V. in love
I
The clock inside the Gare du Nord read 11:17: Paris time minus five minutes, Belgian railway time plus four minutes, mid-Europe time minus 56 minutes. To Melanie, who had forgotten her traveling clock - who had forgotten everything - the hands might have stood anywhere. She hurried through the station behind an Algerian-looking facteur who carried her one embroidered1 bag lightly on his shoulder, who smiled and joked with customs officials being driven slowly to frenzy2 by a beseeching3 mob of English tourists.
By the cover of Le Soleil, the Orleanist morning paper, it was 24 July 1913. Louis Philippe Robert, due d'Orleans, was the current Pretender. Certain quarters of Paris raved4 under the heat of Sirius, were touched by its halo of plague, which is nine light-years from rim5 to center. Among the upper rooms of a new middle-class home in the 17th arrondissement Black Mass was held every Sunday.
Melanie l'Heuremaudit was driven away down the rue6 La Fayette in a noisy auto-taxi. She sat in the exact center of the seat, while behind her the three massive arcades7 and seven allegorical statues of the Gare slowly receded8 into a lowering, pre-autumn sky. Her eyes were dead, her nose French: the strength there and about the chin and lips made her resemble the classical rendering9 of Liberty. In all, the face was quite beautiful except for the eyes, which were the color of freezing rain. Melanie was fifteen.
Had fled from school in Belgium as soon as she received the letter from her mother, with 1500 francs and the announcement that her support would continue, though all Papa's possessions had been attached by the court. The mother had gone off to tour Austria-Hungary. She did not expect to see Melanie in the foreseeable future.
Melanie's head ached, but she didn't care. Or did but not where she was, here present as a face and a ballerina's figure on the bouncing back seat of a taxi. The driver's neck was soft, white: wisps of white hair straggled from under the blue stocking cap. On reaching the intersection10 with the Boulevard Haussmann, the car turned right up rue de la Chaussee d'Antin. To her left rose the dome11 of the Opera, and tiny Apollo, with his golden lyre . . .
"Papa!" she screamed.
The driver winced12, tapped the brake reflexively. "I am not your father," he muttered.
Up into the heights of Montmartre, aimed for the most diseased part of the sky. Would it rain? The clouds hung like leprous tissue. Under that light the color of her hair reduced to neutral browns, buffs. Let down the hair reached halfway13 over her buttocks. But she wore it high with two large curls covering her ears, tickling14 the sides of her neck.
Papa had a strong bald skull15 and a brave mustache. Evenings she would come softly into the room, the mysterious place walled in silk where he and her mother slept. And while Madeleine combed the hair of Maman in the other room, Melanie lay on the wide bed beside him, while he touched her in many places, and she squirmed and fought not to make a sound. It was their game. One night there had been heat lightning outside, and a small night bird had lit on the windowsill and watched them. How long ago it seemed! Late summer, like today.
This had been at Serre Chaude, their estate in Normandy, once the ancestral home of a family whose blood had long since turned to a pale ichor and vaporized away into the frosty skies over Amiens. The house, which dated from the reign17 of Henri IV, was large but unimpressive, like most architecture of the period. She had always wanted to slide down the great mansard roof: begin at the top and skid18 down the first gentle slope. Her skirt would fly above her hips19, her black-stockinged legs would writhe20 matte against a wilderness21 of chimneys, under the Norman sunlight. High over the elms and the hidden carp pods, up where Maman could only be a tiny blotch under a parasol, gazing at her. She imagined the sensation often: the feeling of roof-tiles rapidly sliding beneath the hard curve of her rump, the wind trapped under her blouse teasing the new breasts. And then the break: where the lower, steeper slope of the roof began, the point of no return, where the friction22 against her body would lessen23 and she would accelerate, flip24 over to twist the skirt - perhaps rip it off, be done with it, see it flutter away, like a dark kite! - to let the dovetailed tiles tense her nipple-points to an angry red, see a pigeon clinging to the eaves just before flight, taste the long hair caught against her teeth and tongue, cry out . . .
The taxi stopped in front of a cabaret in the rue Germaine Pilon, near Boulevard Clichy. Melanie paid the fare and was handed her bag from the top of the cab. She felt something which might be the beginning of the rain against her cheek. The cab drove away, she stood before Le Nerf in an empty street, the flowered bag without gaiety under the clouds.
"You believed us after all." M. Itague stood, half-stooping, holding the handle of the traveling bag. "Come, fetiche, inside. There's news."
On the small stage, which faced a dining room filled only with stacked tables and chairs, and lit by uncertain August daylight, came the confrontation26 with Satin.
"Mlle. Jarretiere"; using her stage name. He was short and heavily built: the hair stuck out in tufts from each side of his head. He wore tights and a dress shirt, and directed his eyes parallel to a line connecting her hip-points. The skirt was two years old, she was growing. She felt embarrassed.
"I have nowhere to stay," she murmured.
"Here," announced Itague, "there's a back room. Here, until we move."
"Move?" She gazed at the raving27 flesh of tropical blossoms decorating her bag.
"We have the Theatre de Vincent Castor," cried Satin. He spun28, leaped, landed atop a small stepladder.
Itague grew excited, describing L'Enlevement des Vierges Chinoises - Rape29 of the Chinese Virgins31. It was to be Satin's finest ballet, the greatest music of Vladimir Porcepic, everything formidable. Rehearsals32 began tomorrow, she'd saved the day, they would have waited until the last minute because it could only be Melanie, La Jarretiere, to play Su Feng, the virgin30 who is tortured to death defending her purity against the invading Mongolians.
She had wandered away, to the edge of stage right. Itague stood in the center, gesturing, declaiming: while enigmatic on the stepladder, stage left, perched Satin, humming a music-hall song.
A remarkable34 innovation would be the use of automata, to play Su Feng's handmaidens. "A German engineer is building them," said Itague. "They're lovely creatures: one will even unfasten your robes. Another will play a zither - although the music itself comes from the pit. But they move so gracefully35! Not like machines at all."
