Tarr felt the street was a pleasant current, setting from some immense and tropic gulf5, neighboured by Floridas of remote invasions. He ambled6 down it puissantly7, shoulders shaped like these waves; a heavy-sided drunken fish. The houses, with winks8 of the shocked clockwork, were grazed, holding along their surface thick soft warmth. It poured weakly into his veins9. A big dog wandering on its easily transposable business, inviting10 some delightful11 accident[36] to deflect12 it from maudlin13 and massive promenade14. In his mind, too, as in the dog’s, his business was doubtful—a small black spot ahead in his brain, half puzzling but peremptory15.
The mat heavy light grey of putty-coloured houses, like thickening merely of hot summer atmosphere without sun, gave a spirituality to this deluge17 of animal well-being18, in weighty pale sense-solidarity19. Through the opaquer atmosphere sounds came lazily or tinglingly. People had become a Balzacian species, boldly tragic20 and comic: like a cast of “Comédie Humaine” humanity off for the day, Balzac sleeping immensely in the cemetery21.
Tarr stopped at a dairy. He bought saladed potatoes, a petit suisse. The coolness, as he entered, felt eerie22. The dairyman, in blue-striped smock and black cap, peaked and cylindrical23, came out of an inner room. Through its glasses several women were visible, busy at a meal. This man’s isolation24 from the heat and mood of the world outside, impressed his customer as he came forward with a truculent25 “Monsieur!” Tarr, while his things were done up, watched the women. The discreet26 voices, severe reserve of keen business preoccupations, showed the usual Paris commer?ante. The white, black, and slate-grey of dresses, extreme neatness, silent felt over-slippers, make their commercial devotions rather conventual. With this purchase—followed by one of strawberries at a fruiterer’s opposite—his destination was no longer doubtful.
He was going to Bertha’s to eat his lunch. Hence the double quantity of saladed potatoes. He skirted the railings of the Luxembourg Gardens for fifteen yards. Crossing the road, he entered the Rue27 Martine, a bald expanse of uniformly coloured rosy-grey pavement, plaster, and shutter28. A large iron gate led into a short avenue of trees. At its end Bertha lived in a three-story house.
The leaden brilliant green of spring foliage29 hung above him, ticketing innumerably the trees, sultry smoke volumes from factories in Fairyland. Its[37] novelty, fresh yet dead, had the effectiveness of an unnecessary mirage30. The charm of habit and monotony he had come to affront31 seemed to have coloured, chemically, these approaches to its home.
He found Bertha’s eye fixed32 on him with a sort of humorous indifferent query33 from the window. He smiled, thinking what would be the veritable answer! On finding himself in the presence of the object of his erudite discussion, he felt he had got the focus wrong. This familiar life, with its ironical34 eye, mocked at him too. It was aware of the subject of his late conversation. The twin of the shrewd feeling embodied35 in the observation, “One can never escape from oneself,” appeared.
This ironical unsurprised eye at the window, so vaguely36 apropos37, offended him. It seemed to be making fun of the swaggering indifference38 he was bringing to bask39 in the presence of its object. He became slightly truculent.
“Have you had lunch yet, my dear?” he asked, as she opened the door to him. “I’ve brought you some strawberries.”
“I didn’t expect you, Sorbet. No, I’ve not had lunch. I was just going to get it.” (Sorbet, or in English, Sherbert, was his nom d’amour, a perversion40 of his name, Sorbert).
Bertha’s was the intellectually fostered Greek type of German handsomeness. It is that beauty that makes you wonder, when you meet it, if German mothers have replicas41 and photographs of the Venus of Milo in their rooms during the first three months of their pregnancy42. It is also found in the pages of Prussian art periodicals, the arid43, empty intellectualism of Münich. She had been a heavy baby. Her body now, a self-indulgent athlete’s, was strung to heavy motherhood.
A great believer in tepid44 “air-baths,” she would remain, for hours together, in a state of nudity about her rooms. She was wearing a pale green striped affair, tight at the waist. It looked as though meant[38] for a smaller woman. It may have belonged to her sister. As a result, her ample form had left the fullness of a score of attitudes all over it, in flat creasings and pencillings—like the sanguine46 of an Italian master in which the leg is drawn47 in several positions, one on top of the other.
“What have you come for, Sorbet?”
“To see you. What did you suppose?”
“Oh, you have come to see me?”
“I brought these things. I thought you might be hungry.”
“Yes, I am rather.” She stopped in the passage, Dryad-like on one foot, and stared into the kitchen. Tarr did not kiss her. He put his hand on her hip—a way out of it—and led her into the room. His hand remarked that she was underneath49 in her favourite state of nakedness.
Bertha went into the kitchen with the provisions. She lived in two rooms on one side of the front door. Her friend, Fr?ulein Goenthner, to whom she sub-let, lived on the other side of it, the kitchen promiscuously50 existing between, and immediately facing the entrance.
Tarr was in the studio or salon52. It was a complete bourgeois-bohemian interior. Green silk cloth and cushions of various vegetable and mineral shades covered everything, in mildewy53 blight54. The cold, repulsive55 shades of Islands of the Dead, gigantic cypresses56, grottos57 of Teutonic nymphs, had invaded this dwelling58. Purple metal and leather steadily59 dispensed60 with expensive objects. There was the plaster east of Beethoven (some people who have frequented artistic61 circles get to dislike this face extremely), brass62 jars from Normandy, a photograph of Mona Lisa (Tarr hated the Mona Lisa).
A table just by the window, laid with a white cloth, square embroidered63 holes at its edges, was where Tarr at once took up his position. Truculence64 was denoted by his thus going straight to his eating-place.
Installed in the midst of this ridiculous life, he[39] gave a hasty glance at his “indifference” to see whether it were safe and sound. Seen through it, on opening the door, Bertha had appeared unusual. This impressed him disagreeably. Had his rich and calm feeling of bounty65 towards her survived the encounter, his “indifference” might also have remained intact.
He engrossed66 himself in his sense of physical well-being. From his pocket he produced a tin box containing tobacco, papers, and a little steel machine for rolling cigarettes given him by Bertha. A long slim hinged shell, it nipped in a little cartridge67 of tobacco, which it then slipped with inside a paper tube, and slipping out again empty, the cigarette was made.
Tarr began manufacturing cigarettes. Reflections from the shining metal in his hand scurried68 about amongst the bilious69 bric-à-brac. Like a layer of water lying on one of oil, the light heated stretch by the windows appeared distinct from the shadowed part of the room.
This place was cheap and dead, but rich with the same lifelessness as the trees without. These looked extremely near and familiar at the opened windows, breathing the same air continually as Bertha. But they were dusty, rough, and real.
