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美丽新世界|Brave New World

第七章|Chapter Seven

属类： 双语小说 【分类】双语小说 阅读：[18333]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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这座平顶高山就像一艘轮船，停靠在黄褐色尘土的海峡之中。峡谷蜿蜒曲折地在两岸陡峭的悬崖之间延伸着。峭壁之间的山谷里，斜斜地流淌着一抹绿色，那是河流及其两岸的耕地。在海峡中间，在岩石轮船的船头，伸出一片形状规则的几何形的裸露崖壁，和船头连为一体，在这块大崖壁上面就坐落着玛尔帕斯村。高高的房屋耸然直立，一栋上面还有一栋，每一层都比下面的一层小一些，如同层层叠叠被削去角的金字塔，直入云霄。在这些高房子的下面，散落着一些低矮的建筑以及纵横交错的墙壁。房子的三面都是峭壁，直落到平地。几缕炊烟笔直地升入无风的天空，渐渐散去。

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“奇怪，”列宁娜说，“真奇怪。”这是她平时表达不满的一贯用语，“我不喜欢这里。我也不喜欢那个人。”她指着那个受指派带他们去村庄的印第安向导。很明显，她的感觉得到了回应，因为，那个走在他们前面的男人，他的后背都在表达着敌意、愠怒和鄙视。

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“并且，”她压低声音，“他身上有味儿。”

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伯纳德没有试图否认这一点。他们继续向前走着。

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突然，好像全部空气都活跃了起来，如同脉搏里的血液，不知疲倦地搏动着，搏动着。来到上面，到了玛尔帕斯村，有人在敲鼓。他们的脚步踏上了那个神秘心脏的节拍，他们加快了脚步。这条路一直把他们带到悬崖的脚下。巨大的平顶山石船的船身高高地矗立在他们上方，船舷离他们有三百英尺。

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“真希望我们是开了飞机过来的。”列宁娜说，恨恨地仰头看着峭壁上秃秃的崖面，“我不喜欢走路，而且，当你站在山脚下，会觉得自己非常渺小。”

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他们在平顶高山的阴影里走了一段路，绕过一个突岩，之后，他们看到，在一个被崖水浸渍的小山谷中，有一个登山扶梯。他们开始向上爬。路非常陡，呈之字形，从山谷往上延伸。时而，鼓点几乎都听不见了，时而，鼓点似乎就在拐角不远处敲打着。

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他们爬到一半的时候，一只苍鹰飞过来，飞得特别近，翅膀扇起的风吹到他们脸上，冷飕飕的。在岩石的缝隙里，躺着一堆白骨。这一切都是那么怪异，令人压抑，而那个印第安人身上的怪味越来越浓了。他们终于走出山谷，走入阳光。平平的山顶犹如石船的甲板。

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“就像查令T字塔。”列宁娜评论道。但是，她可没有多少时间来享受她发现的这个给自己带来安慰的相似之处。听到一阵噼啪噼啪的脚步声，他们转过身来。两个印第安人沿着小路跑过来了，他们从喉咙到肚脐完全赤裸，暗褐色的身体上涂着白色的道道（“像是沥青的网球场。”列宁娜后来解释道），他们的脸上涂着一块一块的猩红色、黑色和黄褐色，没有人样。他们黑色的发辫里编织着狐狸毛和红色的法兰绒线，火鸡羽毛做的披肩在肩膀后面飘动着，脑袋上围着耀眼的巨大羽毛王冠。他们每走一步，身上的银手镯、骨头和绿松石珠子做的沉重项链就发出丁零当啷的声音。他们一声不响地跑着，鹿皮靴踩在地上没有一丁点声响。其中一个人拿着一把羽毛刷子，另一个人双手拿着三四条从远处看像是粗绳的东西。其中一条绳子不安地扭曲着，突然，列宁娜看清了，那些都是蛇。

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那两个人越来越近了，他们黑黑的眼睛看着她，却没有一丝认出她的迹象，一点都显不出看到她或者意识到她存在的样子。扭动的蛇和其他几条一样，又无力地耷拉下去了。那两个人跑过去了。

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“我不喜欢这里，”列宁娜说，“我不喜欢。”

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等她来到村口，看到等待她的都有些什么东西之后，她就更不喜欢了。在村口，那个向导丢下他们，到村里去领受指示了。首先，是污泥、成堆的垃圾、灰尘、狗和苍蝇。她厌恶得脸皱成一团，用手绢掩着鼻子。

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“他们怎么能这样生活呢？”她愤慨地叫出来，觉得难以置信。（这绝不可能。）

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伯纳德颇为理性地耸了耸肩。“无论如何，”他说，“他们这样生活已经有五六千年了。所以，我想他们肯定早就习惯了。”

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“可是，清洁卫生近乎神圣啊。”她坚持着。

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“是啊，文明等于消毒杀菌。”伯纳德继续说，以讥讽的语气总结了睡眠教育课中基础卫生学的第二条，“可是，这些人从来没有听说过福帝，他们不是文明人。所以，没有必要……”

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“哦！”她抓住他的胳膊，“看。”

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附近的一所房子那里，一个几乎全身赤裸的印第安人正缓慢地沿扶梯从二楼平台向下爬，一级接一级，因为太老了，动作颤巍巍的，格外谨慎。他的脸皱巴巴、黑乎乎的，像是黑曜石做的面具。没有牙的嘴瘪了进去。他的嘴角和下巴两侧各长了几根长长的胡子，在黝黑皮肤的映衬下，闪着几乎是白色的光。没有编辫子的灰色长发一绺一绺地披散在脸的周围。他佝偻着身体，瘦骨嶙峋，几乎没有一点肉。他缓慢地向下爬着，每爬完一级都要停一会儿，才敢再往下爬一步。

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“他怎么了？”列宁娜小声说，惊恐地大睁着眼睛。

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“他老了，仅此而已。”伯纳德尽量满不在乎地回答。他自己也吓了一跳，但他尽力显得不为所动。

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“老了？”她重复了一遍，“可是，主任也老了，很多人都老了。他们可不是这样的。”

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“那是因为我们不让他们老成这样。我们保护他们不受疾病的侵袭。我们人为地让他们的内分泌保持年轻时的平衡。我们不允许他们的镁-钙比值低于他们三十岁时的水准。我们经常给他们输入年轻的血液。我们不断地刺激着他们的新陈代谢。所以，当然啦，他们看起来就不会是这个样子。还有部分原因是，”他补充道，“大多数人达不到这个老家伙的年龄就死了。年轻的状态毫发无损地持续到六十岁，然后，咔嚓，死了。”