Was she listening? Of course: part of her. She stood awkwardly on one leg, reached down and scratched her calf37, hot under its black stocking. Satin watched hungrily. She felt the twin curls moving restless against her neck. What was he saying? Automata . . .
She gazed up at the sky, through one of the room's side windows. God, would it ever rain?
Her room was hot and airless. Asprawl in one corner was an artist's lay figure, without a head. Old theater posters were scattered38 on the floor and bed, tacked25 to the wall. She thought once she heard thunder rumbling39 from outside.
"Rehearsals will be here," Itague told her. "Two weeks before the performance we move into the Theatre de Vincent Castor, to get the feel of the boards." He used much theater talk. Not long ago he'd been a bartender near Place Pigalle.
Alone, she lay on the bed, wishing she could pray for rain. She was glad she couldn't see the sky. Perhaps certain of its tentacles40 already touched the roof of the cabaret. Someone rattled41 the door. She had thought to lock it. It was Satin she knew. Soon she heard the Russian and Itague leave together by the back door.
She may not have slept: her eyes opened to the same dim ceiling. A mirror hung on the ceiling directly over the bed. She hadn't noticed it before. Deliberately42 she moved her legs, leaving her arms limp at her sides, till the hem16 of the blue skirt had worked high above the tops of the stockings. And lay gazing at the black and tender white. Papa had said "How pretty your legs are: the legs of a dancer." She could not wait for the rain.
She rose, in a near-frenzy, removed blouse, skirt and undergarments and moved swiftly to the door, wearing only the black stockings and white buck tennis shoes. Somewhere on the way she managed to let down her hair. In the next room she found the costumes for L'Enlevement des Vierges Chinoises. She felt her hair, heavy and almost viscous43 along the length of her back and tickling the tops of her buttocks as she knelt beside the large box and searched for the costume of Su Feng.
Back in the hot room she quickly removed shoes and stockings, keeping her eyes closed tight until she had fastened her hair in back with the spangled amber44 comb. She was not pretty unless she wore something. The sight of her nude45 body repelled46 her. Until she had drawn47 on the blond silk tights, embroidered up each leg with a long, slender dragon; stepped into the slippers48 with the cut steel buckles49, and intricate straps50 which writhed51 up halfway to her knees. Nothing to restrain her breasts: she wrapped the underskirt tightly around her hips. It fastened with thirty hooks and eyes from waist to thigh-top, leaving a fur-trimmed slit52 so that she could dance. And finally, the kimono, translucent53 and dyed rainbowlike with sunbursts and concentric rings of cerise, amethyst54, gold and jungly green.
She lay back once more, hair spread above her on the pillowless mattress, breath taken by her own beauty. If Papa could see her.
The lay figure in the corner was light and carried easily to the bed. She raised her knees high and - interested - saw her calves55 in the mirror crisscross over the small of its plaster back. Felt the coolness of the figure's flanks against the nudecolored silk, high on her thighs56, hugged it tight. The neck top, jagged and flaking57 off, came to her breasts. She pointed58 her toes, began to dance horizontal, thinking of how her handmaidens would be.
Tonight there would be a magic-lantern show. Itague sat outside L'Ouganda, drinking absinthe and water. The stuff was supposed to be aphrodisiac but it affected59 Itague the opposite. He watched a Negro girl, one of the dancers, adjusting her stocking. He thought of francs and centimes.
There weren't many. The scheme might succeed. Porcepic had a name among the avant-garde in French music. Opinion in the city was violently divided: once the composer had been loudly insulted in the street by one of the most venerable of the Post-Romantics. Certainly the man's personal life wasn't one to endear many prospective60 patrons, either. Itague suspected him of smoking hashish. And there was the Black Mass.
"The poor child," Satin was saying. The table in front of him was nearly covered with empty wine glasses. The Russian moved them from time to time, blocking out the choreography to l'Enlevement. Satin drank wine like a Frenchman, Itague thought: never outright61 falling-down drunk. But growing more unstable62, more nervous, as his chorus of hollow glass dancers grew. "Does she know where her father's gone?" Satin wondered aloud, looking off into the street. The night was windless, hot. Darker than itague could ever remember it. Behind them the small orchestra began to play a tango. The Negro girl arose and went inside. To the south, the lights along the Champs Elysees picked out the underbelly of a nauseous-yellow cloud.
"With the father deserted," said Itague, "she's free. The mother doesn't care."
The Russian looked up, sudden. A glass fell over on his table.
"- or nearly free."
"Fled to the jungles, I understand," Satin said. A waiter brought more wine.
"A gift. What had he ever given before? Have you seen the child's furs, her silks, the way she watches her own body? Heard the noblesse in the way she speaks? He gave her all that. Or was he giving it all to himself, by way of her?"
"Itague, she certainly could be the most giving -"
"No. No, it is merely being reflected. The girl functions as a mirror. You, that waiter, the chiffonnier in the next empty street she turns into: whoever happens to be standing64 in front of the mirror in the place of that wretched man. You will see the reflection of a ghost."
"M. Itague, your late readings may have convinced you -"
"I said ghost," Itague answered softly. "Its name is not l'Heuremaudit, or l'Heuremaudit is only one of its names. That ghost fills the walls of this cafe and the streets of this district, perhaps every one of the world's arrondissements breathes its substance. Cast in the image of what? Not God. Whatever potent65 spirit can mesmerize66 the gift of ir reversible flight into a grown man and the gift of self-arousal into the eyes of a young girl, his name is unknown. Or if known then he is Yahweh and we are all Jews, for no one will ever speak it." Which was strong talk for M. Itague. He read La Libre Parole, had stood among the crowds to spit at Captain Dreyfus.
The woman stood at their table, not waiting for them to rise, merely standing and looking as if she'd never waited for anything.
"Will you join us," said Satin eagerly. Itague looked far to the south, at the hanging yellow cloud which hadn't changed its shape.
