"Is he asleep for the night, or is he taking a nap?" said Sammler.
"He may be waking up soon, but that's a guess. Miss Gruner is in the visitors' room."
"I’ll stand a bit," said Sammler, not invited to sit. There were many flowers, baskets of fruit, candy boxes, best sellers. The television set was running, soundlessly. The nurse listened with an earpiece. Reflected light flickered5 on the wall behind the bed. Elya's hands were turned downward at his sides, as though he had arranged himself symmetrically before dropping off. The hairy hands were clean, strong, venous, with polished nails. The nails had the same shine as the shot glass from which Gruner had sipped6 his mineral oil. The Nujol bottle was there, too, and beside it the Wall Street Journal. Bald dignity. The cord of the electric razor was plugged in above. He always was clean-shaven. The priests of Apis the Bull, as described by Herodotus, with shaven heads and bodies. And with the sleeping mouth bulged7 out on one side as if Elya, who liked to say that he had grown up in Greenpoint among hoodlums, might have been dreaming about racketeers and gunfire. Under his chin the bandage was like a military collar. Sammler thought of him as a man who badly, even desperately9, needed confirmation10, support, and touch. Gruner was a toucher. His habit, even in passing through a room, was to touch, to take people's arms, even perhaps getting medical information about their muscles, glands11, weight, or the growth of their hair. He also implanted his opinions, his hopes in their breasts, and then if he said, "Well, isn't it so?", it was indeed so. Like a modern General of the Army, an Eisenhower, he made his logistical preparations. This shrewdness was very childish. But easy to pardon. Especially at such a time. At such a time, how could he sleep?
Sammler backed through the door softly and went to the visitors' room. There Angela sat smoking but not in her usual sensual and elegant style. She had been crying, and her face was white and hot. Her figure was heavy, breasts a burden, knees bulging12 pale against the taut13 silk of the stockings. Was it only because of her father that she was weeping? Sammler sensed a combined cause for those tears. He sat opposite her and laid the Augustus John hat, mole-gray, on his lap.
"Sleeping still?"
"Yes," said Sammler.
Angela's large lips, as though to cool herself, were open; she breathed through her mouth. Hot, the slope face with close-textured skin seemed very tight. The heat rose also into the whites of the eyes. "Does he really understand the situation?"
"I wonder. But he is a doctor, and I think he does."
Angela cried again, and Sammmler was even more convinced of a second cause for her tears. "And there's nothing else wrong with him," said Angela. "He's perfectly14 well except for that thing—that one tiny damned thing. And you think he knows, Uncle?"
"Yes, probably."
"But acting15 so normal. Talking about the family. He was so glad to see you and hoped you'd come back tonight. And he still keeps worrying about Wallace."
"One can see why."
"Wallace has been such a headache. At six, seven, he was such a beautiful gifted little boy. He put together mathematical things. We thought we had another Einstein. Daddy sent him to MIT. But next thing we knew he was a bartender in Cambridge, and he beat some drunk almost to death."
"I've heard."
"And now he's bugging16 Daddy to get him a plane. At such a time! A flying saucer would be more like it. Of course I share some of the blame for Wallace." Sammler knew that the conversation would take a tiresome17 psychiatric-pediatric turn, and that he would have to endure a certain amount of explanation.
"Of course I was resentful when they brought the kid home from the hospital. I asked Mother to put his crib in the garage. I'm sure he felt rejection18, from the first. I never liked him. He was too gloomy. He just wasn't like a child. He had terrible fits of rage."
"Well, everybody has a history," said Sammler.
"I think I decided19 in adolescence20 that my brother was going to be a queer. I thought it was my fault, that I was so slutty that he became frightened of girls."
"Is that so? Well, I remember your confirmation," said Sammler. "You were quite studious. I was impressed that you were studying Hebrew."
"Just a front, Uncle. I was a dirty little bitch, really."
"I wonder. In retrospect21, people exaggerate so."
"Neither Father nor I ever liked Wallace. We pushed him off on Mother, and that was like condemning22 him for life. Then it was one thing after another, his obese23 stage, his alcoholic24 stage. Well, now have you heard? He thinks there's money hidden in the house."
"Do you think so, too?"
"I'm not sure. There have been hints from Daddy about it. Mother too before she died. She seemed to believe that now and then Daddy would—he'd step out of line, as she used to say."
"To help out famous families from Dutchess County, as Wallace tells me?"
"Is that what he says? No, Uncle, what I heard was that Daddy did favors for the Mafia characters he grew up with. Top people in the Syndicate. very well. You probably never heard of Luciano."
"Just vaguely25."
"Luciano came out to New Rochelle now and then. And if Daddy did those things and they paid him in cash, it must have been embarrassing. He probably didn't know what to do with that money. But that's not what's weighing on my mind."
"No. Speaking of New Rochelle, you haven't seen Shula, have you, Angela?"
"I haven't. What is she up to?"
"She brought me a very interesting book. However, it wasn't hers to bring."
"I assume she's hiding from Eisen. She thinks he's come to claim her."