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可是，列宁娜没有听进去。她还在看着那个老头。他慢慢地、慢慢地下来了，他的脚碰到地面了。他转过身来。在他深陷的眼窝里，一双眼睛依然异常明亮。那双眼睛毫无表情地看着她，丝毫没有显出惊讶的神色，好像她并没有在那里一样。然后，慢慢地，驼着背，那个老头蹒跚地走过他们身边，不见了。

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“这太可怕了，”列宁娜悄悄说，“太糟糕了。我们不应该来这儿。”她摸摸口袋，想找唆麻，可是，她却发现，由于她前所未有的疏忽，她竟然把装唆麻的瓶子落在宾馆了。伯纳德的口袋也是空的。

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列宁娜只好孤立无助地去面对玛尔帕斯村的种种恐怖之处了。这些恐怖接踵而至，迅速向她袭来。两个年轻妇女给孩子喂奶的场景让她羞红了脸，她赶紧转过脸去。她从来没有见过这么猥亵的事情，更糟的是，伯纳德不仅没有巧妙地对此置之不理，反而开始堂而皇之地对这种令人作呕的胎生繁殖现象评头论足起来。现在，唆麻的药效已经过去，他对自己当天早晨在宾馆里的软弱表现感到羞耻，所以，他不遗余力地想要证明自己的坚强和不落俗套。

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“多么美妙亲密的关系，”他说，故意表现得很反常，“这一定会产生十分强烈的感情啊！我常想，没有妈妈，我们也许缺失了点什么东西。列宁娜，也许因为成不了一个妈妈，你也失去了什么东西呢。想象一下吧，你坐在这里，抱着一个你自己的婴儿……”

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“伯纳德！你怎么能这么说话？”一个患结膜炎和皮肤病的老年妇女经过，让列宁娜忘记了自己的愤慨。

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“我们走吧，”她乞求着，“我不喜欢这里。”

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但就在这时候，他们的向导回来了，招手让他们跟着他，然后领着他们沿两排房屋中间的狭窄街道向前走去。他们绕过一个拐角。一条死狗躺在垃圾堆上，一个长着瘤子的女人正扒拉着一个小女孩的头发捉虱子。他们的向导停在一把梯子脚下，把手笔直地举起来，然后又平着向前伸了伸。他们领会了他一声不响的动作，爬上梯子，梯子通向一个门口，这时，他们走进了一个狭长的房间，非常昏暗，充斥着烟味、烹炒过的油味以及穿了很长时间不洗的衣服气味。房间的尽头还有一扇门，从那里射过来一线阳光，传来响亮的鼓声，声音很近。

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他们迈过门槛，来到一个宽阔的平台。在他们脚下，被高房子围住的，就是村庄的广场，挤满了印第安人。鲜艳的毛毯，黑发上装饰的羽毛，闪光的绿松石，热得发亮的黑皮肤。列宁娜再次用手绢掩住了鼻子。广场中间的空地上，有两个圆形的台子，由石头和黏土碾压平整而成，很显然，这是地下室的屋顶。在每个台子的中间都有一个旋梯口，一把梯子从下面的黑暗中伸出。有笛声从地下传来，几乎淹没在持续敲打着的鼓声里。

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列宁娜喜欢鼓声。她闭上眼睛，任由那打雷般的轻柔节奏左右着自己，让鼓声完完全全地侵入自己的意识深处，直到世界万物都消失了，只剩下这深沉的脉搏跳动般的声音。这声音让她想起团结礼拜仪式和福帝日庆祝活动上的合成音乐，带给她一丝慰藉。“狂欢啊。”她悄悄地说，这鼓声敲出的是一模一样的节奏。

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蓦地，一阵歌声传来，几百个男声撕心裂肺般地大声唱着，那是刺耳的金属一般的合唱。几声长音之后，便归于沉寂，剩下雷鸣般的鼓声；紧接着，女人们做出了回应，唱着马嘶般的尖厉高音，然后，又只剩下鼓声；再一次，男声发出深沉野蛮的回应，宣告着自己的男子气概。

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真奇怪，是的。这个地方真奇怪，音乐奇怪，他们的服装打扮、皮肤病、老年人，也都很奇怪。可是，这个表演，却没有什么特别奇怪之处。

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“让我想起了低种姓人的社会歌曲演唱。”她告诉伯纳德。

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过了一会儿，这里的表演就不会让她再想起社区歌曲演唱那种无害的表演了。突然，从地下的圆房间里涌出一大群狰狞的怪物。他们或者戴着丑陋的面具，或者脸涂得都已不再像人脸，开始围着广场跳一种奇怪的瘸腿舞，一圈又一圈，边跳边唱，一圈又一圈，一次更比一次快。鼓点节奏变了，变得更快，听起来像发烧时的脉搏跳动。人群也开始跟着跳舞者唱起歌来，歌声越来越响。有个女人尖叫起来，接着是第二个、第三个，好像有人要杀她们一样。然后，跳舞者中的那个领头人从队伍中跑出来，跑到广场远处的一个大木箱子那里，打开箱盖，拽出两条黑色的大蛇。人群爆发出一阵欢呼，其他跳舞者都跑向他，双手向前伸着。他将蛇扔给最前面的人，然后伸手到箱子里去拿更多的蛇出来。越来越多的蛇，黑色的、棕色的、斑点的，他全都扔了出去。舞蹈再次开始，这次换了一个不同的节奏。他们举着蛇，一圈接一圈地转着，他们的膝盖和胯骨柔软地扭动着，像蛇一样，一圈又一圈。接着，领头人做了个手势，那些蛇被一条一条地扔到了广场的中间，一个老人从地下走上来，把玉米片撒在蛇堆上面，一个女人从另一个旋梯口上来，从黑坛子里舀水洒到蛇堆上面。老人举起手，周围突然陷入死一般的沉寂，令人吃惊、叫人害怕的沉寂。鼓声停止了，生命似乎终结了。老人指着通向地下世界的两个楼梯口。慢慢地，被下面看不见的手举着，一只苍鹰的画像伸了出来，从另一个开口，一个男人的画像出来了，他裸露的身体被钉在一个十字架上。两幅画像悬停在那里，似乎在靠自身的力量支撑着，观看着周围的一切。老人拍了拍手。一个大约十八岁的少年从人群中走出来，身体赤裸，仅在腰间围了一块白棉布。他站在老人面前，双手交叉放在胸前，低着头。老人在他头上划了个十字，走开了。这个少年开始围着扭动的蛇堆慢慢地转圈子，他转完了第一圈，第二圈刚刚转到一半，从跳舞的人群里走出一个高个男人，戴着郊狼的面具，手上拿着由皮绳编织而成的鞭子，走向少年。少年继续绕着圈子，似乎没有意识到这个男人的存在。戴郊狼面具的男人举起鞭子，似乎等待了许久，然后鞭子突然下甩，啪的一声鞭响，鞭梢响亮地落在肉身上。少年的身体抖了一下，但他没有吭气，继续平稳缓慢地走着。郊狼再次举鞭，一次，两次，他每一次鞭打，人群都先是倒抽一口气，然后发出低低的呻吟声。少年还在走着，两圈，三圈，四圈。血流了下来。五圈，六圈。突然，列宁娜用手捂住脸，开始哭泣。“哦，阻止他们，阻止他们！”她央求道。但是，皮鞭无情地一次次下落。七圈。突然，少年步子踉跄了一下，还是一声不响，脸朝下栽倒在地。那个老人伏在他身上，拿一根长长的白羽毛蘸蘸他的后背，拿起了羽毛，深红色的，他举了一会儿，展示给人们看，然后，他手举羽毛在蛇堆上面晃了三下。几滴鲜血落了下来，突然，鼓声再次响起，节奏飞快，像是在惊慌地逃跑，人们大喊起来。跳舞者跑向前，捡起蛇，跑出了广场。男人、女人、孩童，人群都跟着跑掉了。一分钟之后，广场变得空空荡荡，只有那个少年留在那里，趴在他栽倒的地方，一动不动。三个老年妇女从一所房子里走出来，艰难地托起他，抬走了。有一阵子，只剩下苍鹰和十字架上的男人守卫着空旷的村落。过了一会儿，他们好像也看够了，慢慢地从旋梯口降下去，进入地下的世界，不见了。