She owned a dress shop in the rue du Quatre-Septembre. Wore tonight a Poiret-inspired evening dress of crepe Georgette the color of a Negro's head, beaded all over, covered with a cerise tunic67 which was drawn in under her breasts, Empire style. A harem veil covered the lower part of her face and fastened behind to a tiny hat riotous68 with the plumage of equatorial birds. Fan with amber stick, ostrich69 feathers, silk tassel70. Sand-colored stockings, clocked exquisitely72 on the calf. Two brilliant-studded tortoise-shell pins through her hair; silver mesh73 bag, high-buttoned kid shoes with patent leather at the toe and French heel.
Who knew her "soul," Itague wondered, glancing sideways at the Russian. It was her clothes, her accessories, which determined74 her, fixed75 her among the mobs of tourist ladies and putains that filled the street.
"Our prima ballerina has arrived today," said Itague. He was always nervous around patrons. As bartender he'd seen no need to be diplomatic.
"Melanie l'Heuremaudit," his patroness smiled. "When shall I meet her?"
"Any time," Satin muttered, shifting glasses, keeping his eyes on the table.
"Was there objection from the mother?" she asked.
The mother did not care, the girl herself, he suspected, did not care. The father's flight had affected her in some curious way. Last year she'd been eager to learn, inventive, creative. Satin would have his hands full this year. They would end up screaming at each other. No: the girl wouldn't scream.
The woman sat, lost in watching the night, which enveloped76 them like a velvet77 teaser-curtain. Itague, for all his time in Montmartre, had never seen behind it to the bare wall of the night. But had this one? He scrutinized78 her, looking for some such betrayal. He'd observed the face some dozen times. It had always gone through conventional grimaces79, smiles, expressions of what passed for emotion. The German could build another, Itague thought, and no one could tell them apart.
The tango still played: or perhaps a different one, he hadn't been listening. A new dance, and popular. The head and body had to be kept erect80, the steps had to be precise, sweeping81, graceful36. It wasn't like the waltz. In that dance was room for an indiscreet billow of crinolines, a naughty word whispered through mustaches into an ear all ready to blush. But here no words, no deviating82: simply the wide spiral, turning about the dancing floor, gradually narrowing, tighter, until there was no motion except for the steps, which led nowhere. A dance for automata.
The curtain hung in total stillness. If Itague could have found its pulleys or linkage83, he might make it stir. Might penetrate84 to the wall of the night's theater. Feeling suddenly alone in the wheeling, mechanical darkness of la Ville-Lumiere, he wanted to cry, Strike! Strike the set of night and let us all see . . .
The woman had been watching him, expressionless, poised85 like one of her own mannequins. Blank eyes something to hang a Poiret dress on. Porcepic, drunk and singing, approached their table.
The song was in Latin. He'd just composed it for a Black Mass to be held tonight at his home in Les Batignolles. The woman wanted to come. Itague saw this immediately: a film seemed to drop from her eyes. He sat forlorn, feeling as if that most feared enemy of sleep had entered silently on a busy night, the one person whom you must come face to face with someday, who asks you, in the earshot of your oldest customers, to mix a cocktail87 whose name you have never heard.
They left Satin shuffling88 empty wine-glasses, looking as if tonight, in some tenantless89 street, he would murder.
Melanie dreamed. The lay figure hung half off the bed, its arms stretched out, crucified, one stump90 touching91 her breast. It was the sort of dream in which, possibly, the eyes are open: or the last vision of the room is so reproduced in memory that all details are perfect, and the dreamer is unclear whether he is asleep or awake. The German stood over the bed watching her. He was Papa, but also a German.
"You must turn over," he repeated insistently92. She was too embarrassed to ask why. Her eyes - which somehow she was able to see, as if she were disembodied and floating above the bed, perhaps somewhere behind the quicksilver of the mirror-her eyes were slanted93 Oriental: long lashes, spangled on the upper lids with tiny fragments of gold leaf. She glanced sideways at the lay figure. It had grown a head, she thought. The face was turned away. "To reach between your shoulderblades," said the German. What does he look for there, she wondered.
"Between my thighs," she whispered, moving on the bed. The silk there was dotted with the same gold, like sequins. He placed his hand under her shoulder, turned her. The skirt twisted on her thighs: she saw their two inner edges blond and set off by the muskrat94 skin on the slit of the skirt. The Melanie in the mirror watched sure fingers move to the center of her back, search, find a small key, which he began to wind.
"I got you in time," he breathed. "You would have stopped, had I not. . ."
The face of the lay figure had, been turned toward her, all the time. There was no face.
She woke up, not screaming, but moaning as if sexually aroused.
Itague was bored. This Black Mass had attracted the usual complement95 of nervous and blase96. Porcepic's music was striking, as usual; highly dissonant97. Lately he had been experimenting with African polyrhythyms. Afterward98 Gerfaut the writer sat by a window, discoursing99 on how for some reason the young girl - adolescent or younger - had again become the mode in erotic fiction. Gerfaut had two or three chins, sat erect and spoke100 pedantically101, though he had only Itague for an audience.
Itague didn't really want to talk with Gerfaut. He wanted to watch the woman who had come with them. She sat now in a side pew with one of the acolytes, a little sculptress from Vaugirard. The woman's hand, gloveless, and decorated only with a ring, stroked the girl's temple as they spoke. From the ring there sprouted102 a slender female arm, fashioned in silver. The land was cupped, and held the lady's cigarette. As Itague watched she lit another: black paper, gold crest103. A small pile of stubs lay scattered beneath her shoes.
Gerfaut had been describing the plot of his latest novel. The heroine was one Doucette, thirteen and struggled within by passions she could not name.
"A child, and yet a woman," Gerfaut said. "And a quality of something eternal about her. I even confess to a certain leaning of my own that way. La Jarretiere . . ."
The old satyr.
Gerfaut at length moved away. It was nearly morning. Itague's head ached. He needed sleep, needed a woman. The lady still smoked her black cigarettes. The little sculptress lay, legs curled up on the seat, head pillowed against her companion's breasts. The black hair seemed to float like a drowned corpse104's hair against the cerise tunic. The entire room and the bodies inside it - some twisted, some coupled, some awake - the scattered Hosts, the black furniture, were all bathed in an exhausted105 yellow light, filtered through rain clouds which refused to burst.