Bertha came in from the kitchen. She went on with a trivial rearrangement of her writing-table. This had been her occupation as he appeared at the gate beneath, drawing her ironical and musing70 eye from his image to himself. A new photograph of Tarr was being placed on her writing-table flush with the window. Ten days previously71 it had been taken in that room. It had ousted72 a Klinger and generally created a restlessness, to her eye, in the other objects.
“Ah, you’ve got the photographs, have you?—Is that me?”
She handed it to him.
“Yes, they came yesterday!”
“Yesterday” he had not been there! Whatever he asked at the present moment would draw a softly[40] thudding answer, heavy German reproach concealed73 in it with tireless ingenuity74. These photographs would under other circumstances have been produced on his arrival with considerable noise.
Tarr had looked rather askance at this portrait and Bertha’s occupation. There was his photograph, calmly, with an air of permanence, taking up its position on her writing-table, just as he was preparing to vanish for good.
“Let’s see yours,” he said, still holding the photograph.
What strange effects all this complicated activity inside had on the surface, his face. A set sulky stagnation75, every violence dropping an imperceptible shade on to it, the features overgrown with this strange stuff—that twist of the head that was him, and that could only be got rid of by breaking.
“They’re no good,” she said, closing the drawer, handing her photographs, sandwiched with tissue-paper, to Sorbert. “That one”—a sitting pose, face yearning76 from photograph, lighted, not with a smile, but a sort of sentimental77 illumination, the drapery arranged like a poster—“I don’t think that’s so bad,” she said slangily, meant to be curt78 and “cheeky.”
“What an idiot!” he thought; “what a face!”
A consciously pathetic ghost of a smile, a clumsy sweetness, the energetic sentimental claim of a rather rough but frank self.
There was a photograph of her in riding habit. This was the best of them. He softened79.
Then came a photograph of them together.
How strangely that twist of his, or set angle of the head, fitted in with the corresponding peculiarities81 of the woman’s head and bust4. What abysms of idiocy82! Rubbishy hours and months formed the atmosphere around these two futile83 dolls!
He put the photographs down and looked up. She was sitting on the edge of the table. The dressing-gown was open, and one large thigh84, with ugly whiteness, slid half out of it. It looked dead, and[41] connected with her like a ventriloquist’s dummy85 with its master. It was natural to wonder where his senses had gone in looking at these decorous photographs. This exhibition appeared to be her explanation of the matter. The face was not very original. But a thigh cannot be stupid to the same degree.
He gazed surlily. Her musing expression at this moment was supremely86 absurd. He smiled and turned his face to the window. She pretended to become conscious suddenly of something amiss. She drew the dressing-gown round her.
“Have you paid the man yet? What did he charge? I expect?”
Tarr took up the packet again.
“Oh, these are six francs. I forget what the big ones are. I haven’t paid him yet. He’s coming to photograph Miss Goenthner to-morrow.”
They sat without saying anything.
He examined the room as you do a doctor’s waiting-room.
He had just come there to see if he could turn his back on it. That appeared at first sight a very easy matter. That is why he so far had not succeeded in doing so. Never put on his mettle87, his standing88 army of will was not sufficient to cope with it. But would this little room ever appear worth turning his back on? It was the purest distillation89 of the commonplace. He had become bewitched by its strangeness. It was the height of the unreal. Bertha was like a fairy that he visited, and “became engaged” to in another world, not the real one. It was so much the real ordinary world that for him with his out-of-the-way experience it was a phantasmagoria. Then what he had described as his disease of sport was perpetually fed. Sex even with him, according to his analysis, being a sort of ghost, was at home in this gross and buffonic illusion. Something had filled up a blank and become saturated90 with the blankness.
How much would Bertha mind a separation? Tarr saw in her one of those clear, humorous, superficial[42] natures, a Venetian or a Viennese, the easy product of a cynical91 and abundant life. He under-rated the potency92 of his fascination93. Secondly94, he miscalculated the depths of obedient attachment95 he had wakened.
They sat impatiently waiting. A certain formality had to be observed. Then the business of the day could be proceeded with. They were both bored with the part imposed by the punctilious96 and ridiculous god of love. Bertha, into the bargain, wanted to get on with her cooking. She would have cut considerably97 the reconciliation98 scene. All her side of the programme had been conscientiously99 done.
“Berthe, tu es une brave fille!”
“Tu trouves?”
“Oui.”
More inaction followed on Tarr’s part. She sometimes thought he enjoyed these ceremonies.
Through girlhood her strong senses had churned away at her, and claimed an image from her gentle and dreamy mind. In its turn the mind had accumulated its impressions of men, fancies from books and conversations, and made its hive. So her senses were presented with the image that was to satisfy and rule them. They flung themselves upon it as she had flung herself upon Tarr.
This image left considerable latitude100. Tarr had been the first to fit—rather paradoxically, but all the faster for that.
This “high standard Aryan female,” as Tarr described her, had arrived, with him, at the full and headlong condition we agree to name “love.” The image, or type, was thrown away. The individual took its place.
Bertha had had several sweethearts before Tarr. They had all left the type-image intact. At most it had been a little blurred101 by them. It had almost been smashed for one man, physically102 resembling Tarr. But he had never got quite near enough to do that. Tarr had characteristically supposed this image to have little sharpness of outline left. He[43] thought it would not be a very difficult matter for any one to extort103 its recognitions.
“Vous êtes à mon go?t, Sorbet. Du bist mein gesmack,” she would say.
Tarr was not demonstrative when she said this. He could not reciprocate105. And he could not help reflecting whether to be “her taste” was very flattering. There must be something the matter with him.
All her hope centred in his laziness. She watched his weaknesses with a loving eye. He had much to say about his under-nature. She listened attentively106.
“It is the most dangerous quality of all to possess,” and he would sententiously add—“only the best people possess it, in common with the obscure and humble107. It is like a great caravanserai in which scores of people congregate108. It is a disguise in which such a one, otherwise Pasha, circulates among unembarrassed men. He brings away stores of wisdom, with much diversion by the way.” He saw, however, the danger of these facilities. The Pasha had been given a magic mask of humbleness109. But the inner nature seemed flowing equally to the mask and the unmasked magnificence. He was as yet unformed, but wished to form wholly Pasha. This under-nature’s chief use was as a precious villégiature for his energy. Bertha was the country wench the more exalted110 incarnation had met while on its holidays, or, wandering idle Khalife, in some concourse of his surreptitious life.
His three days’ unannounced and uncommented “leave” had made Bertha very nervous. She suffered from the incomplete, unsymmetrical appearance her life now presented. Everything spread out palpably before her, that she could arrange like a roomful of furniture, was how she liked it. Even in her present shakedown of a life, Tarr had noticed the way he was treated as material for “arrangement.” But she had never been able to indulge this idiosyncrasy much in the past. This was not the first time[44] that she had found herself in a similar position. Hence her certain air of being at home in these casual quarters, which belied111 her.