"A flattering fear. If only he were capable of coming on such a mission. If he didn't beat her, it would answer many needs. It would be a mercy. No, I don't think he wants her at all. He doesn't like it that she poses as a Catholic. That was his pretext27. Although he did say he got along well with Pope Pius at Castel Gandolfo. And now Eisen is not the friend of Popes, he is an artist. I don't think he has much genius, though he's crazy enough to want great glory." But Angela didn't want to hear this now. Apparently28 she thought Sammler was trying to turn the subject in a theoretical direction—to discuss the creative psychotic.
"Well, he's been here."
"You saw Eisen? He's been annoying Elya? Did he go in?"
"He wanted to make drawings—to sketch29 him, you know."
"I don't like it. I wish he wouldn't bother Elya. What the devil does he want? Keep him away."
"Well, maybe I shouldn't have let him in. I thought he might entertain Daddy."
Sammler was about to answer, but several beats of comprehension passed through his head and made him see matters differently. Of course. Ah, yes. Angela was having her own troubles with Dr. Gruner. Angela was not one of your great weepers, not like Margotte with her high annual tearfall. If Angela was looking so wan26 that even the frosted hair, usually so glossy30 and powerful, seemed to bristle31 dryly and Sammler thought he saw the dark follicular spots on her scalp, it was because she had been wrangling32 with her father. Under stress, Sammler believed, the whole faltered33, and parts (follicles, for instance) became conspicuous34. Such at least was his observation. Elya must be furious with her, and she was trying to divert his attention. Visitors. Obviously this was why she had taken Eisen straight in. But Eisen was not diverting. He was one of those smiling gloomy maniacs35. Very gloomy, really. A depressing fellow . The smart silk suit he had worn ten years ago in Haifa when he and his father-in-law had gone out in the street, to a café, to discuss Shula, might have made a satisfactory coffin36 lining37. Eisen certainly deserved to be cared for, and that was one of the uses of Israel, to gather in these cripples. But now Eisen had broken out, had heard the jolly frantic38 music of America and wanted to get into the act. He made a beeline for the rich cousin. The rich cousin was in the hospital with some kind of fiddle-peg in his neck. Odd what an instinct they all had for molesting39 a dying man.
"Did Edya find Eisen amusing? I doubt it."
Angela wore a playful cap, matching the black and white shoes. Now that her head was lowered Sammler saw the large button of kid leather set in the radial creases40.
"A while he did, I think," she said. "Eisen made sketches41 of Daddy. But then he tried to sell them to him. Daddy would hardly glance at them."
"Not surprising. I wonder where Eisen got the money to come to America."
"I don't know, maybe he saved up. He's put out with you, Uncle."
"I'm sure of that."
"For not coming to see him in Israel. You were there for the war. He says you cut him."
"That doesn't concern me much. I wasn't there to pay my respects to a son-in-law or to make social visits."
"He complained to Daddy about you."
"Horrible!" said Sammler. "Everybody hitting away with these stupidities. At this time!"
"But Daddy takes an interest in all kinds of things. If everything suddenly stopped, it would be abnormal. Of course it's bad to aggravate42 him. For instance, he's angry with me."
"I suppose there is really no good way for Elya to do this thing."
"I'd say that he should stop talking to Widick. You know his fat lawyer, Widick?"
"Of course, I've met the man."
"Four or five times a day on the telephone. And Daddy asks me to leave the room. They're still buying and selling, trading on the stock market. Also I assume they discuss his will, or he wouldn't send me outside."
"Evidently, Angela, in spite of the case you make against Mr. Widick, you've crossed your father yourself, in some way. And you seem to want me to ask about it?"
"I think I should tell you."
"It doesn't sound good."
"It isn't. It was when Wharton Horricker and I went to Mexico."
"I believe Elya likes Horricker. He wouldn't have objected to that."
"No, he hoped that Wharton and I would get married."
"Won't you?"
Angela held a lighted cigarette in forked fingers before her face. Actions normally graceful43, now distressingly45 heavy. She shook her head, her eyes filling, reddening. Ah, trouble with Horricker. Sammler had guessed something of the sort. It was a little hard for him to understand why she should always have so much trouble. Perhaps he put it to himself that she enjoyed so many privileges, what more did she want? She had the income from half a million to live on: tax-exempt Municipals, as Elya would repeat. She had this flesh, these sex attractions and talents—volupté she had. She brought back the French sex vocabulary Sammler had learned at the University of Cracow reading Emile Zola. That book about the fruit market. Le Ventre de Paris. Les Halles. And that appetizing woman there who was also something good to eat, a regular orchard48. Volupté, seins, épaules, hanches. Sur un lit de feuilles. Cette tiédeur satinée de femme. Excellent, Emile! And—all right!—orchards suffering when there were earth tremors49 could drop all their pears; this too Sammler could sympathetically understand. But Angela was always unusually involved in difficulty and suffering, tripping on invisible obstructions50, bringing forth51 complications of painful mischief52 which made him wonder whether this volupté was not one of the sorest strangest burdens that could be laid on a woman's soul. Saw the woman (by her own erotic account), as if in the actual bedroom. By invitation he was there, a perplexed53 bystander. Evidently she believed it necessary that he should know what went on in America. He did not need quite so much information. But better a surplus than ignorance. Both the U.S.A. and the U.S.S.R. were, for Sammler, utopian projects. There, in the East, the emphasis was on low-level goods, on shoes, caps, toilet-plungers, and tin basins for peasants and laborers54. Here it fell upon certain privileges and joys. Here wading55 naked into the waters of paradise, et cetera. But always a certain despair underlining pleasure, death seated inside the health-capsule, steering56 it, and darkness winking57 at you from the golden utopian sun.