The lady was absorbed in burning tiny holes with the tip of her cigarette, through the skirt of the young girl. Itague watched as the pattern grew. She was writing ma fetiche, in black-rimmed holes. The sculptress wore no lingerie. So that when the lady finished the words would be spelled out by the young sheen of the girl's thighs. Defenseless? Itague wondered briefly106.
II
The next day the same clouds were over the city, but it did not rain. Melanie had awakened107 in the Su Feng costume, excited as soon as her eyes recognized the image in the mirror, knowing it hadn't rained. Porcepic showed up early with a guitar. He sat on the stage and sang sentimental Russian ballads108 about willow109 trees, students getting drunk and going off on sleigh-rides, the body of his love floating belly63 up in the Don. (A dozen young gathered round the samovar to read novels aloud: where had youth gone?) Porcepic, nostalgic, snuffled over his guitar.
Melanie, looking newly scrubbed and wearing the dress she'd arrived in, stood behind him, hands over his eyes, and caroled harmony. Itague found them that way. In the yellow light, framed by the stage, they seemed like a picture he'd seen somewhere once. Or perhaps it was only the melancholy notes of the guitar, the subdued110 looks of precarious111 joy on their faces. Two young people conditionally112 at peace in the dog days. He went into the bar and began chipping away at a large block of ice; put the chips into an empty champagne113 bottle and filled the bottle with water.
By noon the dancers had arrived, most of the girls seemingly deep in a love affair with Isadora Duncan. They moved over the stage like languid moths, gauzy tunics114 fluttering limp. Itague guessed half the men were homosexual. The other half dressed that way: foppish115. He sat at the bar and watched as Satin began the blocking.
"Which one is she?" The woman again. In Montmartre, 1913, people materialized.
"Over there with Porcepic."
She hurried over to be introduced. Vulgar, thought Itague, and then amended it at once to "uncontrollable." Perhaps? A little. La Jarretiere stood there only gazing. Porcepic looked upset, as if they'd had an argument. Poor, young, pursued, fatherless. What would Gerfaut make of her? A wanton. In body if he could; in the pages of a manuscript most certainly. Writers had no moral sense.
Porcepic sat at the piano, playing Adoration116 of the Sun. It was a tango with cross-rhythms. Satin had devised some near-impossible movements to go with it. "It cannot be danced," screamed a young man, leaping from the stage to land, belligerent117, in front of Satin.
Melanie had hurried off to change to her Su Feng costume. Lacing on her slippers she looked up and saw the woman, leaning in the doorway118.
"You are not real."
"I . . ." Hands resting dead on her thighs.
"Do you know what a fetish is? Something of a woman which gives pleasure but is not a woman. A shoe, a locket . . . une jarretiere. You are the same, not real but an object of pleasure."
Melanie could not speak.
"What are you like unclothed? A chaos119 of flesh. But as Su Feng, lit by hydrogen, oxygen, a cylinder120 of lime, moving doll-like in the confines of your costume . . . You will drive Paris mad. Women and men alike."
The eyes would not respond. Not with fear, desire, anticipation121. Only the Melanie in the mirror could make them do that. The woman had moved to the foot of the bed, ring hand resting on the lay figure. Melanie darted122 past her, continued on toes and in twirls to the wings; appeared on stage, improvising123 to Porcepic's lackadaisical124 attack on the piano. Outside thunder could be heard, punctuating125 the music at random126.
It was never going to rain.
The Russian influence in Porcepic's music was usually traced to his mother, who'd been a milliner in St. Petersburg. Porcepic now, between his hashish dreams, his furious attacks on the grand piano out in Les Batignolles, fraternized with a strange collection of Russian expatriates led by a certain Kholsky, a huge and homicidal tailor. They were all engaged in clandestine127 political activity, they spoke volubly and at length of Bakunin Marx, Ulyanov.
Kholsky entered as the sun fell, hidden by yellow clouds. He drew Porcepic into an argument. The dancers dispersed128, the stage emptied until only Melanie and the woman remained. Satin produced his guitar; Porcepic sat on the piano, and they sang revolutionary songs. "Porcepic," grinned the tailor, "you'll be surprised one day. At what we will do."
"Nothing surprises me," answered Porcepic. "If history were cyclical, we'd now be in a decadence129, would we not, and your projected Revolution only another symptom of it."
"A decadence is a falling-away," said Kholsky. "We rise."
"A decadence," Itague put in, "is a falling-away from what is human, and the further we fall the less human we become. Because we are less human, we foist130 off the humanity we have lost on inanimate objects and abstract theories."
The girl and the woman had moved away from the stage's one overhead light. They could hardly be seen. No sound came from up there. Itague finished the last of the ice water.
"Your beliefs are non-human," he said. "You talk of people as if they were point-clusters or curves on a graph."
"So they are," mused132 Kholsky, dreamy-eyed. "I, Satin, Porcepic may fall by the wayside. No matter. The Socialist133 Awareness134 grows, the tide is irresistible135 and irreversible. It is a bleak136 world we live in, M. Itague; atoms collide, brain cells fatigue137, economies collapse138 and others rise to succeed them, all in accord with the basic rhythms of History. Perhaps she is a woman; women area mystery to me. But her ways are at least measurable."
"Rhythm," snorted Itague, "as if you listened to the jitterings and squeaks of a metaphysical bedspring." The tailor laughed, delighted, like a great fierce child. Acoustics139 of the room gave his mirthfulness a sepulchral140 ring. The stage was empty.
"Come," said Porcepic. "To L'Ouganda," Satin on a table danced absently to himself.
Outside they passed the woman, holding Melanie by the arm. They were headed toward the Metro141 station; neither spoke. Itague stopped at a kiosk to buy a copy of La Patrie, the closest one could get to an anti-Semitic newspaper in the evening. Soon they had vanished down the Boulevard Clichy.
As they descended142 the moving stairs, the woman said, "You are afraid." The girl didn't answer. She still wore the costume, covered now with a dolman wrap which looked expensive and was, and which the woman approved of. She bought them first-class tickets. Closeted in the suddenly-materialized train, the woman asked: "Do you only lie passive then, like an object? Of course you do. It is what you are. Une fetiche." She pronounced the silent e's, as if she were singing. Air in the Metro was close. The same as outside. Melanie studied the tail of the dragon on her calf.