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列宁娜还在哭泣。“太可怕了，”她不断地说，伯纳德的安慰也毫无效果，“太可怕了！流了那么多的血！”她浑身发抖，“哦，我真希望带了我的唆麻！”

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里面的房间传来了脚步声。

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列宁娜没有动，用手捂着脸，坐在一边，什么都没有看见。伯纳德转过身。

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现在走到平台的那个年轻人穿着印第安人的服装，可是他编成辫子的头发却是浅黄色的，眼睛是淡蓝色的，皮肤则是白皮肤，晒成了青铜色。

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“嗨，日安。”这个陌生人说，他的英语无可挑剔，但听着有点奇怪，“你们是文明人，是吧？你们是从‘那个地方’来的，从保留地外面来的？”

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“你究竟是……”伯纳德吃惊地说。

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年轻人叹了口气，摇摇头。“一个非常不快乐的绅士。”他指着广场中央的血迹，“你们看见那块可恶的血斑(1)了吗？”他问话的声音因为激动而颤抖。

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(1) “可恶的血斑”，引自莎士比亚戏剧《麦克白》，是麦克白夫人的话，她回忆起自己帮丈夫谋杀国王时，总是想象着血斑还在她的手上。从这里开始，读者会遇到一系列出自莎士比亚作品的引文，本译文将标明出处，并简略解释剧中的背景。
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“唆麻一片，摆脱苦难。”列宁娜从捂着脸的双手背后机械地说，“我真希望带了我的唆麻！”

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“在那里的应该是我，”年轻人接着说，“他们为什么不让我做这个牺牲？我本可以走十圈，十二圈，十五圈。帕罗提瓦才走了七圈。他们可以从我身体中得到两倍的血，将一望无垠的大海染成殷红(2)。”他以夸张的手势张开双臂，随即又绝望地放下，“可他们不让我去。他们因为我的肤色而讨厌我。一直是这样，一直。”泪水涌入年轻人的双眼，他感到不好意思了，转过身去。

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(2) 引自《麦克白》，是麦克白的自言自语，谋杀了国王之后，他既内疚又恐惧，觉得即使大海的水也不能将他手上的血迹清洗干净，相反，他手上的血将染红整个大海。
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列宁娜吃惊地忘记了没有唆麻这回事。她把双手从脸上拿开，第一次去看这个陌生人。“你是说，你想让人用鞭子打你？”

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年轻人的脸还背对着她，但他用手势做了个肯定的回答。“为了村庄的利益，为了求雨，为了让庄稼生长。为了取悦菩公(3)和耶稣。同时，还能证明我能忍受痛苦，不哭不叫。是的，”他的声音突然变得洪亮起来，他骄傲地挺起了胸，自豪地、挑战似的抬起下巴，转过身来，“为了证明我是个男人……啊！”他倒抽了一口气，沉默了，嘴巴张着。生命中第一次，他看见了这样一张女孩的脸，这张脸的双颊既不是巧克力色也不是狗皮色，她的头发是红褐色的，永久地卷曲着，她的表情（奇怪，新奇！）既善良又充满兴趣。列宁娜对他微笑着，多么好看的小伙子，她在想，身材真漂亮。血液一下子涌上年轻人的脸，他垂下眼睛，一会儿又抬了起来，看到她还在对着自己微笑，他异常慌乱，只得赶忙转过身，假装认真地看着广场另一头的某个东西。

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(3) Pookong，本书中印第安人原始宗教里的救世主。
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伯纳德的问题岔开了他的注意力。谁？怎么回事？什么时候？从哪里来的？年轻人盯着伯纳德的脸（他迫切地想看看列宁娜对他微笑的脸，可他就是不敢看她），试图解释自己的情况。他和琳达——琳达是他的妈妈（这个词让列宁娜感到非常不舒服）——是这个保留地的外来者。琳达是很久以前从“那个地方”来的，在他出生之前，和一个男人一起来的，那个男人就是他的爸爸。（伯纳德把耳朵竖了起来。）她独自一人去北边的山那边散步，摔到一个峭壁下面，伤了头部。（“往下说，往下说。”伯纳德激动地说。）从玛尔帕斯来的一些猎人发现了她，把她带回村庄。至于那个男人，他的爸爸，琳达此后再也没有见过他。他叫托马金。（是的，孵化与条件训练中心主任的名字就是托马斯。）他肯定是飞走了，飞回到“那个地方”，把她给扔下了。那可真是个狠心肠、不近人情的坏蛋。

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“这样，我就出生在了玛尔帕斯，”他结束了他的话，“玛尔帕斯。”他摇摇头。村庄外面那个肮脏的小房子！

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一块满是灰尘和垃圾的空地将小房子与村庄隔开。两只饿得瘦骨嶙峋的狗正在门口的垃圾里嗅着，拱着，真让人恶心。他们走进房子，里面光线昏暗，气味难闻，苍蝇嗡嗡地叫着。