The detested112 temporary dwelling in the last few days had been given a new coat of sombre thought. Found in accidental quarters, had she not been over-delicate in not suggesting an immediate51 move into something more homelike and permanent. People would leave her there for the rest of her natural life unless she were a little brutal113 and got herself out somehow. No shadow of un-nice feeling ever tainted114 her abject115 genuineness. Cunning efforts to retain him abounded116. But she never blamed or turned on him. She had given herself long ago, at once, without ceremony. She awaited his thanks or no thanks simply.
But the itch48 of action was on her.
Tarr’s absences were like light. His presence was a shadow. They were both stormy. The last absence had illuminated117 the undiscipline of her life. During the revealing luridness118, she got to work. Reconstruction119 was begun. She had trusted too much in Fate and obedient waiting Hymen.
So Bertha had a similar ferment120 to Tarr’s.
Anger with herself, dreary121 appetite for action, would help her over farewells. She was familiar enough with them, too, in thought. She would not stir a hand to change things. He must do that. She would only facilitate things in all directions for him. The new energy delivered attack after attack upon her hope. She saw nothing beyond Tarr but measures of utility. The “heart” had always been her most cherished ornament122. That Tarr would take with him, as she would keep his ring and the books he had given her. She could not now get it back for the asking. She did not want it! She must indulge her mania123 for tasteful arrangement in future without this. Or rather what heart she had left would be rather like one of those salmon-coloured, corrugated124 gas office-stoves, compared to a hearth125 with a fire of pine.
[45]
Tarr had not brought his indifference there to make it play tricks, perform little feats126. Nor did he wish to press it into inhuman127 actions. It was a humane128 “indifference,” essentially129. So with reluctance130 he got up, and went over to her.
“You haven’t kissed me yet,” he said, in imitation of her.
“Why kiss you, Sorbet?” she managed to say before her lips were closed. He drew her ungraciously and roughly into his arms, and started kissing her on the mouth. She covered him, docilely131, with her inertia132. He was supposed to be performing a miracle of bringing the dead to life. Gone about too crudely, the willing mountebank133, Death, had been offended. It is not thus that great spirits are prevailed upon to flee. Her “indifference”—the great, simulated, and traditional—would not be ousted by an upstart and younger relative. By Tarr himself, grown repentant134, yes. But not by another “indifference.” Then his brutality135 stung her offended spirit, that had been pursing itself up for so many hours. Tears began rolling tranquilly136 out of her eyes in large dignified137 drops. They had not been very far back in the wings. He received them frigidly138. She was sure, thought he, to detect something unusual during this scene.
Then with the woman’s bustling, desperate, possessive fury, she suddenly woke up. She disengaged her arms wildly and threw them round his neck, tears becoming torrential. Underneath the poor comedian139 that played such antics with such phlegmatic140 and exasperating141 persistence142, this distressed143 being thrust up its trembling mask, like a drowning rat. Its finer head pierced her blunter wedge.
“Oh! dis, Sorbet! Est-ce que tu m’aime? M’aime-tu? Dis!”
“Yes, you know. Don’t cry.”
A wail144, like the buzzing on a comb covered with paper followed.
“Oh, dis; m’aimes-tu? Dis que tu m’aime!”
A blurting145, hurrying personality rushed right up into his face. It was like the sightless clammy[46] charging of a bat. More eloquent146 regions had ambushed147 him. Humbug148 had mysteriously departed. It was a blast of knifelike air in the middle of their hot-house. He stared at her face groping up as though it scented troubles in his face. It pushed to right and then to left and rocked itself. Intelligent and aware, it lost this intensity149.
A complicated image developed in his mind as he stood with her. He was remembering Schopenhauer. It was of a Chinese puzzle of boxes within boxes, or of insects’ discarded envelopes. A woman had in the middle of her a kernel150, a sort of very substantial astral baby. This baby was apt to swell151. She then became all baby. The husk he held was a painted mummy-case. He was a mummy-case too. Only he contained nothing but innumerable other painted cases inside, smaller and smaller ones. The smallest was not a substantial astral baby, however, or live core, but a painting like the rest. His kernel was a painting. That was as it should be!
He was half sitting on the table. He found himself patting her back. He stopped doing this. His face looked heavy and fatigued152. A dull, intense infection of her despair had filled it.
He held her head gently against his neck. Or he held her skull153 against his neck. She shook and sniffed154 softly.
“Bertha, stop crying. I know I’m a brute155. But it’s fortunate for you that I am. I’m only a brute. There’s nothing to cry for.”
He over-estimated deafness in weepers. And when women flooded their country he always sat down and waited. Often as this had happened to him, he had never attempted to circumvent156 it. He felt like a person who is taking a little dog for a walk at the end of a string. His voice appeared husky and artificial near her ear.
Turned towards the window, he looked at the green stain of the foliage outside. Something was explained. Nature was not friendly to him; its metallic157 tints158 jarred. Or anyhow, it was the same[47] for all men. The sunlight seen like an adventurous159 stranger in the streets was intimate with Bertha. The scrap160 of crude forest had made him want to be away unaccompanied. But it was tainted with her. If he went away now he would only be playing at liberty. He had been right in not accepting the invitations of the spring. The settlement of this question stood between him and pleasure. A momentary161 well-being had been accepted. The larger spiritual invitation he had rejected. He would only take that when he was free. In its annual expansion Nature sent its large unstinting invitations. But Nature loved the genius and liberty in him. Tarr felt the invitation would not have been so cordial had he proposed taking a wife and family!
He led her passively protesting to the sofa. Like a sick person, she was half indignant at being moved. He should have remained, a perpendicular162 bed for her, till the fever had passed. Revolted at the hypocrisy163 required, he left her standing at the edge of the sofa. She stood crouching164 a little, her face buried in her hands, in indignant absurdity165. The only moderately clean thing to do would be to walk out of the door at once and never come back. With his background of months of different behaviour this could not be done.
She sank down on the sofa, head buried in the bilious cushions. She lay there like an animal, he thought, or some one mad, a lump of half-humanity. On one side of him Bertha lay quite motionless and silent, and on the other the little avenue was equally still. The false stillness within, however, now gave back to the scene without its habitual166 character. It still seemed strange to him. But all its strangeness now lay in its everyday and natural appearance. The quiet inside, in the room, was what did not seem strange to him. He had become imbued167 with that. Bertha’s numb168 silence and abandon was a stupid tableau169 vivant of his own mood. In this impasse170 of arrested life he stood sick and useless. They progressed from stage to stage of this weary farce171. Confusion[48] increased. It resembled a combat between two wrestlers of mathematically equal strength. Neither could win. One or other of them was usually wallowing warily172 or lifelessly on his stomach, the other tugging173 at him or examining and prodding174 his carcass. His liking175, contempt, realization176 of her love for him, his confused but exigent conscience, dogged preparation to say farewell, all dovetailed with precision. There she lay a deadweight. He could take his hat and go. But once gone in this manner he could not stay.
