessly, and she looked at him. And Ten Eyck, suddenly brought to himself by the bulging stare of that good old creature fixed on him with wounded disbelief, suddenly laughed again, shrilly278 and hysterically279, thrust his fingers through his hair, looked about him at the other people whose eyes were fixed on him in a stare of focal horror, and said in a confused, uncertain tone: “Well, I don’t know — I’m always — I guess I said something that — oh, damn it, what’s the use?” and with a desperate, stricken laugh, he slumped suddenly into his chair, craned convulsively at his collar, and seizing a decanter before him poured out a glass of wine with trembling haste and gulped280 it down.
Meanwhile, all around the table people began to talk with that kind of feverish eagerness that follows a catastrophe108 of this sort, and Hunt resumed his arguments, but this time in a much quieter tone and with a kind of jeering courtesy, accompanying his remarks from time to time with a heavy sarcasm281 directed toward Ten Eyck —“If I may say so — since, of course, Mr. Ten Eyck considers me a swine”— or —“if you will pardon such a remark from a swine like me”— or — “as Mr. Ten Eyck has told you I am nothing but a swine,” and so on.
The upshot of it was that Ten Eyck gulped down glass after glass of the strong wine, which raced instantly through his frail starved body like a flame.
He got disgracefully drunk, sang snatches of bawdy282 songs, screamed with maudlin283 laughter, and began to pound enthusiastically on the table, shaking his head to himself and shouting from time to time:
“You’re right, Hunt! . . . God-damn it, man, you’re right! . . . Go on! . . . Go on! I agree with you! You’re right! Everybody else is wrong but Hunt and Cram! . . . Words by Hunt, music by Cram . . . no one’s right but Hunt and Cram!”
They tried to quiet him, but in vain. Suddenly Miss Potter began to cough and choke and gasp, pressed both hands over her heart, and gasped284 out in a terror-stricken voice:
“Oh, my God, I’m dying!”
Miss Flitcroft jumped to her feet and came running to her friend’s assistance, and then while Miss Flitcroft pounded the old woman on her back and the guests scrambled up in a general disruption of the party, Oswald Ten Eyck staggered to the window, flung it open, and looking out across one of the bleak286 snow-covered squares of Cambridge, screamed at the top of his voice:
“Relentless287! . . . Relentless! . . . Juh sweez un art-e-e-este!” Here he beat on his little breast with a claw-like hand and yelled with drunken laughter, “And, Goddamn it, I will always be relentless . . . relentless . . . relentless!”
The cool air braced288 him with its cleansing289 shock: for a moment, the fog of shame and drunkenness shifted in his brain, he felt a vacancy290 of cold horror at his back, and turning suddenly found himself confronted by the frozen circle of their faces, fixed on him. And even in that instant glimpse of utter ruin, as the knowledge of this final catastrophe was printed on his brain, over the rim12 of frozen faces he saw the dial-hands of a clock. The time was seven-fifty-two: he knew there was a train at midnight for New York — and work, food, freedom, and forgetfulness. He would have four hours to go home and pack: if he hurried he could make it.
Little was heard of him thereafter. It was rumoured291 that he had gone back to his former lucrative292 employment with Mr. Hearst: and Professor Hatcher smiled thinly when he heard the news; the young men looked at one another with quiet smiles.
And yet he could not wholly be forgotten: occasionally someone mentioned him.
“A strange case, wasn’t it?” said Mr. Grey. “Do you remember how he looked? Like . . . like . . . really, he was like some medi?val ascetic293. I thought he had something. I thought he would do something . . . I really did, you know! And then — heavens! — that last play!” He tossed his cigarette away with a movement of dismissal. “A strange case,” he said with quiet finality. “A man who looked as if he had it and who turned out — all belly and no brain.”
There was silence for a moment while the young men smoked.
“I wonder what it was,” another said thoughtfully at length. “What happened to him? I wonder why.”
There was no one there who knew the answer. The only one on earth, perhaps, who could have given it was that curious old spinster named Miss Potter. For blind to many things that all these clever young men knew, that good grotesque old empress of confusion still had a wisdom that none of them suspected. But Miss Potter was no longer there to tell them, even if she could. She had died that spring.
Later it seemed to Gene285 that the cold and wintry light of desolation — the red waning light of Friday in the month of March — shone for ever on the lives of all the people. And for ever after, when he thought of them, their lives, their faces and their words — all that he had seen and known of them — would be fused into a hopeless, joyless image which was somehow consonant294 to that accursed wintry light that shone upon it. And this was the image:
He was standing upon the black and grimy snow of winter before Miss Potter’s house, saying good-bye to a group of her invited guests. The last red wintry light of Friday afternoon fell on their lives and faces as he talked to them, and made them hateful to him, and yet he searched those faces and talked desperately to see if he could find there any warmth or love or joy, any ring of hope for himself which would tell him that his sick heart and leaden spirit would awake to life and strength again, that he would get his hands again on life and love and labour, and that April would come back again.