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“琳达！”年轻人叫道。

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“来了。”从里屋传来一个非常沙哑的女声。

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他们等待着。地板上的几个碗里盛着剩饭剩菜，很可能是好几顿吃剩的。

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门开了。一个非常粗壮、金发碧眼的印第安女人迈过门槛，停住了，难以置信地盯着他们，嘴巴张得大大的。列宁娜注意到她缺了两颗门牙，而那些还没掉的牙的颜色……她厌恶地打了个激灵。看着比那个老头还要糟糕。那么胖。她脸上那么多的褶子，皮肤松弛，皱纹横生，凹陷的两颊上面还长着紫斑。鼻子上那些红红的血管，那双充血的眼睛，还有那脖子，哦，那个脖子。她头上围着的毛毡又脏又破，身上穿的宽松上衣像个棕色的大麻袋，巨大的乳房，突出的肚子，还有那个大屁股。哦，比那个老头还要糟糕，糟糕得多！突然，那个人语速飞快地说起话来，伸着双臂向她冲过来，福帝！福帝！太恶心了，再过一会儿，她都要吐了。她紧紧地抱住她，她那肚子，乳房紧贴着，还开始亲吻她。福帝！亲吻，口水横流的亲吻，难闻的体味儿，显然从来没有洗过澡，闻起来就像放入德尔塔和艾普西隆瓶子的那种恶心的东西（哦，关于伯纳德的传言不会是真的），这才是酒气熏天的臭味。她尽可能快速地从她的怀抱中挣脱开来。

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面前是一张哭得变了形的脸，那个人在哭。

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“哦，亲爱的，我亲爱的，”她一边哽咽着，滔滔的话语同时倾泻出来，“但愿你知道我有多高兴，这么多年过去了！一张文明人的脸。是啊，还有文明人的衣服。我本以为我再也见不到一块真正的人造丝了呢。”她摸摸列宁娜衬衣的袖子，她的指甲黑乎乎的，“还有这可爱的黏胶天鹅绒的短裤。你知道吗，亲爱的，我的旧衣服还留着呢，我来的时候穿的衣服，收在一个盒子里，回头我给你看看。不过，人造丝上都是破洞了。还有一条可爱的白腰带，必须承认，你的这条绿色代摩洛哥皮革的更好看。我的那条腰带也没有给我带来什么好处。”她又开始哗哗流泪，“我想约翰都告诉你们了吧，我吃的那些苦。连一克唆麻都没有。偶尔才能喝上点波培带给我的麦斯卡尔酒。波培是个我认识的男孩。可是，喝完之后，让你感觉格外难受，麦斯卡尔酒就是这样，可喝拍约他酒又很恶心，况且喝完拍约他酒，第二天你总会觉得自己的羞耻感更严重了，很可怕。我本来就觉得很羞耻。想想吧，我，一个贝塔，却生了个孩子，设身处地想想吧。”（仅仅提了这一句就让列宁娜一阵战栗。）“尽管这不是我的错，我发誓不是，因为至今我也不知道是怎么发生的，我做了所有那些马尔萨斯操。你知道的，数着数做的那些，一，二，三，四。我每次都做，我发誓。可是，这还是发生了，当然，这里没有那种堕胎中心。顺便问一下，它还是在切尔西吗？”她问。列宁娜点点头。“周二和周五，大楼还是全部照亮吗？”列宁娜再次点点头。“那座可爱的粉色玻璃塔！”可怜的琳达仰起脸，闭上眼睛，兴奋地回想着那鲜亮的景象。“还有夜晚时分的河流。”她低低地说，大滴大滴的泪珠从她紧闭的眼睑后面缓缓地涌出来，“晚上从斯托克波吉斯飞回来，洗个热水澡，来个真空振动按摩……可是这里……”她深深地吸了一口气，摇摇头，睁开了眼睛，吸了一两次鼻子，用手指擤了擤鼻涕，抹在裙子上，“哦，对不起，”看到列宁娜不由自主的厌恶表情，琳达说，“我不应该这么做。对不起。可是，如果没有手绢，你又该怎么办呢？我还记得，我当时看到这情形有多不安，那么多灰尘，没有什么东西是消过毒的。他们刚把我带回到这里的时候，我的头上有个很大的伤口。你都想象不到他们往伤口上涂些什么东西。脏东西，尽是脏东西。‘文明就是消毒杀菌’，我过去经常跟他们这么说，跟他们说‘链球菌马儿转转，到班伯里T去看看，去看什么？漂亮的浴室和洗手间’，好像他们是孩子一样。可是，他们自然是听不懂的。他们怎么可能听懂呢？最后，我想自己也就习惯了。况且，没有随时可用的热水，你怎么可能保持清洁呢？看看我的这些衣服。这种难看的毛料可不像人造丝。它总也穿不坏。而且，破了之后你还得缝缝补补。我是个贝塔，我过去在受精室工作，没有人教过我如何做这类事情。这根本不是我的事。还有，补衣服是不对的。有了破洞就应该扔掉，然后买新的。‘补丁越多，人越穷。’我记得没错吧！缝补是反社会的行为。可是，这里一切都不同，就像和疯子们生活在一起。他们做的每件事都是疯狂的。”她向四处望望，看到约翰和伯纳德已经离开这里，在房子外面的灰尘和垃圾地里来来回回地散步。但是，她还是密谋似的压低了嗓音，向列宁娜靠了过来，离得那么近，她那带着胚胎毒一样臭味的呼吸吹动了她脸颊上的汗毛，列宁娜身子变得僵硬，往后缩了缩。“比如，”她低声说，声音嘶哑，“他们男女之间的关系。疯狂，我告诉你，完全是疯狂。人人彼此相属，对吧，对吧？”她执意问道，一边还拉扯着列宁娜的衣袖。列宁娜的脸扭着，点点头，呼出了她一直憋着的那口气，又悄悄地吸了一口稍稍好闻点的空气。“唉，在这里，”琳达接着说，“每个人都只能属于一个人。如果你正常地接纳男人，他们会认为你很坏、反社会。他们憎恨你，鄙视你。有一次，一大群女人跑来，大吵大闹，就因为他们的男人来看我。为什么不呢？她们向我冲过来……不讲了，太可怕了，我不能给你讲了。”琳达捂住脸，身子一阵战栗，“他们都太可恨了，这里的女人。疯狂，既疯狂又狠毒。当然，她们不懂什么马尔萨斯操，也不懂什么瓶子啊换瓶啊那类东西。所以，她们不停地怀孩子，生孩子，像狗一样。太恶心了。想想我自己……哦，福帝，福帝，福帝！可是，约翰是我的一大安慰。我不知道如果没有他我该怎么办。虽然每次有男人来……他都很烦恼。他还很小的时候就这样。有一次（他已经长大点了），他想杀了可怜的瓦胡斯瓦，或者也许是波培吧？就是因为我有时和他们在一起。我总也没有办法让他明白，文明人就是应该这么做。疯狂也是会传染的吧，我是这么认为的。反正，约翰好像从印第安人那里染上了疯狂。因为，他自然会经常跟他们在一起。虽然他们对他总是很恶劣，不让他做其他男孩做的事情。在某种程度上，这也许是好事，这样我训练起他来就会容易一些。你不知道那有多困难。有那么多我不知道的事情，我本来也不应该知道那么多事情的。我的意思是，当一个孩子问你，直升机怎么工作，或者谁创造了这个世界，等等，唉，如果你是个在受精室工作的贝塔，你该怎么回答呢？该怎么回答呢？”