"So you've had a quarrel with Wharton Horricker?"
"He's angry with me."
"Aren't you angry with him?"
"Not exactly. I seem to be in the wrong."
"Where is he now?"
"He's supposed to be in Washington. He's doing something statistical58 on antiballistic missiles. For the Senate bloc59 against the ABM. I don't understand the thing."
"It's a pity to have such trouble now, to have a double difficulty."
"I’m afraid Daddy has found out about this."
In Angela's expression as in Wallace's there was something soft, a hint of infancy60 or of baby reverie. The parents must have longed overmuch for babies and so inhibited61 something in their children's cycle of development. Angela's last glance, before she began to sob62, astonished Sammler. Open lips, wrinkled forehead, the skin expressing utter surrender, traits of the original person. An infant! But the eyes did not give up their look of erotic experience.
"Found out about what?"
"A thing that happened at Acapulco. I didn't think it was so very serious. Neither did Wharton. At the time, it was just a kick. I mean it was funny. We had a party with another couple."
"What sort of party was it?"
Well, it was a sex thing for the four of us."
"With other people? Who were they?"
"They were perfectly all right. We met them on the beach. The wife suggested it."
"An exchange?"
"Well, yes. Oh, it is done now, Uncle."
"I hear it is."
"You are disgusted with me, Uncle."
"I? Not really. I knew all this long ago. I regret it when things become so stupid, that's true. It seems to me that things poor professionals once had to do for a living, performing for bachelor parties, or tourist sex-circuses on the Place Pigalle, ordinary people, housewives, filing-clerks, students, now do just to be sociable63. And I can't really say what it's all about. Is it maybe some united effort to conquer disgust? Or to show that all the repulsive64 things in history are not so repulsive? I don't know. Is it an effort to liberalize' human existence and show that nothing that happens between people is really loathsome65? Affirming the Brotherhood66 of Man? Ah, well—" Sammler steadied and restrained himself. He did not want to know the details of this incident in Acapulco, didn't want to hear that the man in the case was a municipal judge from Chicago, or a chiropractor or CPA or a dope-pusher or that he made perfume or formaldehyde.
"Wharton went along, he did his share, but afterward67 he turned sullen68. Then on the plane, flying back, he told me how angry he was about it."
"Well, he's a fastidious young man. You can see from his shirts. I assume he was well brought up."
"He acted no better than the rest of us."
"If you expected to marry Wharton, it was certainly poor judgment69 to do this."
Sammler badly wanted to get this conversation over. Elya had told him not to worry about the future, a hint that he was provided for; but there were also practical considerations to bear in mind. What if he and Shula had to depend on Angela? Angela had always been generous—she spent easily. When they went to a gallery or to lunch, she, naturally, paid for cabs, paid the check, left the tip, everything. But it would not do to go too deeply with Angela into this life of hers. The facts were too bad, too bald, abominable70, pitiful. To a degree such behavior was based on theory, on generational ideology71, part of a liberal education , and was therefore to an extent impersonal72. But Angela would later regret these confessions—regret, and resent his disapproval73. On the whole he received her confidences in a disinterested74 way. He was not unsympathetic, unfeeling; he was (she had said it herself) objective, nonjudging. As they faced Elya's death, he decided that under no circumstances and on no account would he become involved in a perverse75 relationship with Angela in which he had to listen for his supper. His disinterestedness76 would never become one of her comforts, part of the furniture of her life. Not even his anxiety over Shula's future could force him into such a position. A receiver of sordid77 goods? His whole heart rose against this.
"Daddy is asking very pointed78 questions about Wharton."
"He has heard about this episode?"
"That's right, Uncle."
"Who would tell him such things? It seems unusually cruel."
"I don't know whether you understand about that fat Widick, the lawyer. He and Wharton are related somewhere along the line. He's a bastard79."
"That's not my impression at all. Normally fraudulent, perhaps, but that is simply business."
"He's a shit. Daddy thinks the world of Widick. He won the big case for him against the insurance company. I told you they talk four or five times a day on the phone. And Widick hates me."
"How do you know that?"
"I feel it. I get the spoiled-daughter look from him. There have always been people around who thought that Daddy had a bad thing about me, made me financially too independent. You know—pampered me and let me hang too loose."
"Hasn't he been exceptionally indulgent?"
"Not just for my sake, Uncle Sammler. You don't just act for yourself, and he's also lived through me. You can believe it."