But he found nothing in these cold and hateful faces but the lights of desolation, the deadly and corrupt joy that took delight in its own death, and breathed, without any of the agony and despair he felt, the poisonous ethers of its own dead world. In those cold hateful faces as that desolate295 and wintry light fell on them he could find no hope for his own life or the life of living men. Rather, he read in their pale faces, and in their rootless and unwholesome lives, which had come to have for him the wilted296 yellow pallor of nameless and unuseful plants such as flourish under barrels, a kind of cold malicious297 triumph, a momentary298 gleam in pale fox-eyes, which said that they looked upon his desperate life and knew the cause of his despair, and felt a bitter triumph over it. The look on their cold faces and in their fox-eyes said to him that there was no hope, no work, no joy, no triumph, and no love for such as he, that there could be nothing but defeat, despair and failure for the living of this world, that life had been devoured299 and killed by such as these, and had become rats’ alley300, death-inlife for ever.
And yet he searched their hated faces desperately in that cold red light, he sought frantically301 in their loathed302 faces for a ray of hope, and in his drowning desolation shameful303 words were wrenched304 from him against his will — words of entreaty, pleading, pitiful begging for an alms of mercy, a beggarly scrap73 of encouragement, even a word of kindly305 judgment on his life, from these cold and hateful faces that he loathed.
“But my work — this last work that I did — don’t you think — didn’t it seem to you that there was something good in it — not much, perhaps, but just enough to give me hope? . . . Don’t you think if I go on I may do something good some day — for God’s sake, tell me if you do? — or must I die here in this barren and accursed light of Friday afternoon, must I drown and smother306 in this poisonous and lifeless air, wither89 in this rootless, yellow, barren earth below the barrel, die like a mad dog howling in the wilderness307, with the damned, cold, hateful sneer of your impotent lives upon me?
“Tell me, in God’s name, man, is there no life on earth for such as I? Has the world been stripped for such as you? Have all joy, hope, health, sensual love, and warmth and tenderness gone out of life — are living men the false men, then, and is all truth and work and wisdom owned by rats’ alley and the living dead such as yourself? — For God’s sake, tell me if there is no hope for me! Let me have the worst, the worst, I beg of you. Is there nothing for me now but the grey gut308, the sick heart, and the leaden spirit? Is there nothing now but Friday afternoon in March, Miss Potter’s parties, and your damned poisonous, sterile, cold, life-hating faces? For God’s sake tell me now if I am no good, am false while you, the living dead, are true — and had better cut my throat or blow my brains out than stay on longer in this world of truth, where joy is dead, and only the barren rootless lives of dead men live! — In God’s name, tell me now, if this is true — or do you find a rag of hope for me?”
“Ah,” the old composer Cram would answer, arranging the folds of his dirty scarf, and peering out malevolently309 underneath his sparse lank webs of dirty grey, as the red and wintry light fell hopelessly on his poisonous old face. “— Ah-h,” he rasped bitterly, “— my wife and I liked some things in that play of yours that Professor Hatcher put on in his Playshop. . . . My wife and I liked one or two speeches in that play,” he rasped, “but”— for a moment a fox’s glittering of malevolent triumph shone in his eyes as he drove the fine blade home “— no one else did! — No one else thought it was any good at all!” he cackled malevolently. “I heard people saying all around me that they HATED it,” he gloated, “— that you had no talent, no ability to write, and had better go back where you came from — live some other kind of life — or KILL yourself,” he gloated —“That’s the way it is, my boy! — Nothing but defeat and misery310 and despair for such as you in life! . . . That has been my lot, too,” he cackled vindictively311, rubbing his dry hands in glee. “They’ve always hated what I did — if I ever did anything good I was lucky if I found two people who liked it. The rest of them HATED it,” he whispered wildly. “There’s no hope for you — so DIE, DIE, DIE,” he whispered, and cackling with malevolent triumph, he rubbed his dry hands gleefully.
“Meeker312, for God’s sake,” the boy cried, turning to the elegant figure of the clergyman, who would be carefully arranging around his damned luxurious313 neck the rich folds of a silk blue scarf — “Meeker, do you feel this way about it, too? . . . Is that your opinion? . . . Do you find nothing good in what I do?”
—“You see, old chap, it’s this way,” Meeker answered, in his soft voice, and drew with languor314 on one of his expensive straw-tipped cigarettes —“You have lots of ability, I am sure”— here he paused to inhale315 meditatively again —“but don’t you think, old boy, it’s critical rather than creative? — now with Jim here it’s different,” he continued, placing one hand affectionately on Hogan’s narrow shoulders —“Jim here’s a great genius — like Shelley — with a great gift waiting for the world”— Here Hogan lowered his pale weak face with a simpering smile of modesty316, but not before the boy had seen the fox’s glitter of vindictive triumph in his pale dull eyes —“but you have nothing of that sort to give. Why don’t you try to make the best of what you have?” he said with hateful sympathetic urbanity and put the cigarette to elegant and reflective lips again.