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The mesa was like a ship becalmed in a strait of lion-coloured dust. The channel wound between precipitous banks, and slanting from one wall to the other across the valley ran a streak of green—the river and its fields. On the prow of that stone ship in the centre of the strait, and seemingly a part of it, a shaped and geometrical outcrop of the naked rock, stood the pueblo of Malpais. Block above block, each story smaller than the one below, the tall houses rose like stepped and amputated pyramids into the blue sky. At their feet lay a straggle of low buildings, a criss-cross of walls; and on three sides the precipices fell sheer into the plain. A few columns of smoke mounted perpendicularly into the windless air and were lost.

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“Queer,” said Lenina. “Very queer.” It was her ordinary word of condemnation. “I don’t like it. And I don’t like that man.” She pointed to the Indian guide who had been appointed to take them up to the pueblo. Her feeling was evidently reciprocated; the very back of the man, as he walked along before them, was hostile, sullenly contemptuous.

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“Besides,” she lowered her voice, “he smells.”

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Bernard did not attempt to deny it. They walked on.

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Suddenly it was as though the whole air had come alive and were pulsing, pulsing with the indefatigable movement of blood. Up there, in Malpais, the drums were being beaten. Their feet fell in with the rhythm of that mysterious heart; they quickened their pace. Their path led them to the foot of the precipice. The sides of the great mesa ship towered over them, three hundred feet to the gunwale.

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“I wish we could have brought the plane,” said Lenina, looking up resentfully at the blank impending rock-face. “I hate walking. And you feel so small when you’re on the ground at the bottom of a hill.”

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They walked along for some way in the shadow of the mesa, rounded a projection, and there, in a water-worn ravine, was the way up the companion ladder. They climbed. It was a very steep path that zigzagged from side to side of the gully. Sometimes the pulsing of the drums was all but inaudible, at others they seemed to be beating only just round the corner.

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When they were half-way up, an eagle flew past so close to them that the wind of his wings blew chill on their faces. In a crevice of the rock lay a pile of bones. It was all oppressively queer, and the Indian smelt stronger and stronger. They emerged at last from the ravine into the full sunlight. The top of the mesa was a flat deck of stone.

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“Like the Charing-T Tower,” was Lenina’s comment. But she was not allowed to enjoy her discovery of this reassuring resemblance for long. A padding of soft feet made them turn round. Naked from throat to navel, their dark-brown bodies painted with white lines (“like asphalt tennis courts,” Lenina was later to explain), their faces inhuman with daubings of scarlet, black and ochre, two Indians came running along the path. Their black hair was braided with fox fur and red flannel. Cloaks of turkey feathers fluttered from their shoulders; huge feather diadems exploded gaudily round their heads. With every step they took came the clink and rattle of their silver bracelets, their heavy necklaces of bone and turquoise beads. They came on without a word, running quietly in their deerskin moccasins. One of them was holding a feather brush; the other carried, in either hand, what looked at a distance like three or four pieces of thick rope. One of the ropes writhed uneasily, and suddenly Lenina saw that they were snakes.

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The men came nearer and nearer; their dark eyes looked at her, but without giving any sign of recognition, any smallest sign that they had seen her or were aware of her existence. The writhing snake hung limp again with the rest. The men passed.

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“I don’t like it,” said Lenina. “I don’t like it.”

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She liked even less what awaited her at the entrance to the pueblo, where their guide had left them while he went inside for instructions. The dirt, to start with, the piles of rubbish, the dust, the dogs, the flies. Her face wrinkled up into a grimace of disgust. She held her handkerchief to her nose.

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“But how can they live like this?” she broke out in a voice of indignant incredulity. (It wasn’t possible.)

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Bernard shrugged his shoulders philosophically. “Anyhow,” he said, “they’ve been doing it for the last five or six thousand years. So I suppose they must be used to it by now.”

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“But cleanliness is next to fordliness,” she insisted.

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“Yes, and civilization is sterilization,” Bernard went on, concluding on a tone of irony the second hypnopaedic lesson in elementary hygiene. “But these people have never heard of Our Ford, and they aren’t civilized. So there’s no point in…”

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“Oh!” She gripped his arm. “Look.”

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An almost naked Indian was very slowly climbing down the ladder from the first-floor terrace of a neighbouring house—rung after rung, with the tremulous caution of extreme old age. His face was profoundly wrinkled and black, like a mask of obsidian. The toothless mouth had fallen in. At the corners of the lips, and on each side of the chin, a few long bristles gleamed almost white against the dark skin. The long unbraided hair hung down in grey wisps round his face. His body was bent and emaciated to the bone, almost fleshless. Very slowly he came down, pausing at each rung before he ventured another step.

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“What’s the matter with him?” whispered Lenina. Her eyes were wide with horror and amazement.

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“He’s old, that’s all,” Bernard answered as carelessly as he could. He too was startled; but he made an effort to seem unmoved.

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“Old?” she repeated. “But the Director’s old; lots of people are old; they’re not like that.”

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“That’s because we don’t allow them to be like that. We preserve them from diseases. We keep their internal secretions artificially balanced at a youthful equilibrium. We don’t permit their magnesium-calcium ratio to fall below what it was at thirty. We give them transfusion of young blood. We keep their metabolism permanently stimulated. So, of course, they don’t look like that. Partly,” he added, “because most of them die long before they reach this old creature’s age. Youth almost unimpaired till sixty, and then, crack! the end.”

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But Lenina was not listening. She was watching the old man. Slowly, slowly he came down. His feet touched the ground. He turned. In their deep-sunken orbits his eyes were still extraordinarily bright. They looked at her for a long moment expressionlessly, without surprise, as though she had not been there at all. Then slowly, with bent back the old man hobbled past them and was gone.