Men, thought Sammler, often sin alone; women are seldom companionless in sin. But although Angela might be trying to force this interpretation80 on her father's kindness , it was possible that Elya too had his own lustful81 tendencies. Who was Sammler to say no? Things in general were desperate. The arterial bulge8 in Elya's brain must have cast its shadow earlier—spatters before the cloudburst. Sammler believed in premonitions, and death was a powerful instigator82 of erotic ideas. Sammler's own sex impulses (perhaps even now not altogether gone) had been very different. But he knew how to respect differences. He didn't measure others by himself. Now Shula had no volupté. She had something else. Of course she was not a rich man's daughter, and money, the dollar, was certainly a terrific sexual additive83. But even Shula, though a scavenger84 or magpie85, had never actually stolen before. Then suddenly she too was like the Negro pickpocket86. From the black side, strong currents were sweeping87 over everyone . Child, black, redskin—the unspoiled Seminole against the horrible Whiteman. Millions of civilized88 people wanted oceanic, boundless89, primitive90, neckfree nobility, experienced a strange release of galloping91 impulses, and acquired the peculiar92 aim of sexual niggerhood for everyone. Humankind had lost its old patience. It demanded accelerated exaltation, accepted no instant without pregnant meanings as in epic93, tragedy, comedy, or films. He had an idea even that the very special development of the significance of prisons since the eighteenth century had some relation to this shrinking ability to endure restraint. Punishment must be fitted, closely tailored to the state of the spirit, adapted to the need of the soul. Where liberty had been promised most, they had the biggest, worst prisons. Then another question: Had Elya performed abortions94 to oblige old Mafia friends? As to that, Sammler had no opinion. He simply couldn't say. Elya had never wanted to be a physician. He disliked the practice of medicine. But he had done his duty. And even doctors nowadays made sexual gestures to their patients. Put women's hands on their parts. Sammler had heard of this. Physicians who rejected the Oath, who joined the Age. Also Shula, Shula stealing, was contemporary—lawless. She was experiencing the Age. In so doing, she drew her father along with her. And possibly Elya, with the screw in his throat, had not wished to be left behind either, and had delegated Angela to experience the Age for him.
Be all that as it might—life once had nearly ended. Someone ahead, carrying the light, stumbled, faltered, and Mr. Sammler had thought it was over. However, he was still alive. He had not come through, for the connotation of coming through was that of an accomplishment95 and little had been accomplished96. He had been steered97 from Cracow to London, from London to the Zamosht Forest, and eventually into New York City. One result of such a history was that he had formed a habit of condensation98. He was a specialist in short views. And in the short view, Angela had offended her dying father. He was angry, and she wanted Sammler to intercede99 for her. Maybe Elya would cut her out of his will, give his money to charity. He had made large contributions to the Weizmann Institute. That Think-tank, they called it, at Rehovoth. Or perhaps she was afraid that he himself, Sammler, who was so close to Elya, would become his heir.
"Will you talk to Daddy, Uncle?"
"About this . . . thing of yours? That would be up to him. I wouldn't introduce the subject. I don't think he's just become aware of your style of life. I can't say what he's gotten out of it vicariously, as you suggest. But he's not stupid, and giving a young woman like you a capital of half a million dollars to live in New York City, he would have to be very dumb to think you were not amusing yourself."
Great cities are whores. Doesn't everyone know? Babylon was a whore. ? La Reine aux fesses cascadantes. Penicillin100 keeps New York looking cleaner. No faces gnawed101 by syphilis, with gaping102 noseholes as in ancient times.
"Daddy has such respect for you."
"What use should I make of that respect?"
"All the oldest, deepest, worst sexual prejudices are mobilized against me."
"Lord only knows what's in his mind," said Sammler. "Perhaps it's only one pain among many."
"He's said cruel things to me."
"This Mexican event is not the first," said Sammler. "Surely your father has always known. He hoped you would marry Horricker and stop this sexual nonsense."
"I’ll see if he's awake," said Angela, and rose. Her soft and heavy self was dressed in one of its costumes. Her legs, exposed to the last quarter of the thigh103, were really very strong, almost clumsy. Her face was at this moment baby-pale, and soft under the little leather cap. As she detached herself from the plastic seat, and the evening was quite warm, an odor was released. Both low comic and high serious. Goddess and majorette. The Great Sinnerl What a vexation for poor Elya. What overvaluation. What an atrocious mixture of feelings. Angela was displeased104 with Sammler. She walked away.
As she was going, he remembered where he had last seen a cap like hers. It was in Israel—the Six-Day War he had seen.
He had seen.
