The Arethusa was unwisely dressed. He is no precisian in attire6; but by all accounts, he was never so ill-inspired as on that tramp; having set forth7 indeed, upon a moment’s notice, from the most unfashionable spot in Europe, Barbizon. On his head he wore a smoking-cap of Indian work, the gold lace pitifully frayed8 and tarnished9. A flannel10 shirt of an agreeable dark hue11, which the satirical called black; a light tweed coat made by a good English tailor; ready-made cheap linen12 trousers and leathern gaiters completed his array. In person, he is exceptionally lean; and his face is not, like those of happier mortals, a certificate. For years he could not pass a frontier or visit a bank without suspicion; the police everywhere, but in his native city, looked askance upon him; and (though I am sure it will not be credited) he is actually denied admittance to the casino of Monte Carlo. If you will imagine him, dressed as above, stooping under his knapsack, walking nearly five miles an hour with the folds of the ready-made trousers fluttering about his spindle shanks, and still looking eagerly round him as if in terror of pursuit—the figure, when realised, is far from reassuring13. When Villon journeyed (perhaps by the same pleasant valley) to his exile at Roussillon, I wonder if he had not something of the same appearance. Something of the same preoccupation he had beyond a doubt, for he too must have tinkered verses as he walked, with more success than his successor. And if he had anything like the same inspiring weather, the same nights of uproar14, men in armour15 rolling and resounding16 down the stairs of heaven, the rain hissing17 on the village streets, the wild bull’s-eye of the storm flashing all night long into the bare inn-chamber—the same sweet return of day, the same unfathomable blue of noon, the same high-coloured, halcyon18 eves—and above all, if he had anything like as good a comrade, anything like as keen a relish19 for what he saw, and what he ate, and the rivers that he bathed in, and the rubbish that he wrote, I would exchange estates to-day with the poor exile, and count myself a gainer.
But there was another point of similarity between the two journeys, for which the Arethusa was to pay dear: both were gone upon in days of incomplete security. It was not long after the Franco-Prussian war. Swiftly as men forget, that country-side was still alive with tales of uhlans, and outlying sentries20, and hairbreadth ’scapes from the ignominious21 cord, and pleasant momentary22 friendships between invader23 and invaded. A year, at the most two years later, you might have tramped all that country over and not heard one anecdote24. And a year or two later, you would—if you were a rather ill-looking young man in nondescript array—have gone your rounds in greater safety; for along with more interesting matter, the Prussian spy would have somewhat faded from men’s imaginations.
For all that, our voyager had got beyond Château Renard before he was conscious of arousing wonder. On the road between that place and Châtillon-sur-Loing, however, he encountered a rural postman; they fell together in talk, and spoke25 of a variety of subjects; but through one and all, the postman was still visibly preoccupied26, and his eyes were faithful to the Arethusa’s knapsack. At last, with mysterious roguishness, he inquired what it contained, and on being answered, shook his head with kindly27 incredulity. “Non,” said he, “non, vous avez des portraits.” And then with a languishing28 appeal, “Voyons, show me the portraits!” It was some little while before the Arethusa, with a shout of laughter, recognised his drift. By portraits he meant indecent photographs; and in the Arethusa, an austere29 and rising author, he thought to have identified a pornographic colporteur. When countryfolk in France have made up their minds as to a person’s calling, argument is fruitless. Along all the rest of the way, the postman piped and fluted30 meltingly to get a sight of the collection; now he would upbraid31, now he would reason—“Voyons, I will tell nobody”; then he tried corruption32, and insisted on paying for a glass of wine; and, at last when their ways separated—“Non,” said he, “ce n’est pas bien de votre part. O non, ce n’est pas bien.” And shaking his head with quite a sentimental33 sense of injury, he departed unrefreshed.