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“But it’s terrible,” Lenina whispered. “It’s awful. We ought not to have come here.” She felt in her pocket for her soma—only to discover that, by some unprecedented oversight, she had left the bottle down at the rest-house. Bernard’s pockets were also empty.

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Lenina was left to face the horrors of Malpais unaided. They came crowding in on her thick and fast. The spectacle of two young women giving breast to their babies made her blush and turn away her face. She had never seen anything so indecent in her life. And what made it worse was that, instead of tactfully ignoring it, Bernard proceeded to make open comments on this revoltingly viviparous scene. Ashamed, now that the effects of the soma had worn off, of the weakness he had displayed that morning in the hotel, he went out of his way to show himself strong and unorthodox.

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“What a wonderfully intimate relationship,” he said, deliberately outrageous. “And what an intensity of feeling it must generate! I often think one may have missed something in not having had a mother. And perhaps you’ve missed something in not being a mother, Lenina. Imagine yourself sitting there with a little baby of your own….”

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“Bernard! How can you?” The passage of an old woman with ophthalmia and a disease of the skin distracted her from her indignation.

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“Let’s go away,” she begged. “I don’t like it.”

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But at this moment their guide came back and, beckoning them to follow, led the way down the narrow street between the houses. They rounded a corner. A dead dog was lying on a rubbish heap; a woman with a goitre was looking for lice in the hair of a small girl. Their guide halted at the foot of a ladder, raised his hand perpendicularly, then darted it horizontally forward. They did what he mutely commanded—climbed the ladder and walked through the doorway, to which it gave access, into a long narrow room, rather dark and smelling of smoke and cooked grease and long-worn, long-unwashed clothes. At the further end of the room was another doorway, through which came a shaft of sunlight and the noise, very loud and close, of the drums.

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They stepped across the threshold and found themselves on a wide terrace. Below them, shut in by the tall houses, was the village square, crowded with Indians. Bright blankets, and feathers in black hair, and the glint of turquoise, and dark skins shining with heat. Lenina put her handkerchief to her nose again. In the open space at the centre of the square were two circular platforms of masonry and trampled clay—the roofs, it was evident, of underground chambers; for in the centre of each platform was an open hatchway, with a ladder emerging from the lower darkness. A sound of subterranean flute-playing came up and was almost lost in the steady remorseless persistence of the drums.

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Lenina liked the drums. Shutting her eyes she abandoned herself to their soft repeated thunder, allowed it to invade her consciousness more and more completely, till at last there was nothing left in the world but that one deep pulse of sound. It reminded her reassuringly of the synthetic noises made at Solidarity Services and Ford’s Day celebrations. “Orgy-porgy,” she whispered to herself. These drums beat out just the same rhythms.

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There was a sudden startling burst of singing—hundreds of male voices crying out fiercely in harsh metallic unison. A few long notes and silence, the thunderous silence of the drums; then shrill, in a neighing treble, the women’s answer. Then again the drums; and once more the men’s deep savage affirmation of their manhood.

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queer—yes. The place was queer, so was the music, so were the clothes and the goitres and the skin diseases and the old people. But the performance itself—there seemed to be nothing specially queer about that.

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“It reminds me of a lower-caste Community Sing,” she told Bernard.

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But a little later it was reminding her a good deal less of that innocuous function. For suddenly there had swarmed up from those round chambers underground a ghastly troop of monsters. Hideously masked or painted out of all semblance of humanity, they had tramped out a strange limping dance round the square; round and again round, singing as they went, round and round—each time a little faster; and the drums had changed and quickened their rhythm, so that it became like the pulsing of fever in the ears; and the crowd had begun to sing with the dancers, louder and louder; and first one woman had shrieked, and then another and another, as though they were being killed; and then suddenly the leader of the dancers broke out of the line, ran to a big wooden chest which was standing at one end of the square, raised the lid and pulled out a pair of black snakes. A great yell went up from the crowd, and all the other dancers ran towards him with outstretched hands. He tossed the snakes to the first-comers, then dipped back into the chest for more. More and more, black snakes and brown and mottled—he flung them out. And then the dance began again on a different rhythm. Round and round they went with their snakes, snakily, with a soft undulating movement at the knees and hips. Round and round. Then the leader gave a signal, and one after another, all the snakes were flung down in the middle of the square; an old man came up from underground and sprinkled them with corn meal, and from the other hatchway came a woman and sprinkled them with water from a black jar. Then the old man lifted his hand and, startlingly, terrifyingly, there was absolute silence. The drums stopped beating, life seemed to have come to an end. The old man pointed towards the two hatchways that gave entrance to the lower world. And slowly, raised by invisible hands from below, there emerged from the one a painted image of an eagle, from the other that of a man, naked, and nailed to a cross. They hung there, seemingly self-sustained, as though watching. The old man clapped his hands. Naked but for a white cotton breech-cloth, a boy of about eighteen stepped out of the crowd and stood before him, his hands crossed over his chest, his head bowed. The old man made the sign of the cross over him and turned away. Slowly, the boy began to walk round the writhing heap of snakes. He had completed the first circuit and was half-way through the second when, from among the dancers, a tall man wearing the mask of a coyote and holding in his hand a whip of plaited leather advanced towards him. The boy moved on as though unaware of the other’s existence. The coyote-man raised his whip; there was a long moment of expectancy, then a swift movement, the whistle of the lash and its loud flat sounding impact on the flesh. The boy’s body quivered; but he made no sound, he walked on at the same slow, steady pace. The coyote struck again, again; and at every blow at first a gasp, and then a deep groan went up from the crowd. The boy walked. Twice, thrice, four times round he went. The blood was streaming. Five times round, six times round. Suddenly Lenina covered her face with her hands and began to sob. “Oh, stop them, stop them!” she implored. But the whip fell and fell inexorably. Seven times round. Then all at once the boy staggered and, still without a sound, pitched forward on to his face. Bending over him, the old man touched his back with a long white feather, held it up for a moment, crimson, for the people to see then shook it thrice over the snakes. A few drops fell, and suddenly the drums broke out again into a panic of hurrying notes; there was a great shout. The dancers rushed forward, picked up the snakes and ran out of the square. Men, women, children, all the crowd ran after them. A minute later the square was empty, only the boy remained, prone where he had fallen, quite still. Three old women came out of one of the houses, and with some difficulty lifted him and carried him in. The eagle and the man on the cross kept guard for a little while over the empty pueblo; then, as though they had seen enough, sank slowly down through their hatchways, out of sight, into the nether world.