It was almost as if he had attended—among other spectators. Arriving in fast cars at a point before Mount Hermon , where a tank battle was taking place, he was one of a press group watching a fight, below. Down in the flat valley, as in Vista-Vision. Where they were standing105, Mr. Sammler and the others, Israeli press officers and journalists, were safe enough. The battle was two miles or more beyond them. The tank columns were maneuvering106 in dust. Bombs were spilling from planes as remote as insects. You saw the wings when they spun107 into the light, then heard detonations108, and shrubs109 of smoke rose briefly110. Remotely, you heard machinery—distant tank treads. You heard tiny war sounds. Then two more cars came tearing up, joined the group, and cameramen leaped out. They were Italians, paparazzi, someone explained, and had brought with them three girls in mod dress. The girls might have come from Carnaby Street or from King's Road in their buskins, miniskirts, false eyelashes. They were indeed British, for Mr. Sammler heard them talking, and one of them had on just the sort of little cap that Angela wore, of houndstooth check. The young ladies had no idea where they were, what this was about, had been quarreling with their lovers, who were now lying in the road on their bellies112. Photographing battle, the shirts fluttering on their backs. The girls were angry. Carried off from the Via Veneto, probably, without knowing clearly where the jet was going. Then, bare to the waist, a runt but muscular, a Swiss correspondent with small twisted kinky-blond beard and his chest hung with cameras began to complain to the Israeli captain that it was improper113 for these girls to be at the front. Sammler heard him give this protest through his teeth, which were bad and tiny. The place where they were standing had been bombed earlier. One could not see why. There seemed no military reason for it. But the ground was full of large holes, still black with fresh bomb soot114.
"Put them at least in those holes," the Swiss Insisted.
"What?"
"Foxholes115, foxholes. Another shell may come. You can't have them walking on the road, like this. You can't have it, don't you understand?" He was an unbearable116 little man. His war was being ruined by these stupid girls in costume. The Israeli officer gave in. He made the girls get into the burnt holes. All you could see of them then was heads and shoulders. Not quite frightened of their anger, but beginning to be. Somewhat stunned117 by now, in the paint of great amorousness118, one beginning to sob a little, and another puffing119 up and growing red. Becoming middle-aged—a scrubwoman. Frills of glistening120 black rising about the girls, the cordite-shining grass.
Other things as strange were occurring. Father Newell, the Jesuit correspondent, was there. He wore the full battle dress of the Vietnam jungles—yellow, black, and green daubs and stripes of camouflage121. Representing a newspaper in Tulsa, Oklahoma, was it, or Lincoln, Nebraska? Sammler still owed him ten dollars, his share of the tald they had hired in Tel Aviv to drive to the Syrian front. But he didn't have Father Newell's address. He might have tried harder to find it. On his way home from Southeast Asia, the priest was a tourist in Athens, looking at the Acropolis, when he heard of the fighting and went at once. The big jungle boots were as ample as galoshes. Father Newell sweated in his green battle clothes. His hair cropped Marine-style, his eyes also green and the cheeks splendid meat-red. Down below the tanks raced and the smoke puffed yellow from the ground. Few sounds rose.
Mr. Sammler in the waiting room now stirred and stood up. Wallace, entering from the general light of the corridor into the lamplight of the visitors' room, was already speaking to him. "Dad is sleeping, Angela says. I don't suppose you've had a chance to talk to him about the attic122?"
"I have not."
Wallace was not alone. Eisen entered at his back. Wallace and Eisen knew each other. How well? A curious question. But quite long, at any rate. They had met when Wallace, after his attempted horse tour of Central Asia and his arrest by the Russian authorities, had visited Israel, and stayed with Cousin Eisen. Wallace had then prepared a full set of notes (going to work at once) for an essay arguing that the modernization123 Israel was bringing to the Middle East was altogether too rapid for the Arabs. Pernicious. Wallace, of course, was bound to oppose Elya's Zionism. But Eisen, never comprehending, unaware124 of Wallace's sudden passion (soon vanishing) for Arab culture, brought him coffee in bed while he was working. Because Wallace was just out of a Soviet125 prison, thanks to Gruner and Senator Javits, and Eisen knew what it was to be in Russian hands. He had made Wallace rest, he waited on him. On his mutilated feet he had learned to move rapidly. Ingenious adaptation. The shuffle126 of his toeless feet in Haifa had put Sammler's teeth on edge. He couldn't have endured two hours alone with handsome, curly, smiling Eisen. But Wallace, with his great-orbited eyes and long lashes111, reaching a skinny hairy arm from the bed and, without looking, accepting coffee in trembling fingers, coddled himself ten days in Eisen's bed after the jails of Soviet Armenia. The Russians had sent him to Turkey. From Turkey he went to Athens. From Athens, like Newell the Jesuit later, he flew to Israel. Tenderly, devotedly127, Eisen had waited on him.
"Ah, here is my father-in-law."
Was it with pleasure at seeing him that Eisen beamed, or was it because the event (Eisen in New York for the first time in his life) was so splendid? He was gay but stiff, cramped128 under the arms and between the legs by his new American clothes. Wallace must have taken him to one of those execrable mod male shops, like Barney's. Perhaps to one of the unisex establishments. The madman wore a magenta129 shirt with a persimmon-colored necktie as thick as an ox tongue. The gloom of his never-ending laughter, the shining of his excellent teeth unharmed by the Stalingrad siege and unaffected by starvation when he hobbled over the Carpathians and the Alps. Teeth like that deserved a saner130 head.