He turned round, and sitting on the window-sill began again staring at Bertha.
Women’s stormy weakness, psychic177 discharges, always affected178 him as the sight of a person being seasick179. It was the result of a weak spirit, as the other was the result of a weak stomach. They could only live on the retching seas of their troubles on the condition of being quite empty. The lack of art or illusion in actual life enables the sensitive man to exist. Likewise the phenomenal lack of nature in the average man’s existence is lucky and necessary for him.
Tarr in some way gathered strength from contemplation of Bertha. His contradictory180 and dislocated feelings were brought into a new synthesis.
Launching himself off the window-sill, he stood still as though suspended in thought. He then sat down provisionally at the writing-table, within a few feet of the sofa. He took up a book of Goethe’s poems that she had given him. In cumbrous field-day dress of Gothic characters, squad181 after squad, these poems paraded their message. He had left it there on a former visit. He came to the ode named “Ganymed,”
Wie im Morgenglanze
Du rings much anglühst
Frühling, Geliebter!
Mit tausendfacher Liebeswonne
Sich an mein Herz dr?ngt
Deiner ewigen W?rme
Heilig, Gefühl,
Unendliche Sch?ne!
[49]
He put it in his breast-pocket. As soldiers go into battle sometimes with the Bible in their pocket, he prepared himself for a final combat, with Goethe upon his person. Men’s lives have been known to have been saved through a lesser182 devoutness183.
He was engaging battle again with the most chivalrous184 sentiments. The reserves had been called up, his nature mobilized. As his will gathered force and volume (in its determination to “fling” her) he unhypocritically keyed up its attitude. It resembled extreme cunning. He had felt, while he had been holding her, at a disadvantage because of his listless emotion. With emotion equal to hers, he could accomplish anything. Leaving her would be child’s play. He appeared to be projecting the manufacture of a more adequate sentiment.
Any indirectness was out of the question. A “letting her down softly,” kissing and leaving in an hour or two, as though things had not changed, that must now be eschewed—oh, yes. The genuine section of her, of which he had a troubled glimpse, mattered, nothing else. He must appeal obstinately185 to that. Their coming together had been prosecuted186 on his side with a stupid levity187. He would retrieve188 this in the parting. He wished to do everything most opposite to his previous lazy conduct. He frowned on Humour.
The first skirmish of his comic Armageddon had opened with the advance of his mysterious and goguenard “indifference.” This dwindled189 away at the first onset190. A new and more powerful thing had taken its place. This was, in Bertha’s eyes, a difference in Tarr.
“Something has happened; he is different,” she said to herself. “He has met somebody else,” had been her rapid provisional conclusion.
She suddenly got up without speaking. Rather spectrally191, she went over to the writing-table for her handkerchief. She had not moved an inch or a muscle until quite herself again, dropping steadily[50] down all the scale of feeling to normal. With matter-of-factness she got up, easily and quietly, making Sorbert a little dizzy.
Her face had all the drama wrung193 out of it. It was hard, clear, and garishly194 white, like her body.
If he were to have a chance of talking he must clear the air of electricity completely. Else at his first few words storm might return.
Once lunch had swept through the room, things would be better. He would send the strawberries ahead to prepare his way. It was like fattening195 a lamb for the slaughter196. This idea pleased him. Now that he had accepted the existence of a possible higher plane of feeling as between Bertha and himself, he was anxious to avoid display. So he ran the risk of outdoing his former callousness198. Tarr was saturated with morbid199 English shyness, that cannot tolerate passion and its nakedness. This shyness, as he contended, in its need to show its heart, discovers subtleties200 and refinements201 of expression, opposites and between shades, unknown to less gauche202 and delicate people. But if he were hustled203 out of his shell the anger that co-existed with his modesty204 was the most spontaneous thing he possessed205. Bertha had always left him alone.
He got up, obsequiously206 reproducing in his own movements and expression her new normality.
“Well, how about lunch? I’ll come and help you with it.”
“There’s nothing to do. I’ll get it.”
Bertha had wiped her eyes with the attentiveness207 a man bestows208 on his chin after a shave, in little brusque hard strokes. She did not look at Tarr. She arranged her hair in the mirror, then went to the kitchen. For her to be so perfectly209 natural offended him.
The intensity of her past feeling carried her on for about five minutes into ordinary life. Her seriousness was tactful for so long. Then her nature began to give way. It broke up again into fits and starts[51] of self-consciousness. The mind was called in, did its work clumsily as usual. She became her usual self. Sitting on the stool by the window, in the act of eating, Tarr there in front of her, it was more than ever impossible to be natural. She resented the immediate introduction of lunch in this way. The resentment210 increased her artificiality.
To counterbalance the acceptance of food, she had to throw more pathos211 into her face. With haggard resignation she was going on again; doing what was asked of her, partaking of this lunch. She did so with unnecessary conscientiousness212. Her strange wave of dignity had let her in for this? Almost she must make up for that dignity! Life was confusing her again; it was useless to struggle.
“Aren’t these strawberries good? These little hard ones are better than the bigger strawberries. Have some more cream?”
“Thank you.” She should have said no. But being greedy in this matter she accepted it, with heavy air of some subtle advantage gained.
“How did the riding lesson go off?” She went to a riding school in the mornings.
“Oh, quite well, thank you. How did your lesson go off?” This referred to his exchange of languages with a Russian girl.
“Admirably, thank you.”
The Russian girl was a useful feint for her.
“What is the time?” The time? What cheek! He was almost startled.
He took his heavy watch out and presented its face to her ironically.
“Are you in a hurry?” he asked.
“No, I just wondered what the time was. I live so vaguely.”
“You are sure you are not in a hurry?”
“Oh, no!”
“I have a confession213 to make, my dear Bertha.” He had not put his watch back in his pocket. She had asked for the watch; he would use it. “I came here just now to test a funny mood—a quite new[52] mood. My visit is a sort of trial trip of this mood. It was connected with you. I wanted to find out what it meant, and how it would be affected by your presence.”
Bertha looked up with mocking sulky face, a shade of hopeful curiosity.
“It was a feeling of complete indifference as regards yourself!”
He said this solemnly, with the pomp with which a weighty piece of news might be delivered by a solicitor214 in conversation with his client.
“Oh, is that all?” The new barbaric effort was met by Bertha scornfully.
“No, that is not all.”
Catching215 at the professional figure his manner had conjured216 up, he ran his further remarks into that mould. The presence of his watch in his hand had brought some image of the family physician or gouty attorney. It all centred round the watch, and her interest in the time of day.
“I have found that this was only another fraud on my too credulous217 sensibility.” He smiled with professional courtesy. “At sight of you, my mood evaporated. But what I want to talk about is what is left. It would be well to bring our accounts up to date. I’m afraid the reckoning is enormously against me. You have been a criminally indulgent partner?”