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Lenina was still sobbing. “Too awful,” she kept repeating, and all Bernard’s consolations were in vain. “Too awful! That blood!” She shuddered. “Oh, I wish I had my soma.”

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There was the sound of feet in the inner room.

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Lenina did not move, but sat with her face in her hands, unseeing, apart. Only Bernard turned round.

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The dress of the young man who now stepped out on to the terrace was Indian; but his plaited hair was straw-coloured, his eyes a pale blue, and his skin a white skin, bronzed.

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“Hullo. Good-morrow,” said the stranger, in faultless but peculiar English. “You’re civilized, aren’t you? You come from the Other Place, outside the Reservation?”

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“Who on earth…?” Bernard began in astonishment.

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The young man sighed and shook his head. “A most unhappy gentleman.” And, pointing to the bloodstains in the centre of the square, “Do you see that damned spot?” he asked in a voice that trembled with emotion.

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“A gramme is better than a damn,” said Lenina mechanically from behind her hands. “I wish I had my soma!”

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“I ought to have been there,” the young man went on. “Why wouldn’t they let me be the sacrifice? I’d have gone round ten times—twelve, fifteen. Palowhtiwa only got as far as seven. They could have had twice as much blood from me. The multitudinous seas incarnadine.” He flung out his arms in a lavish gesture; then, despairingly, let them fall again. “But they wouldn’t let me. They disliked me for my complexion. It’s always been like that. Always.” Tears stood in the young man’s eyes; he was ashamed and turned away.

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Astonishment made Lenina forget the deprivation of soma. She uncovered her face and, for the first time, looked at the stranger. “Do you mean to say that you wanted to be hit with that whip?”

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Still averted from her, the young man made a sign of affirmation. “For the sake of the pueblo—to make the rain come and the corn grow. And to please Pookong and Jesus. And then to show that I can bear pain without crying out. Yes,” and his voice suddenly took on a new resonance, he turned with a proud squaring of the shoulders, a proud, defiant lifting of the chin, “to show that I’m a man…Oh!” He gave a gasp and was silent, gaping. He had seen, for the first time in his life, the face of a girl whose cheeks were not the colour of chocolate or dogskin, whose hair was auburn and permanently waved, and whose expression (amazing novelty!) was one of benevolent interest. Lenina was smiling at him; such a nice-looking boy, she was thinking, and a really beautiful body. The blood rushed up into the young man’s face; he dropped his eyes, raised them again for a moment only to find her still smiling at him, and was so much overcome that he had to turn away and pretend to be looking very hard at something on the other side of the square.

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Bernard’s questions made a diversion. Who? How? When? From where? Keeping his eyes fixed on Bernard’s face (for so passionately did he long to see Lenina smiling that he simply dared not look at her), the young man tried to explain himself. Linda and he—Linda was his mother (the word made Lenina look uncomfortable)—were strangers in the Reservation. Linda had come from the Other Place long ago, before he was born, with a man who was his father. (Bernard pricked up his ears.) She had gone walking alone in those mountains over there to the North, had fallen down a steep place and hurt her head. (“Go on, go on,” said Bernard excitedly.) Some hunters from Malpais had found her and brought her to the pueblo. As for the man who was his father, Linda had never seen him again. His name was Tomakin. (Yes, “Thomas” was the D.H.C.’s first name.) He must have flown away, back to the Other Place, away without her—a bad, unkind, unnatural man.

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“And so I was born in Malpais,” he concluded. “In Malpais.” And he shook his head.

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The squalor of that little house on the outskirts of the pueblo!

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A space of dust and rubbish separated it from the village. Two famine-stricken dogs were nosing obscenely in the garbage at its door. Inside, when they entered, the twilight stank and was loud with flies.

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“Linda!” the young man called.

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From the inner room a rather hoarse female voice said, “Coming.”

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They waited. In bowls on the floor were the remains of a meal, perhaps of several meals.

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The door opened. A very stout blonde squaw stepped across the threshold and stood looking at the strangers staring incredulously, her mouth open. Lenina noticed with disgust that two of the front teeth were missing. And the colour of the ones that remained…She shuddered. It was worse than the old man. So fat. And all the lines in her face, the flabbiness, the wrinkles. And the sagging cheeks, with those purplish blotches. And the red veins on her nose, the bloodshot eyes. And that neck—that neck; and the blanket she wore over her head—ragged and filthy. And under the brown sack-shaped tunic those enormous breasts, the bulge of the stomach, the hips. Oh, much worse than the old man, much worse! And suddenly the creature burst out in a torrent of speech, rushed at her with outstretched arms and—Ford! Ford! it was too revolting, in another moment she’d be sick—pressed her against the bulge, the bosom, and began to kiss her. Ford! to kiss, slobberingly, and smelt too horrible, obviously never had a bath, and simply reeked of that beastly stuff that was put into Delta and Epsilon bottles (no, it wasn’t true about Bernard), positively stank of alcohol. She broke away as quickly as she could.

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A blubbered and distorted face confronted her; the creature was crying.