"How nice to find you here," said Eisen to Sammler in Russian.
Sammler answered in Polish, "How are you, Eisen?"
"You wouldn't stop to visit me in my country, so I came to see you in yours," said Eisen.
In this reproach, a familiar and traditional Jewish opening, there was at least a vestige131 of normalcy. Not so in the next statement. "I have come to America to make myself a new career." Karyera was the word he employed. Dressed in the cramping132 narrow gray-denim garments, obviously old stock from the Ivy133 League period that had been palmed off on him, in magenta, persimmon, and tomato colors (the red Chelsea boots mounting to the ankles), his unbarbered curls fusing head and shoulders and brutally134 eliminating the neck, he was obviously getting a new image, revising his self-conception. No longer a victim of Hitler and Stalin; deposited starved-to the bones on Israel's sands; lice, lunacy, and fever his only assets; taken from internment135 in Cyprus; taught a language and a trade. But you could not tell recovery where to stop. He had gone on to become an artist. Rising from negligibility, expendability, something that waited to be slaughtered136 with a trenching tool (Eisen said he had watched this before escaping from Nazi-occupied territory into the Russian zone—men too insignificant137 to waste bullets on, having their heads smashed by shovel138 blows); but rising and rising to heights of world mastery. By the divinity of art. Speaking, inspired, to mankind. Making signs in the universal language of charged pigments139. Hurray, Eisen, flying from peak to peak! Though his colors were grayer than slate140, blacker than coal, redder than disease, and his life studies were double dead, the bus that brought him in from Kennedy was a limousine141; the expressways greeted him like a glorious astronaut, and he faced his Karyera with the moist laughing teeth, in most desperate ecstasy142. (To pair with the Russian Karyera, you wanted the Russian Extass!)
He and Wallace were already doing business together. Eisen was designing labels for the trees and the bushes. They showed Sammler sample cards: QUERCUS and ULMUS, in thick blotchy143 letters of Gothic black. Other labels in the foreign cursive style Eisen had learned in the Gymnasium were neater. Poor Eisen had been a schoolboy when the war broke out and had no higher education. Sammler did his best to say something appropriate and harmless though he was repelled144 by everything that Eisen set on paper.
"These have got to be modified here and there," said Wallace. "But the idea is surprisingly right. For a greenie, you know."
"You are going into this business, really?"
Wallace said firmly, even with a slight jeer145 (forming about a dimple) at the old man's doubts, "Definitely, really, Uncle. In fact I'm going to test-fly some planes tomorrow, in Westchester. I'm going back this evening to spend the night at the old place."
"Is your pilot's license146 still good?"
"Why, of course it's good."
"Well, it must be an agreeable feeling of excitement—a new enterprise, with friends and relatives. What have you got there, Eisen?"
A heavy green baize bag hung from cords wound about Eisen's wrist. "Here? I have brought work of mine in a different medium." Eisen said. He clinked down the weight on the glass tabletop; the baize fell back.
"You've made some paperweights."
"Not paperweights. You could use them for that purpose, Father-in-law, but they are medallions." You couldn't offend Eisen because he took such pleasure in his accomplishments147. As if he were inhaling148 some aromatic149 rarity, he began to close his eyes and to show those peerless bones, his teeth, and with both hands smoothed back the curls over his ears. "I have invented a new process in the foundry," he said. In technical Russian he began to explain, but Sammler said, "You are losing me, Eisen. I am not familiar with the vocabulary."
The metal was crude-looking, partly bronze but also pale yellow, tinged150 with sulfides like fool's gold. And Eisen had made the usual Stars of David, branched candelabra, scrolls151 and rams152' horns, or inscriptions153 flaming away in Hebrew: Nahamu! "Comfort ye!" Or God's command to Joshua: Hazak! With a certain interest Sammler watched these crude, lunky pieces being laid out. After each, a pause, while the face of the connoisseur154 was intently examined for the beautiful reaction obviously due. These iron pyrites, belonging at the bottom of the Dead Sea.
"And what is this, Eisen, a tank, I take it, a Sherman tank?"
"Metaphor155 for a tank. Nothing is literal in my work."
"No one simply hallucinates any more," said Mr. Sammler in Polish. The remark was unnoticed.
"Shouldn't these be ground smoother?" said Wallace. "And what is this word?"
"Hazak, hazak," said Sammler. "The order God gave before Jericho, to Joshua. 'Strengthen thyself.'"
"Hazak, v'ematz," said Eisen.
"Yes, well . . . Why does God speak such a funny language?" said Wallace.
"I brought these medallions to show to Cousin Elya."
"Nonsense," said Sammler. "Elya's sick. He can't handle this rough heavy metal."
"No, no, I’ll hold up one piece at a time. I want him to see what I accomplished. Twenty-five years ago I came to the Eretz a broken man. But I wouldn't die. I couldn't shut my eyes—not before I did something like a human being, something important, beautiful."