On certain little difficulties encountered by the Arethusa at Châtillon-sur-Loing, I have not space to dwell; another Châtillon, of grislier memory, looms34 too near at hand. But the next day, in a certain hamlet called La Jussiére, he stopped to drink a glass of syrup35 in a very poor, bare drinking shop. The hostess, a comely36 woman, suckling a child, examined the traveller with kindly and pitying eyes. “You are not of this department?” she asked. The Arethusa told her he was English. “Ah!” she said, surprised. “We have no English. We have many Italians, however, and they do very well; they do not complain of the people of hereabouts. An Englishman may do very well also; it will be something new.” Here was a dark saying, over which the Arethusa pondered as he drank his grenadine; but when he rose and asked what was to pay, the light came upon him in a flash. “O, pour vous,” replied the landlady37, “a halfpenny!” Pour vous? By heaven, she took him for a beggar! He paid his halfpenny, feeling that it were ungracious to correct her. But when he was forth again upon the road, he became vexed38 in spirit. The conscience is no gentleman, he is a rabbinical fellow; and his conscience told him he had stolen the syrup.
That night the travellers slept in Gien; the next day they passed the river and set forth (severally, as their custom was) on a short stage through the green plain upon the Berry side, to Châtillon-sur-Loire. It was the first day of the shooting; and the air rang with the report of firearms and the admiring cries of sportsmen. Overhead the birds were in consternation39, wheeling in clouds, settling and re-arising. And yet with all this bustle40 on either hand, the road itself lay solitary. The Arethusa smoked a pipe beside a milestone41, and I remember he laid down very exactly all he was to do at Châtillon: how he was to enjoy a cold plunge42, to change his shirt, and to await the Cigarette’s arrival, in sublime43 inaction, by the margin44 of the Loire. Fired by these ideas, he pushed the more rapidly forward, and came, early in the afternoon and in a breathing heat, to the entering-in of that ill-fated town. Childe Roland to the dark tower came.
“Monsieur est voyageur?” he asked.
And the Arethusa, strong in his innocence46, forgetful of his vile47 attire, replied—I had almost said with gaiety: “So it would appear.”
“His papers are in order?” said the gendarme. And when the Arethusa, with a slight change of voice, admitted he had none, he was informed (politely enough) that he must appear before the Commissary.
The Commissary sat at a table in his bedroom, stripped to the shirt and trousers, but still copiously48 perspiring49; and when he turned upon the prisoner a large meaningless countenance50, that was (like Bardolph’s) “all whelks and bubuckles,” the dullest might have been prepared for grief. Here was a stupid man, sleepy with the heat and fretful at the interruption, whom neither appeal nor argument could reach.
The Commissary. You have no papers?
The Arethusa. Not here.
The Commissary. Why?
The Arethusa. I have left them behind in my valise.
The Commissary. You know, however, that it is forbidden to circulate without papers?
The Arethusa. Pardon me: I am convinced of the contrary. I am here on my rights as an English subject by international treaty.
The Commissary (with scorn). You call yourself an Englishman?
The Arethusa. I do.
The Commissary. Humph.—What is your trade?
The Commissary (with singular annoyance). A Scotch advocate! Do you then pretend to support yourself by that in this department?
The Commissary. Why, then, do you travel?
The Arethusa. I travel for pleasure.
The Commissary (pointing to the knapsack, and with sublime incredulity). Avec ça? Voyez-vous, je suis un homme intelligent! (With that? Look here, I am a person of intelligence!)
The culprit remaining silent under this home thrust, the Commissary relished54 his triumph for a while, and then demanded (like the postman, but with what different expectations!) to see the contents of the knapsack. And here the Arethusa, not yet sufficiently55 awake to his position, fell into a grave mistake. There was little or no furniture in the room except the Commissary’s chair and table; and to facilitate matters, the Arethusa (with all the innocence on earth) leant the knapsack on a corner of the bed. The Commissary fairly bounded from his seat; his face and neck flushed past purple, almost into blue; and he screamed to lay the desecrating56 object on the floor.