He had now got the image down to the more precise form of two partners, perhaps comfortable wine merchants, going through their books.
“My dear boy, I know that. You needn’t trouble to go any further. But why are you going into these calculations, and sums of profit and loss?”
“Because my sentimental finances, if I may use that term, are in a bad state.”
“Then they only match your worldly ones.”
“In my worldly ones I have no partner,” he reminded her.
She cast her eyes about in swoops218, full of self-possessed wildness.
[53]
“I exonerate219 you, Sorbet,” she said, “you needn’t go into details. What is yours and what is mine. My God! What does it matter? Not much!”
“I know you to be generous?”
“Leave that then! Leave these calculations! All that means so little to me! I feel at the end of my strength—au bout45 de force!” She always heaved this out with much energy. “If you’ve made up your mind to go—do so, Sorbet. I release you! You owe me nothing. It was all my fault. But spare me a reckoning. I can’t stand any more?”
“No, I insist on being responsible. We can’t leave things upside down—our books in an endless muddle220, our desks open, and just walk away for ever—and perhaps set up shop somewhere else?”
“I do not feel in any mood to ‘set up shop somewhere else,’ I can assure you!”
The unbusinesslike element in the situation she had allowed to develop for obvious reasons. She now resisted his dishonest attempt to set this right, and benefit first, as he had done, by disorder221, and lastly by order.
“We can’t, in any case, improve matters by talking. I—I, you needn’t fear for me, Sorbet. I can look after myself, only don’t let us wrangle222,” with appealing gesture and saintlily smiling face, “let us part friends. Let us be worthy223 of each other.”
Bertha always opposed to Tarr’s images her Teutonic lyricism, usually repeating the same phrases several times.
This was degenerating224 into their routine of wrangle. Always confronted by this imperturbable225, deaf and blind “generosity226,” the day would end in the usual senseless “draw.” His words still remained unsaid.
“Bertha, listen. Let us, just for fun, throw all this overboard. I mean the cargo227 of inflated228 soul-stuff that makes us go statelily, no doubt, but—Haven’t we quarrelled enough, and said these things often enough? Our quarrels have been our undoing229.[54] A long chain of little quarrels has bound us down. We should neither of us be here if it hadn’t been for them.”
Bertha gazed at Tarr half wonderingly. She realized that something out of the ordinary was on foot.
Tarr proceeded.
“I have accepted from you a queer sentimental dialect of life, I should have insisted on your expressing yourself in a more logical and metropolitan230 speech. Let us drop it. There is no need to talk negro, baby-talk, or hybrid231 drivel from no-man’s-land. I don’t think we should lead a very pleasant married life—naturally. In the second place, you are not a girl who wants an intrigue232, but to marry. I have been playing at fiancé with a certain pleasure in the novelty, but I experience a genuine horror at the possible consequences. I have been playing with you!”
He said this eagerly, as though it were a point in his argument—as it was. He paused, for effect apparently233.
“You, for your part, Bertha, don’t do yourself justice when you are acting234. I am in the same position. I feel this. My ill-humour occasionally falls in your direction—yours, for its part, falling in mine when I criticize your acting. We don’t act well together, and that’s a fact; though I’m sure we should be smooth enough allies off the boards of love. Your heart, Bertha, is in the right place; ah, ?a?”
“You are too kind!”
“But—but I will go further! At the risk of appearing outrageously235 paradoxical. This heart in question is so much part of your intelligence, too?”
“Thanks! Thanks!”
“—despite your execrable fatuity236 as an actress! Your shrewdness and goodness give each other the hand.—But to return to my point. I had always till I met you regarded marriage as a thing beyond all argument not for me. I was unusually isolated[55] from this idea, anyway; I had never even reflected what marriage was. You introduced me to marriage! In so doing you are responsible for all our troubles. The approach of this horrible thing, so surprisingly pleasant and friendly at nearer sight, caused revulsion of feeling beyond my control, resulting in sudden fian?ailles. Like a woman luxuriously237 fingering some merchant’s goods, too dear for her, or not wanted enough for the big price, so I philandered238 with the idea of marriage.”
This simplification put things, merely, in a new callous197 light. Tarr felt that she must naturally be enjoying, too, his points. He forgot to direct his exposition in such a way as to hurt her least. This trivial and tortured landscape had a beauty for him he could have explained, where her less developed sense saw nothing but a harrowing reality.
The lunch had had the same effect on him that it was intended to have on his victim; not enough to overthrow239 his resolution, but enough to relax its form.
As to Bertha, this seemed, in the main, “Sorbet all over.” There was nothing new. There was the “difference.” But it was the familiar process; he was attempting to convince himself, heartlessly, on her. Whether he would ever manage it was problematic. There was no sign of his being likely to do so more to-day than any other day. She listened; sententiously released him from time to time.
Just as she had seemed strange to him in some way when he came in, seen through his “indifference,” so he had appeared a little odd to her. This had wiped off the dullness of habit for a moment. This husband she obstinately wanted had been recognized. She had seized him round the shoulders and clung to him, as though he had been her child that some senseless force were about to snatch.
As to his superstition240 about marriage—was it not merely restlessness of youth, propaganda of Liberty, that a year or so would see in Limbo241? For was he not a “marrying man”? She was sure of it! She[56] had tried not to frighten him, and to keep “Marriage” in the background.
So Tarr’s disquisition had no effect except for one thing. When he spoke242 of pleasure he derived243 from idea of marriage, she wearily pricked244 up her ears. The conviction that Tarr was a domesticated245 animal was confirmed from his own lips. The only result of his sortie was to stimulate246 her always vigilant247 hope and irony248, both, just a little. He had intended to prepare the couch for her despair!
His last words, affirming Marriage to be a game not worth the candle, brought a faint and “weary” smile to her face. She was once more, obviously, au bout de force.
“Sorbert; I understand you. Do realize that. There is no necessity for all this rigmarole With me. If you think you shouldn’t marry—why, it’s quite simple! Don’t think that I would force you to marry! Oh, no!” (The training guttural unctuous249 accent she had in speaking English filled her discourse250 with natural emphasis.) “I always said that you were too young. You need a wife. You’ve just said yourself about your feeling for marriage. But you are so young!” She gazed at him with compassionate251, half-smiling moistened look, as though there were something deformed253 about being so young. A way she had was to treat anything that obviously pointed254 to her as the object of pity, as though it manifestly indicated, on the contrary, him. “Yes, Sorbet, you are right,” she finished briskly. “I think it would be madness for us to marry!”
A suggestion that their leisurely255 journey towards marriage was perhaps a mistake was at once seriously, and with conviction far surpassing that he had ventured on, taken up by her. She would immediately call a halt, pitch tents preliminary to turning back. A pause was necessary before beginning the return journey. Next day they would be jogging on again in the same disputed direction.