Sammmler ventured no comment. After all, his heart was not so hard to touch. Moreover, he had been trained in the ancient mode of politeness. Almost as, once, women had been brought up to chastity. Well-schooled in murmuring over the trash Shula found in wastebaskets, he made the necessary sounds and passes of the hand, but then he said again that Elya was very ill. These medallions might tire him.
"I differ," said Eisen. "On the contrary. How can art hurt?" He began to stow the clinking pieces in the baize bag.
Wallace then said to someone behind Sammler, "Yes, he is. " The private nurse had come in.
"Who is?"
"You, Uncle. This Is Mr. Sammler here."
"Is Elya asking for me?"
"You're wanted on the telephone. You are Uncle Sammler?"
"Miss? I am Artur Sammler."
"A Mrs. Arkin. She wants you to call home."
"Oh, Margotte. Did she phone Elya's room? I hope she didn't wake him."
"The call was to the floor, not to the room."
"Thank you. Oh, yes, where is the public phone?"
"Do you need dimes156, Uncle?" Sammler picked two warm coins out of Wallace's palm. Wallace had been clutching his money.
Margotte tried extraordinarily157 hard to speak firmly. "Uncle? Now listen. Where did you leave Dr. Lal's manuscript?"
"I left it on my desk."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I am sure. On my desk."
"Is there no other place you might have put it? I know you aren't absent-minded, but the strain is unusual."
"It isn't on the desk? Is Dr. Lal with you?"
"I sat him down in the living room."
Among the pots of soil. What must this Lal be feeling!
"And does he know it's gone?"
"I couldn't very well lie to him. I had to tell him. He wanted to wait here for you. We raced back from Butler Hall, of course. He was so anxious."
"Now, Margotte, we must keep our heads."
"He is in such distress44. Really, Uncle, no one has the right to expose a person to such things."
"My apologies to Dr. Lal. I regret more than I can say . . . I can imagine how upset he is. But Margotte, only one person in the world could have taken that notebook. You must find out from the elevator man. Has Shula been there?"
"Rodriguez lets her in as one of the family. She is one of the family."
Rodriguez had a giant ring of keys, practically a hoop158. He fetched it at need from a nail in the brick wall of the cellar.
"Really, Shula is too stupid. Enough is enough. I've been too easy with her. The embarrassment159 is terrible. Being the father of the woman-lunatic who ambushes160 this unhappy Indian. You spoke161 to Rodriguez?"
"It was Shula."
"Ah"
"Dr. Lal had a report from the detective who visited her today, at noon. I think the man threatened her."
"As I feared."
"He said the manuscript must be back by ten a.m. tomorrow; otherwise he would come with a warrant."
"To search? Arrest?"
"I don't know. Neither does Dr. Lal. But she got very excited. What she said was that she would go to her priest. She would go to Father Robles and complain to the Church."
"Margotte, you had better check with that priest. A search warrant in that apartment? She has been filling it with trash for twelve years. If the police put down their hats, they’ll never find them again. But I would say she has gone to New Rochelle."
"Do you think so?"
"If she's not with Father Robles, that's where she is." Sammler knew her ways; knew them as the Eskimo knows the ways of the seal. Its breathing-holes. "She is protecting me now, because the stolen property is in my hands. She must have been terrified by the detective, poor thing, and then waited till we had both gone out." Spying on my door like the black man. Feeling that she was not included by her father among his most serious concerns. Determined162 to regain163 the top priority. "I have let her go too far with this H. G. Wells nonsense. And now someone has been hurt."
This unlucky Lal, who must have been sick of earth to begin with if he had such expectations of the moon.
And partly he was right, for humankind kept doing the same stunts164 over and over. The old comical-tearful stuff. Emotional relationships. Desires incapable165 of useful fulfillment . Over and over, trying to vent47 and empty the breast of certain cries, of certain fervencies. What positive balance was possible? Was this passional struggle altogether useless? It was the energy bank also of noble purposes . Barking, hissing166, ape-chatter, and spitting. But there were times when Love seemed life's great architect. Weren't there? Even stupidity might at times be hammered out as a golden background for great actions. Mightn't it? But for these weaknesses and these tenacious167 sicknesses, were there true cures? Sometimes the idea of cures seemed to Sammler itself pernicious. What was cured? You could rearrange, you could orchestrate the disorders168. But cure? Nonsense. Change Sin to Sickness, a change of words (Feffer was right), and then enlightened doctors would stamp the sickness out. Oh, yes! So, then, philosophers, men of science, of brilliant intellect, understanding this more and more clearly, are compelled to sue for divorce from all these human states. Then they launch outward, moonward, their flying arthropod hardware. "I shall go to New Rochelle with Wallace," said Sammler . "She is certainly there. To be sure, we will check with Father Robles. If he knows where she is . . . I'll call back."
Because she was not an American he felt a certain solidarity169 with Margotte. From her he did not have to conceal170 his (foreign) mortification171. And she had shown delicacy172 in remembering not to ring Elya's room.
"What shall I do with Dr. Lal?"
"Apologize," he said. "Reassure173. Comfort him, Margotte. Tell him I'm sure the manuscript is safe. Explain Shula's respect for the written word. And please ask him to keep the detectives out of this."