The knapsack proved to contain a change of shirts, of shoes, of socks, and of linen trousers, a small dressing-case, a piece of soap in one of the shoes, two volumes of the Collection Jannet lettered Poésies de Charles d’Orléans, a map, and a version book containing divers57 notes in prose and the remarkable58 English roundels of the voyager, still to this day unpublished: the Commissary of Châtillon is the only living man who has clapped an eye on these artistic59 trifles. He turned the assortment60 over with a contumelious finger; it was plain from his daintiness that he regarded the Arethusa and all his belongings61 as the very temple of infection. Still there was nothing suspicious about the map, nothing really criminal except the roundels; as for Charles of Orleans, to the ignorant mind of the prisoner, he seemed as good as a certificate; and it was supposed the farce62 was nearly over.
The inquisitor resumed his seat.
The Commissary (after a pause). Eh bien, je vais vous dire63 ce que vous êtes. Vous êtes allemand et vous venez chanter à la foire. (Well, then, I will tell you what you are. You are a German and have come to sing at the fair.)
The Arethusa. Would you like to hear me sing? I believe I could convince you of the contrary.
The Commissary. Pas de plaisanterie, monsieur!
The Arethusa. Well, sir, oblige me at least by looking at this book. Here, I open it with my eyes shut. Read one of these songs—read this one—and tell me, you who are a man of intelligence, if it would be possible to sing it at a fair?
The Commissary (critically). Mais oui. Très bien.
The Arethusa. Comment, monsieur! What! But do you not observe it is antique. It is difficult to understand, even for you and me; but for the audience at a fair, it would be meaningless.
The Commissary (taking a pen). Enfin, il faui en finir. What is your name?
The Commissary (aghast). Hé! Quoi?
The Arethusa (perceiving and improving his advantage). Rob’rt-Lou’s-Stev’ns’n.
The Commissary (after several conflicts with his pen). Eh bien, il faut se passer du nom. Ca ne s’écrit pas. (Well, we must do without the name: it is unspellable.)
The above is a rough summary of this momentous65 conversation, in which I have been chiefly careful to preserve the plums of the Commissary; but the remainder of the scene, perhaps because of his rising anger, has left but little definite in the memory of the Arethusa. The Commissary was not, I think, a practised literary man; no sooner, at least, had he taken pen in hand and embarked66 on the composition of the procès-verbal, than he became distinctly more uncivil and began to show a predilection67 for that simplest of all forms of repartee68: “You lie!” Several times the Arethusa let it pass, and then suddenly flared69 up, refused to accept more insults or to answer further questions, defied the Commissary to do his worst, and promised him, if he did, that he should bitterly repent70 it. Perhaps if he had worn this proud front from the first, instead of beginning with a sense of entertainment and then going on to argue, the thing might have turned otherwise; for even at this eleventh hour the Commissary was visibly staggered. But it was too late; he had been challenged the procès-verbal was begun; and he again squared his elbows over his writing, and the Arethusa was led forth a prisoner.
A step or two down the hot road stood the gendarmerie. Thither71 was our unfortunate conducted, and there he was bidden to empty forth the contents of his pockets. A handkerchief, a pen, a pencil, a pipe and tobacco, matches, and some ten francs of change: that was all. Not a file, not a cipher72, not a scrap73 of writing whether to identify or to condemn74. The very gendarme was appalled75 before such destitution76.
“I regret,” he said, “that I arrested you, for I see that you are no voyou.” And he promised him every indulgence.
The Arethusa, thus encouraged, asked for his pipe. That he was told was impossible, but if he chewed, he might have some tobacco. He did not chew, however, and asked instead to have his handkerchief.
“Non,” said the gendarme. “Nous avons eu des histoires de gens qui se sont pendus.” (No, we have had histories of people who hanged themselves.)
“What,” cried the Arethusa. “And is it for that you refuse me my handkerchief? But see how much more easily I could hang myself in my trousers!”
The man was struck by the novelty of the idea; but he stuck to his colours, and only continued to repeat vague offers of service.
“At least,” said the Arethusa, “be sure that you arrest my comrade; he will follow me ere long on the same road, and you can tell him by the sack upon his shoulders.”