Tarr now saw at once what had happened. His good words had been lost, all except his confession to[57] a weakness for the matronly blandishments of Matrimony. He had an access of stupid, brief, and blatant256 laughter.
As people have wondered what was at the core of the world, basing their speculations257 on what deepest things occasionally emerge, with violence, at its holes, so Bertha often conjectured258 what might be at the heart of Tarr. Laughter was the most apparently central substance that, to her knowledge, had incontrollably appeared. She had often heard grondements, grumblings, quite literally259, and seen unpleasant lights, belonging, she knew, to other categories of matter. But they never broke cover.
At present this gaiety was interpreted as proof that she had been right. There was nothing in what he had said. It had been only one of his bad fits of rebellion.
But laughter Tarr felt was retrogression. Laughter must be given up. He must in some way, for both their sakes, lay at once the foundations of an ending.
For a few minutes he played with the idea of affecting her weapons. Perhaps it was not only impossible to overcome, but even to approach, or to be said to be on the same field with, this peculiar80 amazon, without such uniformity of engines of attack or defence. Should not he get himself a mask like hers at once, and follow suit with some emphatic260 sentence? He stared uncertainly at her. Then he sprang to his feet. He intended, as far as he could see beyond this passionate252 movement (for he must give himself up to the mood, of course) to pace the room. But his violence jerked out of him a shout of laughter. He went stamping about the floor roaring with reluctant mirth. It would not come out properly, too, except the first outburst.
“Ay. That’s right! Go on! Go on!” Bertha’s patient irony seemed to gibe261.
This laughter left him vexed262 with himself, like a fit of tears. “Humour and pathos are such near twins, that Humour may be exactly described as the most feminine attribute of man, and the only one of[58] which women show hardly any trace! Jokes are like snuff, a slatternly habit,” said Tarr to Butcher once, “whereas tragedy (and tears) is like tobacco, much drier and cleaner. Comedy being always the embryo263 of Tragedy, the directer nature weeps. Women are of course directer than men. But they have not the same resources.”
Butcher blinked. He thought of his resources, and remembered his inclination264 to tears.
Tarr’s disgust at this electric rush of sound made him turn it on her. He was now put at a fresh disadvantage. How could he ever succeed in making Bertha believe that a person who laughed immoderately meant what he said? Under the shadow of this laugh all his ensuing acts or words must toil265, discredited266 in advance.
Desperately267 ignoring accidents, he went back beyond his first explosion, and attacked its cause—indicting Bertha, more or less, as responsible for the disturbance268.
He sat down squarely in front of her, hardly breathed from his paroxysm, getting launched without transition. He hoped, by rapid plunging269 from one state to another, to take the wind out of the laugh’s sails. It should be left towering, spectral192, but becalmed, behind.
“I don’t know from which side to approach you, Bertha. You frequently complain of my being thoughtless and spoilt. But your uncorked solemnity is far more frivolous270 than anything I can manage.—Excuse me, of course, for speaking in this way!—Won’t you come down from your pedestal just for a few minutes?” And he “sketched,” in French idiom, a gesture, as though offering her his hand.
“My dear Sorbert, I feel far from being on any pedestal! There’s too little of the pedestal, if anything, about me. Really, Sorbet,” (she leant towards him with an abortive271 movement as though to take his hand) “I am your friend; believe me!”[59] (Last words very quick, with nod of head and blink of eyes.) “You worry yourself far too much. Don’t do so. You are in no way bound to me. If you think we should part—let us part!”
The “let us part!” was precipitate272, strenuous273 Prussian, almost truculent.
Tarr thought: “Is it cunning, stupidity, disease or what?”
She continued of a sudden, shunting on to another track of generosity:
“But I agree. Let us be franker. We waste too much time talking, talking. You are different to-day, Sorbet. What is it? If you have met somebody else?”
“If I had I’d tell you. There is besides nobody else to meet. You are unique!”
“Some one’s been saying something to you?”
“No. I’ve been saying something to somebody else. But it’s the same thing.”
With half-incredulous, musing, glimmering274 stare she drew in her horns.
Tarr meditated275. “I should have known that. I am asking her for something that she sees no reason to give up. Next her go?t for me, it is the most valuable thing she possesses. It is indissolubly mixed up with the go?t. The poor heightened self she laces herself into is the only consolation276 for me and all the troubles I spring on her. And I ask her brutally277 to ‘come down from her pedestal.’ I owe even a good deal to that pedestal, I expect, as regards her go?t. This blessed protection Nature has given her, I, a minute or two before leaving her, make a last inept278 attempt to capture or destroy. Her good sense is contemptuous and indignant. It is only in defence of this ridiculous sentimentality that she has ever shown her teeth. This illusion has enabled her to bear things so long. It now stands ready with Indian impassibility to man?uvre her over the falls or rapids of Parting. The scientific thing to do, I suppose, my intention being generous, would be to flatter and increase in some way this idea of herself.[60] I should give her some final and extraordinary opportunity of being ‘noble.’”
He looked at her a moment, in search of inspiration.
“I must not be too vain. I exaggerate the gravity of the hit. As to my attempted rape—see how I square up when she shows signs of annexing279 my illusion. We are really the whole time playing a game of grabs and dashes at each other’s fairy vestment of Imagination. Only hers makes her very fond of me, whereas mine makes me see any one but her. Perhaps this is why I have not been more energetic in my prosecution280 of the game, and have allowed her to remain in her savage281 semi-naked state of pristine282 balderdash. Why has she never tried to modify herself in direction of my ‘taste’? From not daring to leave this protective fanciful self, while I still kept all my weapons? Then her initiative. She does nothing it is the man’s place to do. She remains283 ‘woman’ as she would say. Only she is so intensely alive in her passivity, so maelstromlike in her surrender, so cataclysmic in her sacrifice, that very little remains to be done. The man’s position is a mere16 sinecure284. Her charm for me.”
To cover reflection, he set himself to finish lunch. The strawberries were devoured285 mechanically, with unhungry itch to clear the plate. He had become just a devouring-machine, restless if any of the little red balls still remained in front of it.
Bertha’s eyes sought to carry her out of this Present. But they had broken down, depositing her, so to speak, somewhere half-way down the avenue.
Tarr got up, a released automaton286, and walked to the cloth-covered box where he had left his hat and stick. Then he returned in some way dutifully and obediently to the same seat, sat there for a minute, hat on knee. He had gone over and taken it up without thinking. He only realized, once back, what it meant. Nothing was settled, he had so far done more harm than good. The presence of the hat and stick on his knees, however, was like the holding open[61] of the front door already. Anything said with them there could only be like words said as an afterthought, on the threshold. It was as though, hat on head, he were standing with his hand on the door-knob, about to add some trifle to a thing already fixed. He got up, walked back to where he had picked up the hat and stick, placed them as they were before, then returned to the window.