“Hogan,” the boy cried hoarsely317, turning to the poet,”— is that your answer, too? Have you no word of hope for me? — but no, you damned, snivelling, whining318 upstart — you are gloating at your rotten little triumph, aren’t you? I’d get nothing out of you, would I?”
“Come on, Jim,” said Meeker quietly. “He’s becoming abusive. . . . The kind of attack you make is simply stupid,” he now said. “It will get you nowhere.”
“And so raucous319 — so raucous,” said Hogan, smirking320 nervously. “It means nothing.”
And the three hated forms of death would go away then rapidly, snickering among themselves, and he would turn again, filled with the death of life, the end of joy, again, again, to prowl the wintry, barren, and accursed streets of Friday night.
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收听单词发音
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1
enroll
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| v.招收；登记；入学；参军；成为会员（英)enrol | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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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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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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playwright
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| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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tart
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| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
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17
promisingly
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| （通常只是开头）给人以希望地，良好地 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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flipped
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| 轻弹( flip的过去式和过去分词 )； 按（开关）； 快速翻转； 急挥 | |
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monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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27
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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rape
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| n.抢夺，掠夺，强奸；vt.掠夺，抢夺，强奸 | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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accolade
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| n.推崇备至，赞扬 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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derived
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| 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 | |
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derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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abeyance
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| n.搁置，缓办，中止，产权未定 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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40
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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41
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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42
ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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43
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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44
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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45
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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46
kaleidoscopic
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| adj.千变万化的 | |
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47
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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48
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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49
rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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50
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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51
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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52
famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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53
gluttons
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| 贪食者( glutton的名词复数 )； 贪图者； 酷爱…的人； 狼獾 | |
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54
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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55
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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56
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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57
cadenced
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| adj.音调整齐的，有节奏的 | |
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58
stertorous
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| adj.打鼾的 | |
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59
augury
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| n.预言，征兆，占卦 | |
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60
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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61
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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62
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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63
dangle
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| v.(使)悬荡，(使)悬垂 | |
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64
patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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65
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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66
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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67
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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68
spinach
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| n.菠菜 | |
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69
fraying
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| v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的现在分词 ) | |
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70
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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71
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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72
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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73
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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74
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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76
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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77
slumped
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| 大幅度下降，暴跌( slump的过去式和过去分词 )； 沉重或突然地落下[倒下] | |
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78
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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79
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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80
dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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81
hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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82
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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83
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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84
wheezing
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的现在分词 )；哮鸣 | |
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85
bulged
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| 凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 )； 充满； 塞满（某物） | |
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86
bulge
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| n.突出，膨胀，激增；vt.突出，膨胀 | |
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87
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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88
wren
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| n.鹪鹩；英国皇家海军女子服务队成员 | |
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89
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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90
withered
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|
| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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91
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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92
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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93
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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94
rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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95
playwrights
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| n.剧作家( playwright的名词复数 ) | |
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96
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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97
croak
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| vi.嘎嘎叫，发牢骚 | |
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98
tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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99
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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100
whack
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| v.敲击，重打，瓜分；n.重击，重打，尝试，一份 | |
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101
sumptuously
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| 奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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102
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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103
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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104
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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105
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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106
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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107
catastrophes
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| n.灾祸( catastrophe的名词复数 )；灾难；不幸事件；困难 | |
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108
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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109
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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110
cram
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| v.填塞，塞满，临时抱佛脚，为考试而学习 | |
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111
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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113
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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114
fiddled
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| v.伪造( fiddle的过去式和过去分词 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
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115
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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116
obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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117
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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118
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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119
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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120
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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121
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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122
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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123
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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124
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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125
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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126
inept
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| adj.不恰当的，荒谬的，拙劣的 | |
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127
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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128
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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130
philistines
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| n.市侩，庸人( philistine的名词复数 )；庸夫俗子 | |
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131
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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132
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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133
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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134
ravenous
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| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
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135
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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136
gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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137
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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138
voracity
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| n.贪食，贪婪 | |
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139
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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140
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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141
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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142
blurting
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的现在分词 ) | |
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143
volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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144
stun
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| vt.打昏，使昏迷，使震惊，使惊叹 | |
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145
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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146
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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147
suavest
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| adj.平滑的( suave的最高级 )；有礼貌的；老于世故的 | |
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148
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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149
urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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150
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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151
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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152
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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153
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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154
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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155
defender
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| n.保卫者，拥护者，辩护人 | |
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156
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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157
militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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158
sterilization
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| n.杀菌，绝育；灭菌 | |
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159
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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160
embalmed
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| adj.用防腐药物保存（尸体）的v.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的过去式和过去分词 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气 | |
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161
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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162
parasite
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| n.寄生虫；寄生菌；食客 | |
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163
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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164
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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165
chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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166
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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167
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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168
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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169
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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170
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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171
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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172
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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173
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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174