This promised, the prisoner was led round into the back court of the building, a cellar door was opened, he was motioned down the stair, and bolts grated and chains clanged behind his descending77 person.
The philosophic78 and still more the imaginative mind is apt to suppose itself prepared for any mortal accident. Prison, among other ills, was one that had been often faced by the undaunted Arethusa. Even as he went down the stairs, he was telling himself that here was a famous occasion for a roundel, and that like the committed linnets of the tuneful cavalier, he too would make his prison musical. I will tell the truth at once: the roundel was never written, or it should be printed in this place, to raise a smile. Two reasons interfered79: the first moral, the second physical.
It is one of the curiosities of human nature, that although all men are liars80, they can none of them bear to be told so of themselves. To get and take the lie with equanimity81 is a stretch beyond the stoic82; and the Arethusa, who had been surfeited83 upon that insult, was blazing inwardly with a white heat of smothered84 wrath85. But the physical had also its part. The cellar in which he was confined was some feet underground, and it was only lighted by an unglazed, narrow aperture86 high up in the wall and smothered in the leaves of a green vine. The walls were of naked masonry87, the floor of bare earth; by way of furniture there was an earthenware88 basin, a water-jug, and a wooden bedstead with a blue-gray cloak for bedding. To be taken from the hot air of a summer’s afternoon, the reverberation89 of the road and the stir of rapid exercise, and plunged90 into the gloom and damp of this receptacle for vagabonds, struck an instant chill upon the Arethusa’s blood. Now see in how small a matter a hardship may consist: the floor was exceedingly uneven91 underfoot, with the very spade-marks, I suppose, of the labourers who dug the foundations of the barrack; and what with the poor twilight92 and the irregular surface, walking was impossible. The caged author resisted for a good while; but the chill of the place struck deeper and deeper; and at length, with such reluctance93 as you may fancy, he was driven to climb upon the bed and wrap himself in the public covering. There, then, he lay upon the verge94 of shivering, plunged in semi-darkness, wound in a garment whose touch he dreaded95 like the plague, and (in a spirit far removed from resignation) telling the roll of the insults he had just received. These are not circumstances favourable96 to the muse97.
Meantime (to look at the upper surface where the sun was still shining and the guns of sportsmen were still noisy through the tufted plain) the Cigarette was drawing near at his more philosophic pace. In those days of liberty and health he was the constant partner of the Arethusa, and had ample opportunity to share in that gentleman’s disfavour with the police. Many a bitter bowl had he partaken of with that disastrous98 comrade. He was himself a man born to float easily through life, his face and manner artfully recommending him to all. There was but one suspicious circumstance he could not carry off, and that was his companion. He will not readily forget the Commissary in what is ironically called the free town of Frankfort-on-the-Main; nor the Franco-Belgian frontier; nor the inn at La Fère; last, but not least, he is pretty certain to remember Châtillon-sur-Loire.