What should be done now? He seemed to have played all his fifty-two cards. Everything to “be done” looked behind him, not awaiting him at all. That passive pose of Bertha’s was not encouraging. It had lately withstood stoically a good deal, was quite ready to absorb still more. There was something almost pugnacious287 in so much resignation.
But when she looked up at him there was no sign of combat. She appeared stilled to something simple again, by some fluke of a word. For the second time that day she had jumped out of her skin.
Her heart beat in a delicate, exhausted288 way, her eyelids289 became moistened underneath, as she turned to her unusual fiancé. They had wandered, she felt, into a drift of silence that hid a distant and unpleasant prospect290 at the end of it. It seemed suddenly charged with some alarming fancy that she could not grasp. There was something more unusual than her fiancé. The circular storm, in her case, was returning.
“Well, Sorbet?”
“Well. What is it?”
“Why don’t you go? I thought you’d gone. It seems so funny to see you standing there. What are you staring at me for?”
“Don’t be silly.”
She looked down with a wild demureness291, her head on one side.
Her mouth felt some distance from her brain. Her voice stood on tiptoe like a dwarf292 to speak. She became very much impressed by her voice, and was rather afraid to say anything more. Had she fainted? Sorbert was a stranger. The black stubble[62] on his chin and brown neck appeared like the symptoms of a disease that repelled293 her. She noticed something criminal and quick in his eyes. She became nervous, as though she had admitted somebody too trustingly to her rooms. This fancy played on her hysteria, and she really wanted him to go.
“Why don’t you go?” she repeated, in a pleasant voice.
Tarr remained silent, seemingly determined294 not to answer.
Meantime he looked at her with a doubtful dislike.
What is love? he began reasoning. It is either possession or a possessive madness. In the case of men and women, it is the obsession295 of a personality. He had presumably been endowed with the power of awaking love in her. He had something to accuse himself of. He had been afraid of giving up or repudiating296 this particular madness. To give up another person’s love is a mild suicide; like a very bad inoculation297 as compared to the full disease. His tenderness for Bertha was due to her having purloined298 some part of himself, and covered herself superficially with it as a shield. Her skin at least was Tarr. She had captured a bit of him, and held it as a hostage. She was rapidly transforming herself, too, into a slavish dependency. She worked with all the hypocrisy of a great instinct.
People can wound by loving; the sympathy of this affection is interpenetrative. Love performs its natural miracle, and they become part of us; it is a dismemberment to cast them off. Our own blood flows out after them when they go.
Or love was a malady299; it was dangerous to live with those consumed by it. He felt an uneasiness. Might not a wasting and restlessness ensue? It would not, if he caught it, be recognizable as love. Perhaps he had already got it slightly. That might account for his hanging about her. He evidently was suffering from something that came from Bertha.
Everybody, however, all personality, was catching.[63] We all are sicknesses for each other. Such contact as he had with Bertha was particularly risky300. Their photographs he had just been looking at displayed an unpleasant solidarity. Was it necessary to allege301 “love” at all? The word was superfluous302 in his case. The fact was before him.
He felt suddenly despondent303 and afraid of the Future. He had fallen beneath a more immediate infection.
He looked attentively round the room. His memory already ached. She had loved him with all this. She had loved him with the plaster cast of Beethoven, attacked him with the Klingers, ambushed him from the Breton jars, in a funny, superficial, absorbing way. Her madness had muddled304 everything with his ideal existence. It wasn’t like leaving an ordinary room you had spent pleasant hours in and would regret. You would owe nothing to that, and it could not pursue you with images of wrong. This room he was wronging, and left it in a different way. She seemed, too, so humble in it, or through it. The appeal of the little again. If he could only escape from scale. The price of preoccupation with the large was this perpetual danger from the little. He wished he could look coldly on mere littleness, and not want to caress305 and protect it when it was human. Brutality was no doubt necessary for people like him. Love was too new to him. He was not inoculated306 enough with love.
He had callously307 been signing his name to a series of brutalities, then, as though he were sure that when the time came he would have a quite sufficient stock of coldness to meet these debts. Yet he had known from the first that he had not. Eventually he would have to evade308 them or succumb309. The flourishes of the hand and mind had caused Bertha’s mute and mournful attitude. She thought she knew him, but was amazed at his ignorance or pretence310.
So he had now brought this new element into relief. For the last hour he had been accumulating difficulties, or rather unearthing311 some new one at[64] every step. Impossible to tackle en masse, they were all there before him. The thought of “settling everything before he went,” now appeared monstrous312. He had, anyhow, started these local monsters and demons104, fishing them to the light. Each had a different vocal313 explosiveness or murmur314, inveighing315 unintelligibly316 against each other. The only thing to be done was to herd317 them all together and march them away for inspection318 at leisure.
Sudden herdsman, with the care of a delicate and antediluvian319 flock; well!—But what was Bertha to be told? Nothing. He would file out silently with his flock, without any hornblasts or windings320 such as he customarily affected.
“I am going now,” he said at last, getting up.
She looked at him with startled interest.
“You are leaving me, Sorbet?”
“No. At least, now I am going.” He stooped down for his hat and cane321. “I will come and see you to-morrow or the day after.”
Closing the door quietly, with a petty carefulness, he crossed the passage, belittled322 and guilty. He did not wish to escape this feeling. It would be better to enhance it. For a moment it occurred to him to go back and offer marriage. It was about all he had to offer. He was ashamed of his only gift! But he did not stop, he opened the front door and went downstairs. Something raw and uncertain he seemed to have built up in the room he had left. How long would it hold together? Again he was acting in secret, his errand and intentions kept to himself. Something followed him like a restless dog.