After some time had passed the train climbed to ground level. Melanie may have noticed they were crossing the river. To her left she saw the Eiffel Tower, quite near. They were crossing the Pont de Passy. At the first stop on the Left Bank the woman arose. She'd not left off clutching Melanie's arm. Out on the street they began to walk, bearing southwest, into the district of Grenelle: a landscape of factories, chemical works, iron foundries. They were alone in the street. Melanie wondered if the woman indeed lived among factories.
They walked for what seemed a mile: arrived, finally, at a loft143 building, in which only the third floor was occupied, by a manufacturer of belts. They climbed narrow stairs, flight after flight. The woman lived an the top floor. Melanie, though a dancer and strong-legged, now showed signs of exhaustion144. When they arrived at the woman's rooms, the girl lay down without invitation on a large pouf in the center of the room. The place was decorated African and oriental: black pieces of primitive145 sculpture, lamp in the shape of a dragon, silks, Chinese red. The bed was a great four-poster. Melanie's wrap had fallen away: her legs, blond and bedragoned, lay unmoving half on the pouf, half on the oriental rug. The woman sat down beside the girl, resting her hand lightly on Melanie's shoulder, and began to talk.
If we've not already guessed, "the woman" is, again, the lady V. of Stencil146's mad time-search. No one knew her name in Paris.
Not only was she V., however, but also V. in love. Herbert Stencil was willing to let the key to his conspiracy147 have a few of the human passions. Lesbianism, we are prone148 to think in this Freudian period of history, stems from self-love projected on to some other human object. If a girl gets to feeling narcissist149, she will also sooner or later come upon the idea that women, the class she belongs to, are not so bad either. Such may have been the case with Melanie, though who could say: perhaps the spell of incest at Serre Chaude was an indication that her preferences merely lay outside the usual, exogamous-heterosexual pattern which prevailed in 1913.
But as for V. - V. in love - the hidden motives150, if there were any, remained a mystery to all observers. Everyone connected with the production knew what was going on; but because intelligence of the affair remained inside a circle inclined toward sadism, sacrilege, endogamy and homosexuality anyway, there was little concern, and the two were let alone, like young lovers. Melanie showed up faithfully at all rehearsals and as long as the woman wasn't enticing151 her away from the production - which, apparently152, she had no intention of doing, being a patroness - Itague for one couldn't have cared less.
One day the girl arrived at Le Nerf accompanied by the woman and wearing schoolboys' clothing: tight black trousers a white shirt, a short black jacket. Moreover, her head - all her thick buttock-length hair - had been shorn. She was nearly bald; and but for the dancer's body no clothes could conceal153, she might have been a young lad playing hooky. There was, fortunately, a long black wig154 in the costume box. Satin greeted the idea with enthusiasm. Su Feng would appear in the first act with hair, in the second without: having been tortured anyway by Mongolians. It would shock the audience, whose tastes, he felt, were jaded155.
At every rehearsal33, the woman sat at a rear table, watching, silent. All her attention was concentrated on the girl. Itague tried at first to engage her in conversation; but failed and went back to La Vie Heureuse, Le Rire, Le Charivari. When the company moved to the Theatre de Vincent Castor, she followed like a faithful lover. Melanie continued dressing156 transvestite for the street. Speculation157 among the company was that a peculiar158 inversion159 had taken place: since an affair of this sort generally involves one dominant160 and one submissive, and it was clear which one was which, the woman should have appeared in the clothing of an aggressive male. Porcepic, to the amusement of all, produced at L'Ouganda one evening a chart of the possible combinations the two could be practicing. It came out to 64 different sets of roles, using the subheadings "dressed as," "social role," "sexual role." They could both for example be dressed as males, both have dominant social roles and strive for dominance sexually. They could be dressed different-sexed and both be entirely161 passive, the game then being to trick the other into making an aggressive move. Or any of 62 other combinations. Perhaps, Satin suggested, there were also inanimate mechanical aids. This, it was agreed, would confuse the picture. At one point someone suggested that the woman might actually be a transvestite to begin with, which made things even more amusing.
But what actually was going on at the loft in Grenelle? Each mind at L'Ouganda and among the troupe162 at the Theatre Vincent Castor had conjured163 up a different scene; machines of exquisite71 torture, bizarre costuming, grotesque164 movements of muscle under flesh.
How disappointed they all would have been. Had they seen the skirt of the little sculptress-acolyte from Vaugirard, heard the pet-name the woman had for Melanie or read - as had Itague - in the new science of the mind, they would have known that certain fetishes never have to be touched or handled at all; only seen, for there to be complete fulfillment. As for Melanie, her lover had provided her with mirrors, dozens of them. Mirrors with handles, with ornate frames, full-length and pocket mirrors came to adorn165 the loft wherever one turned to look.
V. at the age of thirty-three (Stencil's calculation) had found love at last in her peregrinations through (let us be honest) a world if not created then at least described to its fullest by Karl Baedeker of Leipzig. This is a curious country, populated only by a breed called "tourists." Its landscape is one of inanimate monuments and buildings; near-inanimate barmen, taxi-drivers, bellhops, guides: there to do any bidding, to various degrees of efficiency, on receipt of the recommended baksheesh, pourboire, mancia, tip. More than this it is two-dimensional, as is the Street, as are the pages and maps of those little red handbooks. As long as the Cook's, Travellers' Clubs and banks are open, the Distribution of Time section followed scrupulously166, the plumbing167 at the hotel in order - ("No hotel," writes Karl Baedeker, "can be recommended as first-class that is not satisfactory in its sanitary168 arrangements, which should include an abundant flush of water and a supply of proper toilette paper"), the tourist may wander anywhere in this coordinate169 system without fear. War never becomes more serious than a scuffle with a pickpocket170, one of "the huge army . . . who are quick to recognize the stranger and skilful171 in taking advantage of his ignorance"; depression and prosperity are reflected only in the rate of exchange; politics are of course never discussed with the native population. Tourism thus is supranational, like the Catholic Church, and perhaps the most absolute communion we know on earth: for be its members American, German, Italian, whatever, the Tour Eiffel, Pyramids, and Campanile all evoke172 identical responses from them; their Bible is clearly written and does not admit of private interpretation173; they share the same landscapes, suffer the same inconveniences; live by the same pellucid174 time-scale. They are the Street's Own.