At the town entry, the gendarme culled99 him like a wayside flower; and a moment later, two persons, in a high state of surprise, were confronted in the Commissary’s office. For if the Cigarette was surprised to be arrested, the Commissary was no less taken aback by the appearance and appointments of his captive. Here was a man about whom there could be no mistake: a man of an unquestionable and unassailable manner, in apple-pie order, dressed not with neatness merely but elegance100, ready with his passport, at a word, and well supplied with money: a man the Commissary would have doffed101 his hat to on chance upon the highway; and this beau cavalier unblushingly claimed the Arethusa for his comrade! The conclusion of the interview was foregone; of its humours, I remember only one. “Baronet?” demanded the magistrate103, glancing up from the passport. “Alors, monsieur, vous êtes le firs d’un baron102?” And when the Cigarette (his one mistake throughout the interview) denied the soft impeachment104, “Alors,” from the Commissary, “ce n’est pas votre passeport!” But these were ineffectual thunders; he never dreamed of laying hands upon the Cigarette; presently he fell into a mood of unrestrained admiration105, gloating over the contents of the knapsack, commanding our friend’s tailor. Ah, what an honoured guest was the Commissary entertaining! what suitable clothes he wore for the warm weather! what beautiful maps, what an attractive work of history he carried in his knapsack! You are to understand there was now but one point of difference between them: what was to be done with the Arethusa? the Cigarette demanding his release, the Commissary still claiming him as the dungeon’s own. Now it chanced that the Cigarette had passed some years of his life in Egypt, where he had made acquaintance with two very bad things, cholera106 morbus and pashas; and in the eye of the Commissary, as he fingered the volume of Michelet, it seemed to our traveller there was something Turkish. I pass over this lightly; it is highly possible there was some misunderstanding, highly possible that the Commissary (charmed with his visitor) supposed the attraction to be mutual107 and took for an act of growing friendship what the Cigarette himself regarded as a bribe108. And at any rate, was there ever a bribe more singular than an odd volume of Michelet’s history? The work was promised him for the morrow, before our departure; and presently after, either because he had his price, or to show that he was not the man to be behind in friendly offices—“Eh bien,” he said, “je suppose qu’il faut lâher voire camarade.” And he tore up that feast of humour, the unfinished procès-verbal. Ah, if he had only torn up instead the Arethusa’s roundels! There were many works burnt at Alexandria, there are many treasured in the British Museum, that I could better spare than the procès-verbal of Châtillon. Poor bubuckled Commissary! I begin to be sorry that he never had his Michelet: perceiving in him fine human traits, a broad-based stupidity, a gusto in his magisterial109 functions, a taste for letters, a ready admiration for the admirable. And if he did not admire the Arethusa, he was not alone in that.
To the imprisoned110 one, shivering under the public covering, there came suddenly a noise of bolts and chains. He sprang to his feet, ready to welcome a companion in calamity111; and instead of that, the door was flung wide, the friendly gendarme appeared above in the strong daylight, and with a magnificent gesture (being probably a student of the drama)—“Vous êtes libre!” he said. None too soon for the Arethusa. I doubt if he had been half-an-hour imprisoned; but by the watch in a man’s brain (which was the only watch he carried) he should have been eight times longer; and he passed forth with ecstasy112 up the cellar stairs into the healing warmth of the afternoon sun; and the breath of the earth came as sweet as a cow’s into his nostril113; and he heard again (and could have laughed for pleasure) the concord114 of delicate noises that we call the hum of life.
And here it might be thought that my history ended; but not so, this was an act-drop and not the curtain. Upon what followed in front of the barrack, since there was a lady in the case, I scruple115 to expatiate116. The wife of the Maréchal-des-logis was a handsome woman, and yet the Arethusa was not sorry to be gone from her society. Something of her image, cool as a peach on that hot afternoon, still lingers in his memory: yet more of her conversation. “You have there a very fine parlour,” said the poor gentleman.—“Ah,” said Madame la Maréchale (des-logis), “you are very well acquainted with such parlours!” And you should have seen with what a hard and scornful eye she measured the vagabond before her! I do not think he ever hated the Commissary; but before that interview was at an end, he hated Madame la Maréchale. His passion (as I am led to understand by one who was present) stood confessed in a burning eye, a pale cheek, and a trembling utterance117; Madame meanwhile tasting the joys of the matador118, goading119 him with barbed words and staring him coldly down.
It was certainly good to be away from this lady, and better still to sit down to an excellent dinner in the inn. Here, too, the despised travellers scraped acquaintance with their next neighbour, a gentleman of these parts, returned from the day’s sport, who had the good taste to find pleasure in their society. The dinner at an end, the gentleman proposed the acquaintance should be ripened120 in the café.