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1
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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ambled
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的过去式和过去分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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puissantly
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| adj.有力的；强大的，有势力的 | |
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winks
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| v.使眼色( wink的第三人称单数 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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deflect
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| v.(使)偏斜，(使)偏离，(使)转向 | |
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maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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solidarity
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| n.团结；休戚相关 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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cemetery
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eerie
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| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
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cylindrical
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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truculent
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| adj.野蛮的，粗野的 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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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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query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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perversion
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| n.曲解；堕落；反常 | |
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replicas
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| n.复制品( replica的名词复数 ) | |
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pregnancy
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| n.怀孕，怀孕期 | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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46
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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47
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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48
itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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49
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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50
promiscuously
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| adv.杂乱地，混杂地 | |
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51
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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52
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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53
mildewy
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| adj.发霉的 | |
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54
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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55
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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56
cypresses
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| n.柏属植物，柏树( cypress的名词复数 ) | |
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57
grottos
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| n.（吸引人的）岩洞，洞穴，（人挖的）洞室( grotto的名词复数 ) | |
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58
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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59
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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60
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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61
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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62
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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63
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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64
truculence
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| n.凶猛，粗暴 | |
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65
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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66
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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67
cartridge
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| n.弹壳，弹药筒；(装磁带等的)盒子 | |
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68
scurried
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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70
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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71
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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72
ousted
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| 驱逐( oust的过去式和过去分词 )； 革职； 罢黜； 剥夺 | |
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73
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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74
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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75
stagnation
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| n. 停滞 | |
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76
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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77
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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78
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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79
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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80
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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81
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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82
idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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83
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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84
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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85
dummy
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| n.假的东西；(哄婴儿的)橡皮奶头 | |
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86
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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87
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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88
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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89
distillation
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| n.蒸馏，蒸馏法 | |
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90
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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91
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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92
potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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93
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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94
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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95
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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96
punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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97
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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98
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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99
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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100
latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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101
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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102
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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103
extort
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| v.勒索，敲诈，强要 | |
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104
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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105
reciprocate
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| v.往复运动；互换；回报，酬答 | |
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106
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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107
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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108
congregate
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| v.(使)集合，聚集 | |
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109
humbleness
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| n.谦卑，谦逊；恭顺 | |
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110
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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111
belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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112
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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114
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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115
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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116
abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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118
luridness
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119
reconstruction
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| n.重建，再现，复原 | |
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120
ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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121
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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122
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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123
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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124
corrugated
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| adj.波纹的；缩成皱纹的；波纹面的；波纹状的v.（使某物）起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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125
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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126
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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127
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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128
humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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129
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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130
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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131
docilely
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| adv.容易教地，易驾驶地，驯服地 | |
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132
inertia
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| adj.惰性，惯性，懒惰，迟钝 | |
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133
mountebank
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| n.江湖郎中；骗子 | |
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134
repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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135
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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136
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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137
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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138
frigidly
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| adv.寒冷地；冷漠地；冷淡地；呆板地 | |
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139
comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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140
phlegmatic
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| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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141
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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142
persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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143
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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144
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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145
blurting
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的现在分词 ) | |
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146
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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147
ambushed
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| v.埋伏( ambush的过去式和过去分词 )；埋伏着 | |
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148
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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149
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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150
kernel
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| n.(果实的)核，仁；(问题)的中心，核心 | |
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151
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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152
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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153
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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154
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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155
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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156
circumvent
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| vt.环绕，包围；对…用计取胜，智胜 | |
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157
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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158
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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159
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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160
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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161
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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162
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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163
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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164
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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165
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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166
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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167
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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168
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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169
tableau
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| n.画面，活人画（舞台上活人扮的静态画面） | |
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170
impasse
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| n.僵局；死路 | |
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171
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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172
warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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173
tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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174
prodding
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| v.刺，戳( prod的现在分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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175
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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176
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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177
psychic
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| n.对超自然力敏感的人；adj.有超自然力的 | |
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178
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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179
seasick
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| adj.晕船的 | |
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180
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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181
squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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182
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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183
devoutness
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| 朝拜 | |
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184
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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185
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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186
prosecuted
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| a.被起诉的 | |
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187
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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188
retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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189
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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190
onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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191
spectrally
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| adv.幽灵似地，可怕地 | |
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192
spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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193
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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194
garishly
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| adv.鲜艳夺目地，俗不可耐地；华丽地 | |
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195
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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196
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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197
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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198
callousness
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199
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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200
subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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201
refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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202
gauche
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| adj.笨拙的，粗鲁的 | |
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203
hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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204
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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205
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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206
obsequiously
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207
attentiveness
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| [医]注意 | |
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208
bestows
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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209
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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210
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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211
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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212
conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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213
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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214
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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215
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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216
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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217
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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218
swoops
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| 猛扑，突然下降( swoop的名词复数 ) | |
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219
exonerate
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| v.免除责任，确定无罪 | |
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220
muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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221
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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222
wrangle
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| vi.争吵 | |
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223
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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224
degenerating
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的现在分词 ) | |
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225
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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226
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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227
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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228
inflated
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| adj.（价格）飞涨的；（通货）膨胀的；言过其实的；充了气的v.使充气（于轮胎、气球等）( inflate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）膨胀；（使）通货膨胀；物价上涨 | |
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229
undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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230
metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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231
hybrid
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| n.(动，植）杂种，混合物 | |
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232
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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233
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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234
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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235
outrageously
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| 凶残地； 肆无忌惮地； 令人不能容忍地； 不寻常地 | |
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236
fatuity
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| n.愚蠢，愚昧 | |
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237
luxuriously
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|
| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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238
philandered
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|
| v.调戏，玩弄女性( philander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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239
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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240
superstition
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|
| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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241
limbo
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|
| n.地狱的边缘；监狱 | |
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242
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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243
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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244
pricked
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|
| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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245
domesticated
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|
| adj.喜欢家庭生活的；（指动物）被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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246
stimulate
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|
| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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247
vigilant
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|
| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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248
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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249
unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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250
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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251
compassionate
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|
| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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252
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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253
deformed
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|
| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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254
pointed
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|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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255
leisurely
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|
| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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256
blatant
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| adj.厚颜无耻的；显眼的；炫耀的 | |
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257
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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258
conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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259
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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260
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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261
gibe
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| n.讥笑；嘲弄 | |
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262
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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263
embryo
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| n.胚胎，萌芽的事物 | |
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264
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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265
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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266
discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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267
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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268
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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269
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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270
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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271
abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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272
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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273
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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274
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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275
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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276
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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277
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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278
inept
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| adj.不恰当的，荒谬的，拙劣的 | |
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279
annexing
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| 并吞( annex的现在分词 )； 兼并； 强占； 并吞（国家、地区等） | |
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280
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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281
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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282
pristine
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|
| adj.原来的，古时的，原始的，纯净的，无垢的 | |
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283
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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284
sinecure
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| n.闲差事，挂名职务 | |
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285
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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286
automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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287
pugnacious
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| adj.好斗的 | |
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288
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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289
eyelids
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|
| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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290
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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291
demureness
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| n.demure（拘谨的，端庄的）的变形 | |
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292
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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293
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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294
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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295
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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296
repudiating
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|
| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的现在分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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297
inoculation
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| n.接芽；预防接种 | |
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298
purloined
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| v.偷窃( purloin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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299
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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300
risky
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| adj.有风险的，冒险的 | |
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301
allege
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| vt.宣称，申述，主张，断言 | |
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302
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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303
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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304
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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305
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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306
inoculated
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| v.给…做预防注射( inoculate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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307
callously
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308
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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309
succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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310
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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311
unearthing
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| 发掘或挖出某物( unearth的现在分词 )； 搜寻到某事物，发现并披露 | |
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312
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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313
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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314
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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315
inveighing
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| v.猛烈抨击，痛骂，谩骂( inveigh的现在分词 ) | |
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316
unintelligibly
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| 难以理解地 | |
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317
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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318
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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319
antediluvian
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| adj.史前的，陈旧的 | |
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320
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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321
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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322
belittled
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| 使显得微小，轻视，贬低( belittle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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