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“Oh, my dear, my dear.” The torrent of words flowed sobbingly. “If you knew how glad—after all these years! A civilized face. Yes, and civilized clothes. Because I thought I should never see a piece of real acetate silk again.” She fingered the sleeve of Lenina’s shirt. The nails were black. “And those adorable viscose velveteen shorts! Do you know, dear, I’ve still got my old clothes, the ones I came in, put away in a box. I’ll show them you afterwards. Though, of course, the acetate has all gone into holes. But such a lovely white bandolier—though I must say your green morocco is even lovelier. Not that it did me much good, that bandolier.” Her tears began to flow again. “I suppose John told you. What I had to suffer—and not a gramme of soma to be had. Only a drink of mescal every now and then, when Popé used to bring it. Popé is a boy I used to know. But it makes you feel so bad afterwards, the mescal does, and you’re sick with the peyotl; besides, it always made that awful feeling of being ashamed much worse the next day. And I was so ashamed. Just think of it: me, a Beta—having a baby: put yourself in my place.” (The mere suggestion made Lenina shudder.) “Though it wasn’t my fault, I swear; because I still don’t know how it happened, seeing that I did all the Malthusian Drill—you know, by numbers, One, two, three, four, always, I swear it; but all the same it happened, and of course there wasn’t anything like an Abortion Centre here. Is it still down in Chelsea, by the way?” she asked. Lenina nodded. “And still flood-lighted on Tuesdays and Fridays?” Lenina nodded again. “That lovely pink glass tower!” Poor Linda lifted her face and with closed eyes ecstatically contemplated the bright remembered image. “And the river at night,” she whispered. Great tears oozed slowly out from behind her tight-shut eyelids. “And flying back in the evening from Stoke Poges. And then a hot bath and vibro-vacuum massage…But there.” She drew a deep breath, shook her head, opened her eyes again, sniffed once or twice, then blew her nose on her fingers and wiped them on the skirt of her tunic. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said in response to Lenina’s involuntary grimace of disgust. “I oughtn’t to have done that. I’m sorry. But what are you to do when there aren’t any handkerchiefs? I remember how it used to upset me, all that dirt, and nothing being aseptic. I had an awful cut on my head when they first brought me here. You can’t imagine what they used to put on it. Filth, just filth. ‘Civilization is Sterilization,’ I used to say t them. And ‘Streptocock-Gee to Banbury-T, to see a fine bathroom and W.C’ as though they were children. But of course they didn’t understand. How should they? And in the end I suppose I got used to it. And anyhow, how can you keep things clean when there isn’t hot water laid on? And look at these clothes. This beastly wool isn’t like acetate. It lasts and lasts. And you’re supposed to mend it if it gets torn. But I’m a Beta; I worked in the Fertilizing Room; nobody ever taught me to do anything like that. It wasn’t my business. Besides, it never used to be right to mend clothes. Throw them away when they’ve got holes in them and buy new. ‘The more stitches, the less riches.’ Isn’t that right? Mending’s anti-social. But it’s all different here. It’s like living with lunatics. Everything they do is mad.” She looked round; saw John and Bernard had left them and were walking up and down in the dust and garbage outside the house; but, none the less confidentially lowering her voice, and leaning, while Lenina stiffened and shrank, so close that the blown reek of embryo-poison stirred the hair on her cheek. “For instance,” she hoarsely whispered, “take the way they have one another here. Mad, I tell you, absolutely mad. Everybody belongs to every one else—don’t they? don’t they?” she insisted, tugging at Lenina’s sleeve. Lenina nodded her averted head, let out the breath she had been holding and managed to draw another one, relatively untainted. “Well, here,” the other went on, “nobody’s supposed to belong to more than one person. And if you have people in the ordinary way, the others think you’re wicked and anti-social. They hate and despise you. Once a lot of women came and made a scene because their men came to see me. Well, why not? And then they rushed at me…No, it was too awful. I can’t tell you about it.” Linda covered her face with her hands and shuddered. “They’re so hateful, the women here. Mad, mad and cruel. And of course they don’t know anything about Malthusian Drill, or bottles, or decanting, or anything of that sort. So they’re having children all the time—like dogs. It’s too revolting. And to think that I…Oh, Ford, Ford, Ford! And yet John was a great comfort to me. I don’t know what I should have done without him. Even though he did get so upset whenever a man…Quite as a tiny boy, even. Once (but that was when he was bigger) he tried to kill poor Waihusiwa—or was it Popé?—just because I used to have them sometimes. Because I never could make him understand that that was what civilized people ought to do. Being mad’s infectious, I believe. Anyhow, John seems to have caught it from the Indians. Because, of course, he was with them a lot. Even though they always were so beastly to him and wouldn’t let him do all the things the other boys did. Which was a good thing in a way, because it made it easier for me to condition him a little. Though you’ve no idea how difficult that is. There’s so much one doesn’t know; it wasn’t my business to know. I mean, when a child asks you how a helicopter works or who made the world—well, what are you to answer if you’re a Beta and have always worked in the Fertilizing Room? What are you to answer?”

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序号 英文/音标 中文解释 更多操作

windless

[’wɪndləs]

adj.无风的;平稳的

contemptuous

[kən’temptjʊəs]

adj.轻视的;轻蔑的;瞧不起的

gunwale

[’ɡʌnl]

n.船舷的上缘

grind

[ɡraɪnd]

v.磨;压迫;碾碎;磨得吱吱响;逐渐停顿

inaudible

[ɪn’ɔːdəbl]

adj.听不见的

mesa

[’meɪsə]

n.平顶山

uneasily

[ʌn’iːzɪli]

adv.不安地;局促地

limp

[lɪmp]

n.跛行

handkerchief

[’hæŋkətʃɪf]

n.手帕;方巾;围巾

incredulity

[ˌɪnkrə’djuːləti]

n.不轻信

Anyhow

[’enihaʊ]

adv.无论如何;不管怎样

hygiene

[’haɪdʒiːn]

n.卫生;卫生学

fleshless

[’fleʃlɪs]

adj.瘦的;消瘦的

amazement

[ə’meɪzmənt]

n.惊愕;惊异

unmoved

[ˌʌn’muːvd]

adj.无动于衷的;坚定的;没有动过的;不动摇的

unimpaired

[ˌʌnɪm’peəd]

adj.未受损伤的;未被减少的;未被削弱的

past

[pɑːst]

a. 过去的;

oversight

[’əʊvəsaɪt]

n.疏忽;失察;监管;看管

unorthodox

[ʌn’ɔːθədɒks]

adj.非正统的;异端的

outrageous

[aʊt’reɪdʒəs]

adj.过分的;骇人的

indignation

[ˌɪndɪɡ’neɪʃn]

n.愤怒;愤慨;义愤

shaft

[ʃɑːft]

n.轴;柄;竖井;杆状物;

persistence

[pə’sɪstəns]

n.坚持;毅力

Solidarity

[ˌsɒlɪ’dærəti]

n.团结

manhood

[’mænhʊd]

n.成年;勇气;男子气概

queer

[kwɪə(r)]

a. 古怪的，奇怪的;

nether

[’neðə(r)]

adj.下面的;地下的

soma

[’səʊmə]

n.身体;肉体;身体细胞;苏玛酒(用作印度神灵的祭品)

unseeing

[ˌʌn’siːɪŋ]

adj.不注意的;视而不见的

straw-coloured

[st’rɔːk’ʌləd]

adj.麦秆色的; 稻草色的; 浅黄色的

faultless

[’fɔːltləs]

adj.完美的;无缺点的

astonishment

[ə’stɒnɪʃmənt]

n.惊讶;令人惊讶的事物

complexion

[kəm’plekʃn]

n.肤色;面色;体质;特性;局面

unnatural

[ʌn’nætʃrəl]

adj.不自然的;反常的;不近人情的

pueblo

[’pwebləʊ]

n.1. 普韦布洛(美国科罗拉多州城市)

stink

[stɪŋk]

n.臭味;臭气

hoarse

[hɔːs]

adj.沙哑的;嘶哑的;刺耳的

distort

[dɪ’stɔːt]

vt.歪曲;扭曲;变形

fertilize

[’fɜːtəlaɪz]

v.施肥;使肥沃;使丰富;【生】使受精;使受粉

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