The café was crowded with sportsmen conclamantly explaining to each other and the world the smallness of their bags. About the centre of the room, the Cigarette and the Arethusa sat with their new acquaintance; a trio very well pleased, for the travellers (after their late experience) were greedy of consideration, and their sportsman rejoiced in a pair of patient listeners. Suddenly the glass door flew open with a crash; the Maréchal-des-logis appeared in the interval121, gorgeously belted and befrogged, entered without salutation, strode up the room with a clang of spurs and weapons, and disappeared through a door at the far end. Close at his heels followed the Arethusa’s gendarme of the afternoon, imitating, with a nice shade of difference, the imperial bearing of his chief; only, as he passed, he struck lightly with his open hand on the shoulder of his late captive, and with that ringing, dramatic utterance of which he had the secret—“Suivez!” said he.
The arrest of the members, the oath of the Tennis Court, the signing of the declaration of independence, Mark Antony’s oration122, all the brave scenes of history, I conceive as having been not unlike that evening in the café at Châtillon. Terror breathed upon the assembly. A moment later, when the Arethusa had followed his recaptors into the farther part of the house, the Cigarette found himself alone with his coffee in a ring of empty chairs and tables, all the lusty sportsmen huddled123 into corners, all their clamorous124 voices hushed in whispering, all their eyes shooting at him furtively125 as at a leper.
And the Arethusa? Well, he had a long, sometimes a trying, interview in the back kitchen. The Maréchal-des-logis, who was a very handsome man, and I believe both intelligent and honest, had no clear opinion on the case. He thought the Commissary had done wrong, but he did not wish to get his subordinates into trouble; and he proposed this, that, and the other, to all of which the Arethusa (with a growing sense of his position) demurred126.
“In short,” suggested the Arethusa, “you want to wash your hands of further responsibility? Well, then, let me go to Paris.”
The Maréchal-des-logis looked at his watch.
“You may leave,” said he, “by the ten o’clock train for Paris.”
And at noon the next day the travellers were telling their misadventure in the dining-room at Siron’s.
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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concoction
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| n.调配(物)；谎言 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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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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halcyon
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| n.平静的，愉快的 | |
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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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sentries
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| 哨兵，步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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invader
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| n.侵略者，侵犯者，入侵者 | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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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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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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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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languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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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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fluted
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| a.有凹槽的 | |
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31
upbraid
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| v.斥责，责骂，责备 | |
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32
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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33
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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34
looms
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| n.织布机( loom的名词复数 )v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的第三人称单数 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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35
syrup
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| n.糖浆，糖水 | |
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36
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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37
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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38
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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39
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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40
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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41
milestone
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| n.里程碑；划时代的事件 | |
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42
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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43
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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44
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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45
gendarme
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| n.宪兵 | |
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46
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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47
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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48
copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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49
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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50
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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51
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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52
disclaimed
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| v.否认( disclaim的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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54
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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55
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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56
desecrating
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| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的现在分词 ) | |
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57
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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58
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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59
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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60
assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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61
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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62
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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63
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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64
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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65
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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66
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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67
predilection
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| n.偏好 | |
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68
repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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69
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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70
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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71
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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72
cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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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
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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75
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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76
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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77
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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78
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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79
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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80
liars
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| 说谎者( liar的名词复数 ) | |
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81
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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82
stoic
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| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
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83
surfeited
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| v.吃得过多( surfeit的过去式和过去分词 )；由于过量而厌腻 | |
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84
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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85
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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86
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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87
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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88
earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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89
reverberation
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| 反响； 回响； 反射； 反射物 | |
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90
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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91
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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92
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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93
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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94
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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95
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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96
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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97
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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98
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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99
culled
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| v.挑选，剔除( cull的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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101
doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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103
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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104
impeachment
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| n.弹劾；控告；怀疑 | |
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105
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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106
cholera
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| n.霍乱 | |
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107
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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108
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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109
magisterial
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| adj.威风的，有权威的；adv.威严地 | |
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110
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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112
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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113
nostril
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| n.鼻孔 | |
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114
concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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115
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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116
expatiate
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| v.细说，详述 | |
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117
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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118
matador
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| n.斗牛士 | |
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119
goading
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| v.刺激( goad的现在分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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120
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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122
oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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123
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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124
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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125
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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126
demurred
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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