The lady V., one of them for so long, now suddenly found herself excommunicated; bounced unceremoniously into the null-time of human love, without having recognized the exact moment as any but when Melanie entered a side door to Le Nerf on Porcepic's arm and time - for a while - ceased. Stencil's dossier has it on the authority of Porcepic himself, to whom V. told much of their affair. He repeated none of it then, neither at L'Ouganda nor anywhere else: only to Stencil, years later. Perhaps he felt guilty about his chart of permutations and combinations, but to this extent at least he acted like a gentleman. His description of them is a well-composed and ageless still-life of love at one of its many extremes; V. on the pouf, watching Melanie on the bed; Melanie watching herself in the mirror; the mirror-image perhaps contemplating175 V. from time to time. No movement but a minimum friction. And yet one solution to a most ancient paradox176 of love: simultaneous sovereignty yet a fusing-together. Dominance and submissiveness didn't apply; the pattern of three was symbiotic177 and mutual178. V. needed her fetish, Melanie a mirror, temporary peace another to watch her have pleasure. For such is the self-love of the young that a social aspect enters in: an adolescent girl whose existence is so visual observes in a mirror her double; the double becomes a voyeur179. Frustration180 at not being able to fragment herself into an audience of enough only adds to her sexual excitement. She needs, it seems, a real voyeur to complete the illusion that her reflections are, in fact, this audience. With the addition of this other - multiplied also, perhaps, by mirrors - comes consummation: for the other is also her own double. She is like a woman who dresses only to be looked at and talked about by other women: their jealousy181, whispered remarks, reluctant admiration182 are her own. They are she.
As for V., she recognized - perhaps aware of her own progression toward inanimateness - the fetish of Melanie and the fetish of herself to be one. As all inanimate objects, to one victimized by them, are alike. It was a variation on the Porpentine theme, the Tristan-and-Iseult theme, indeed, according to some, the single melody, banal183 and exasperating184, of all Romanticism since the Middle Ages: "the act of love and the act of death are one." Dead at last, they would be one with the inanimate universe and with each other. Love-play until then thus becomes an impersonation of the inanimate, a transvestism not between sexes but between quick and dead; human and fetish. The clothing each wore was incidental. The hair shorn from Melanie's head was incidental: only an obscure bit of private symbolism for the lady V.: perhaps, if she were in fact Victoria Wren185, having to do with her time in the novitiate.
If she were Victoria Wren, even Stencil couldn't remain all unstirred by the ironic186 failure her life was moving toward, too rapidly by that prewar August ever to be reversed.
The Florentine spring, the young entrepreneuse with all spring's hope in her virtu, with her girl's faith that Fortune (if only her skill her timing187 held true) could be brought under control that Victoria was being gradually replaced by V.; something entirely different, for which the young century had as yet no name. We all get involved to an extent in the politics of slow dying, but poor Victoria had become intimate also with the Things in the Back Room.
If V. suspected her fetishism at all to be part of any conspiracy leveled against the animate131 world, any sudden establishment here of a colony of the Kingdom of Death, then this might justify188 the opinion held in the Rusty Spoon that Stencil was seeking in her his own identity. But such was her rapture189 at Melanie's having sought and found her own identity in her and in the mirror's soulless gleam that she continued unaware190 off-balanced by love; forgetting even that although the Distribution of Time here on pouf, bed and mirrors had been abandoned, their love was in its way only another version of tourism; for as tourists bring into the world as it has evolved part of another, and eventually create a parallel society of their own in every city, so the Kingdom of Death is served by fetish-constructions like V.'s, which represent a kind of infiltration191.
What would have been her reaction, had she known? Again, an ambiguity192. It would have meant, ultimately, V.'s death: in a sudden establishment here, of the inanimate Kingdom, despite all efforts to prevent it. The smallest realization193 - at any step: Cairo, Florence, Paris - that she fitted into a larger scheme leading eventually to her personal destruction and she might have shied off, come to establish eventually so many controls over herself that she became - to Freudian, behaviorist, man of religion, no matter - a purely194 determined organism, an automaton195, constructed, only quaintly196, of human flesh. Or by contrast, might have reacted against the above which we have come to call Puritan, by journeying even deeper into a fetish-country until she became entirely and in reality - not merely as a love-game with any Melanie - an inanimate object of desire. Stencil even departed from his usual ploddings to daydream197 a vision of her now, at age seventy-six: skin radiant with the bloom of some new plastic; both eyes glass but now containing photoelectric198 cells, connected by silver electrodes to optic nerves of purest copper199 wire and leading to a brain exquisitely wrought200 as a diode matrix could ever be. Solenoid relays would be her ganglia, servo-actuators move her flawless nylon limbs, hydraulic201 fluid be sent by a platinum202 heart-pump through butyrate veins203 and arteries204. Perhaps Stencil on occasion could have as vile205 a mind as any of the Crew - even a complex system of pressure transducers located in a marvelous vagina of polyethylene; the variable arms of their Wheatstone bridges all leading to a single silver cable which fed pleasure-voltages direct to the correct register of the digital machine in her skull. And whenever she smiled or grinned in ecstasy206 there would gleam her crowning feature: Eigenvalue's precious dentures.
Why did she tell so much to Porcepic? She was afraid, she said, that it wouldn't last; that Melanie might leave her. Glittering world of the stage, fame, foul-mind's darling of a male audience: the woe207 of many a lover. Porcepic gave her what comfort he could. He was under no delusions208 about love as anything but transitory, he left all such dreaming to his compatriot Satin, who was an idiot anyway. Sad-eyed, he commiserated209 with her: what else should he've done? Pass moral judgment210? Love is love. It shows up in strange displacements211. This poor woman was racked by it. Stencil however only shrugged212. Let her be a lesbian, let her turn to a fetish, let her die: she was a beast of venery and he had no tears for her.