nude
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| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
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175
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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176
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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177
wheeze
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| n.喘息声，气喘声；v.喘息着说 | |
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178
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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179
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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180
brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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181
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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182
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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183
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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184
thrall
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| n.奴隶；奴隶制 | |
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185
ruggedly
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| 险峻地； 粗暴地； （面容）多皱纹地； 粗线条地 | |
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186
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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187
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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188
radius
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| n.半径，半径范围；有效航程，范围，界限 | |
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189
attentiveness
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| [医]注意 | |
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190
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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191
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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192
voluptuously
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| adv.风骚地，体态丰满地 | |
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193
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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194
sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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195
postures
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| 姿势( posture的名词复数 )； 看法； 态度； 立场 | |
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196
insouciant
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| adj.不在意的 | |
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197
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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198
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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199
tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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200
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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201
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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202
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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203
awakened
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|
| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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204
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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205
ponderously
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206
hippopotamus
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| n.河马 | |
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207
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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208
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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209
gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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210
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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211
resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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212
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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213
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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214
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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215
pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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216
apoplectic
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| adj.中风的；愤怒的；n.中风患者 | |
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217
whacked
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| a.精疲力尽的 | |
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218
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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219
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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220
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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221
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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222
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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223
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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224
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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225
malevolence
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| n.恶意，狠毒 | |
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226
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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227
craftily
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| 狡猾地，狡诈地 | |
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228
malignant
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|
| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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229
cramming
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|
| n.塞满，填鸭式的用功v.塞入( cram的现在分词 )；填塞；塞满；（为考试而）死记硬背功课 | |
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230
crunch
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| n.关键时刻；艰难局面；v.发出碎裂声 | |
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231
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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232
vindictive
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|
| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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233
faltered
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|
| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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234
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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235
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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236
intimacy
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|
| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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237
malevolent
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|
| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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238
paternal
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|
| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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239
smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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240
belligerent
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|
| adj.好战的，挑起战争的；n.交战国，交战者 | |
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241
sincerity
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|
| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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242
brutal
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|
| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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243
jeering
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|
| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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244
brutally
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|
| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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245
dominant
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|
| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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246
embroiled
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|
| adj.卷入的；纠缠不清的 | |
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247
courteous
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|
| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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248
savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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249
brutality
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|
| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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250
resentment
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|
| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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251
prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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252
gulping
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|
| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的现在分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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253
arrogance
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|
| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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254
jeeringly
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|
| adv.嘲弄地 | |
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255
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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256
fattening
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|
| adj.（食物）要使人发胖的v.喂肥( fatten的现在分词 )；养肥（牲畜）；使（钱）增多；使（公司）升值 | |
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257
bigotry
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|
| n.偏见，偏执，持偏见的行为[态度]等 | |
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258
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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259
devouring
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|
| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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260
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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261
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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262
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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263
entirely
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|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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264
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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265
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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266
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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267
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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268
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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269
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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270
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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271
tirades
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| 激烈的长篇指责或演说( tirade的名词复数 ) | |
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272
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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273
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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274
yelp
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| vi.狗吠 | |
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275
pointed
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|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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276
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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277
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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278
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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279
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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280
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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281
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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282
bawdy
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|
| adj.淫猥的，下流的；n.粗话 | |
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283
maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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284
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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285
gene
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| n.遗传因子，基因 | |
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286
bleak
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|
| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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287
relentless
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|
| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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288
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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289
cleansing
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|
| n. 净化(垃圾) adj. 清洁用的 动词cleanse的现在分词 | |
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290
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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291
rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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292
lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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293
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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294
consonant
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| n.辅音；adj.[音]符合的 | |
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295
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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296
wilted
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|
| （使）凋谢，枯萎( wilt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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297
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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298
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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299
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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300
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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301
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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302
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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303
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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304
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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305
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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306
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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307
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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308
gut
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| n.[pl.]胆量；内脏；adj.本能的；vt.取出内脏 | |
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309
malevolently
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310
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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311
vindictively
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| adv.恶毒地；报复地 | |
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312
meeker
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| adj.温顺的，驯服的( meek的比较级 ) | |
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313
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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314
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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315
inhale
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| v.吸入(气体等)，吸(烟) | |
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316
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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317
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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318
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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319
raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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320
smirking
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| v.傻笑( smirk的现在分词 ) | |
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