The night of the performance arrived. What happened then was available to Stencil in police records, and still told, perhaps, by old people around the Butte. Even as the pit orchestra tuned213 up there was loud argument in the audience. Somehow the performance had taken on a political cast. Orientalism - at this period showing up all over Paris in fashions, music, theater - had been connected along with Russia to an international movement seeking to overthrow214 Western civilization. Only six years before a newspaper had been able to sponsor an auto-race from Peking to Paris, and enlist215 the willing assistance of all the countries between. The political situation these days was somewhat darker. Hence, the turmoil216 which erupted that night in the Theatre Vincent Castor.
Before the first act was barely under way, there came catcalls and uncouth gestures from the anti-Porcepic faction217. Friends, already calling themselves Porcepiquistes, sought to suppress them. Also present in the audience was a third force who merely wanted quiet enough to enjoy the performance and naturally enough tried to silence, prevent or mediate86 all disputes. A three-way wrangle218 developed. By intermission it had degenerated219 into near-chaos.
Itague and Satin screamed at each other in the wings, neither able to hear the other for the noise out in the audience. Porcepic sat by himself in a corner, drinking coffee, expressionless. A young ballerina, returning from the dressing room, stopped to talk.
"Can you hear the music?" Not too well, she admitted. "Dommage. How does La Jarretiere feel?" Melanie knew the dance by heart, she had perfect rhythm, she inspired the whole troupe. The dancer was ecstatic in her praise: another Isadora Duncan! Porcepic shrugged, made a moue. "If I ever have money again," more to himself than to her, "I'll hire an orchestra and dance company for my own amusement and have them perform L'Enlevement. Only to see what the work is like. Perhaps I will catcall too." They laughed sadly with one another, and the girl passed on.
The second act was even noisier. Only toward the end were the attentions of the few serious onlookers220 taken entirely by La Jarretiere. As the orchestra, sweating and nervous, moved baton-driven into the last portion, Sacrifice of the Virgin, a powerful, slow-building seven-minute crescendo221 which seemed at its end to've explored the furthest possible reaches of dissonance, tonal color and (as Le Figaro's critic put it next morning) "orchestral barbarity," light seemed all at once to be reborn behind Melanie's rainy eyes and she became again the Norman dervish Porcepic remembered. He moved closer to the stage, watching her with a kind of love. An apocryphal222 story relates that he vowed223 at that moment never to touch drugs again, never to attend another Black Mass.
Two of the male dancers, whom Itague had never left off calling Mongolized fairies, produced a long pole, pointed wickedly at one end. The music, near triple-forte, could be heard now above the roaring of the audience. Gendarmes224 had moved in at the rear entrances, and were trying ineffectually to restore order. Satin, next to Porcepic, one hand on the composer's shoulder, leaned forward, shaking. It was a tricky225 bit of choreography, Satin's own. He'd got the idea from reading an account of an Indian massacre in America. While two of the other Mongolians held her, struggling and head shaven, Su Feng was impaled226 at the crotch on the point of the pole and slowly raised by the entire male part of the company, while the females lamented227 below. Suddenly one of the automaton handmaidens seemed to run amok, tossing itself about the stage. Satin moaned, gritted228 his teeth. "Damn the German," he said, "it will distract." The conception depended on Su Feng continuing her dance while impaled, all movement restricted to one point in space, an elevated point, a focus, a climax229.
The pole was now erect, the music four bars from the end. A terrible hush fell over the audience, gendarmes and combatants all turned as if magnetized to watch the stage. La Jarretiere's movements became more spastic, agonized: the expression on the normally dead face was one which would disturb for years the dreams of those in the front rows. Porcepic's music was now almost deafening230: all tonal location had been lost, notes screamed out simultaneous and random like fragments of a bomb: winds, strings231, brass232 and percussion were indistinguishable as blood ran down the pole, the impaled girl went limp, the last chord blasted out, filled the theater, echoed, hung, subsided233. Someone cut all the stage lights, someone else ran to close the curtain.
It never opened. Melanie was supposed to have worn a protective metal device, a species of chastity belt, into which the point of the pole fit. She had left it off. A physician in the audience had been summoned at once by Itague as soon as he saw the blood. Shirt torn, one eye blackened, the doctor knelt over the girl and pronounced her dead.
Of the woman, her lover, nothing further was seen. Some versions tell of her gone hysterical234 backstage, having to be detached forcibly from Melanie's corpse; of her screaming vendetta235 at Satin and Itague for plotting to kill the girl. The coroner's verdict, charitably, was death by accident. Perhaps Melanie, exhausted by love, excited as at any premiere, had forgotten. Adorned236 with so many combs, bracelets237, sequins, she might have become confused in this fetish-world and neglected to add to herself the one inanimate object that would have saved her. Itague thought it was suicide, Satin refused to talk about it, Porcepic suspended judgment. But they lived with it for many years.
Rumor238 had it that a week or so later the lady V. ran off with one Sgherraccio, a mad Irredentist. At least they both disappeared from Paris at the same time; from Paris and as far as anyone on the Butte could say, from the face of the earth.
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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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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arcades
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| n.商场( arcade的名词复数 )；拱形走道（两旁有商店或娱乐设施）；连拱廊；拱形建筑物 | |
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receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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intersection
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| n.交集，十字路口，交叉点；[计算机] 交集 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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tickling
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| 反馈，回授，自旋挠痒法 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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skid
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| v.打滑 n.滑向一侧；滑道 ，滑轨 | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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writhe
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| vt.挣扎，痛苦地扭曲；vi.扭曲，翻腾，受苦；n.翻腾，苦恼 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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friction
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| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
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lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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flip
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| vt.快速翻动；轻抛；轻拍；n.轻抛；adj.轻浮的 | |
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tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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confrontation
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| n.对抗，对峙，冲突 | |
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raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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rape
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| n.抢夺，掠夺，强奸；vt.掠夺，抢夺，强奸 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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rehearsals
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| n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 )；排练；复述；重复 | |
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rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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tentacles
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| n.触手( tentacle的名词复数 )；触角；触须；触毛 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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viscous
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| adj.粘滞的，粘性的 | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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nude
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| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
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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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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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straps
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| n.带子( strap的名词复数 )；挎带；肩带；背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 )；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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amethyst
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| n.紫水晶 | |
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calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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flaking
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| 刨成片，压成片； 盘网 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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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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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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mesmerize
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| vt.施催眠术；使入迷，迷住 | |
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67
tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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68
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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69
ostrich
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| n.鸵鸟 | |
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70
tassel
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| n.流苏，穗；v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须 | |
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71
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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72
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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73
mesh
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| n.网孔，网丝，陷阱；vt.以网捕捉，啮合，匹配；vi.适合； [计算机]网络 | |
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74
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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75
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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76
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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78
scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
grimaces
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| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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80
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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81
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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82
deviating
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| v.偏离，越轨( deviate的现在分词 ) | |
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83
linkage
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| n.连接；环节 | |
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84
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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85
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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86
mediate
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| vi.调解，斡旋；vt.经调解解决；经斡旋促成 | |
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87
cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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88
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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89
tenantless
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| adj.无人租赁的，无人居住的 | |
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90
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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91
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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92
insistently
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| ad.坚持地 | |
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93
slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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94
muskrat
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| n.麝香鼠 | |
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95
complement
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|
| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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96
blase
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| adj.厌烦于享乐的 | |
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97
dissonant
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| adj.不和谐的；不悦耳的 | |
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98
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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99
discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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100
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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101
pedantically
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102
sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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103
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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104
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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105
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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106
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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107
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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108
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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109
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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110
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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111
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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112
conditionally
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| adv. 有条件地 | |
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113
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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114
tunics
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| n.（动植物的）膜皮( tunic的名词复数 )；束腰宽松外衣；一套制服的短上衣；（天主教主教等穿的）短祭袍 | |
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115
foppish
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| adj.矫饰的，浮华的 | |
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116
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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117
belligerent
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| adj.好战的，挑起战争的；n.交战国，交战者 | |
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118
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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119
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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120
cylinder
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| n.圆筒，柱(面)，汽缸 | |
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121
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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122
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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123
improvising
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| 即兴创作（improvise的现在分词形式） | |
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124
lackadaisical
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| adj.无精打采的，无兴趣的；adv.无精打采地，不决断地 | |
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125
punctuating
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的现在分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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126
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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127
clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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128
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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129
decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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130
foist
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| vt.把…强塞给，骗卖给 | |
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131
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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132
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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133
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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134
awareness
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| n.意识，觉悟，懂事，明智 | |
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135
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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136
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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137
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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138
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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139
acoustics
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| n.声学，(复)音响效果，音响装置 | |
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140
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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141
metro
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| n.地铁；adj.大都市的；(METRO)麦德隆(财富500强公司之一总部所在地德国，主要经营零售) | |
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142
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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143
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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144
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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145
primitive
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|
| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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146
stencil
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| v.用模版印刷；n.模版；复写纸，蜡纸 | |
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147
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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148
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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149
narcissist
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| n.自我陶醉者 | |
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150
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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151
enticing
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| adj.迷人的；诱人的 | |
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152
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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153
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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154
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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155
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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156
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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157
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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158
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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159
inversion
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| n.反向，倒转，倒置 | |
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160
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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161
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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162
troupe
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| n.剧团，戏班；杂技团；马戏团 | |
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163
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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164
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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165
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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166
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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167
plumbing
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| n.水管装置；水暖工的工作；管道工程v.用铅锤测量（plumb的现在分词）；探究 | |
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168
sanitary
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| adj.卫生方面的，卫生的，清洁的，卫生的 | |
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169
coordinate
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| adj.同等的，协调的；n.同等者；vt.协作，协调 | |
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170
pickpocket
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| n.扒手；v.扒窃 | |
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171
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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172
evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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173
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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174
pellucid
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| adj.透明的，简单的 | |
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175
contemplating
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|
| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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176
paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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177
symbiotic
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| adj.共栖的，共生的 | |
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178
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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179
voyeur
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| n.窥淫狂者，窥隐私者 | |
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180
frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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181
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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182
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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183
banal
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| adj.陈腐的，平庸的 | |
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184
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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185
wren
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| n.鹪鹩；英国皇家海军女子服务队成员 | |
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186
ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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187
timing
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| n.时间安排，时间选择 | |
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188
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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189
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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190
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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191
infiltration
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| n.渗透；下渗；渗滤；入渗 | |
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192
ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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193
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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194
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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195
automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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196
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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197
daydream
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| v.做白日梦，幻想 | |
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photoelectric
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| adj.光电的，光电效应的 | |
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199
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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201
hydraulic
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| adj.水力的；水压的，液压的；水力学的 | |
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202
platinum
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| n.白金 | |
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203
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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204
arteries
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| n.动脉( artery的名词复数 )；干线，要道 | |
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205
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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206
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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207
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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208
delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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209
commiserated
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| v.怜悯，同情( commiserate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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displacements
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| n.取代( displacement的名词复数 )；替代；移位；免职 | |
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212
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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213
tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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214
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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215
enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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216
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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217
faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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218
wrangle
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| vi.争吵 | |
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219
degenerated
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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220
onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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221
crescendo
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| n.(音乐)渐强，高潮 | |
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222
apocryphal
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| adj.假冒的，虚假的 | |
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223
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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224
gendarmes
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| n.宪兵，警官( gendarme的名词复数 ) | |
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225
tricky
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| adj.狡猾的，奸诈的；(工作等)棘手的，微妙的 | |
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226
impaled
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| 钉在尖桩上( impale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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227
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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228
gritted
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| v.以沙砾覆盖（某物），撒沙砾于( grit的过去式和过去分词 )；咬紧牙关 | |
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229
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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230
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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231
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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232
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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233
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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234
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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235
vendetta
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| n.世仇，宿怨 | |
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236
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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237
bracelets
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| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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238
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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