"Wait a minute. He is here. He would like to say a word."
An Eastern voice enriched the wire.
"Is this Mr. Sammler?"
"It is."
"Dr. Lal, here. This is the second robbery. I cannot tolerate much more. Since Mrs. Arkin has appealed for patience, I can hold off just a very little longer. But very little. Then I must have the police detain your daughter."
"If only it would help to put her behind bars! Believe me, I am sorrier than I can say. But I am perfectly sure the manuscript is safe. I understand you have no other copy."
"Three years of composition."
"That is distressing46. I had hoped it was more like six months. But I can see how much careful preparation it would need." Normally Sammler shunned174 flattery, but now he had no choice. Moisture formed upon the black instrument, against his ear, and on his cheek was a red pressure mark. He said, "The work is brilliant."
"I am glad you think so. Judge how it affects me."
I can judge. Anyone can clutch anyone, and whirl him off. The low can force the high to dance. The wise have to reel about with leaping fools. "Try not to be too anxious, sir. I can recover your manuscript, and will do it tonight. I don't use my authority often enough. Believe me, I can control my daughter, and I shall."
"I had hoped to publish by the time of the first moon landing," said Lal. "You can imagine how many bad paperbacks175 will be out. Confusing to the public. Meretricious176."
"Of course." Sammler sensed that the Indian, probably passionate177, resisting great internal pressure, was after all being decent, allowing for the frailty178 of an old man, the tightness of the situation. He thought, The fellow is a gentleman. Inclining his head within the soundproof metal enclosure, the dotted voile of insulation179, Sammler yielded to Oriental suggestion: "May the sun brighten your face. Single you out among the multitude (imagining Hindus always in crowds: like mackerel-crowded seas) many years yet." Sammler was determined that Shula should hurt no one but himself. He had to put up with it, but no one else should. "I shall be interested in your comments on my essay."
"Of course," said Sammler, "we will have a long talk about it. Please stand by. I will phone as soon as there is some news. Thank you for bearing with me."
Both parties hung up.
"Wallace," said Sammler, "I think I shall be driving to New Rochelle with you."
"Really? Then Dad did say something about the attic?"
"It has nothing to do with the attic."
"Then why? Is it something about Shula? It must be."
"Why, yes, in fact. Shula. Can we leave soon?"
"Emil is out there with the Rolls. Might as well use it while we can. What is Shula up to? She called me."
"When?"
"Not long ago. She wanted to put something in Dad's wall safe. Did I know the combination. Naturally I couldn't say I knew the combination. I’m not supposed to know."
"Where was she calling from?"
"I didn't ask. Of course you've seen Shula whispering to the flowers in the garden," said Wallace. Wallace was not observant and took little interest in the conduct of others. But for that very reason he prized highly the things he did notice. What he noticed he cherished. He had always been kind and warm to Shula. "What language does she speak to them, is it Polish?"
The language of schizophrenia, very likely.
"I used to read Alice in Wonderland to her. Those talking flowers. The garden of live flowers."
Sammler opened the patient's door and saw him sitting up, alone. Dr. Gruner in his large black spectacles was studying, or trying to study, a contract or legal document. He would sometimes say that he should have been a lawyer, not a doctor. Medical school had not been his choice but his mother's. Of his own free will he had probably done little. Consider his wife.
"Come in, Uncle, and shut the door. Let's make it fathers only. I don't want to see children tonight."
"I understand that feeling," said Sammler. "I've had it often."
"It's a pity about Shula, poor woman. But she is only wacky. My daughter is a dirty cunt."
"A different generation, a different generation."
"And my son, a high-IQ moron180."
"He may come around, Elya."
"You don't believe it for a minute, Uncle. What, a ninth-inning rally? I ask myself what I spent so many years of my life on. I must have believed what America was telling me. I paid for the best. I never suspected that I wasn't getting the best."
Had Elya spoken in excitement, Sammler would have tried to calm him. He was, however, speaking factually and he sounded utterly181 level. In the goggles182 he looked particularly judicious183. Like the chairman of a Senate committee hearing scandalous testimony184 without loss of composure.
"Where is Angela?"
"Gone to the ladies' to have a cry, I suppose. If she isn't Frenching an orderly, or in a daisy chain. When she goes around the corner, you never know."
"Oh, too bad. You ought not to be quarreling."
"Not quarreling. Just making things plainer, spelling them out. I figured this Horricker to marry her, but he’ll never do it now."
"Is that certain?"
"Did she tell you what happened in Mexico?"
"Not in detail."
"That's just as well, if you don't know the details. The joke you made was right on the head, about the billiard table in hell, about something green where it's hot."
"It wasn't aimed at Angela."
"Of course I knew my daughter with twenty-five thousand tax-free dollars must be having herself a tine. I expected that, and as long as she was handling herself maturely and sensibly I had no objections. All that, theoretically, is fine. You use the words 'mature' and 'sensible,' and they satisfy you. But then you take a close look, and when you take a close look, you see something else. You see a woman who has done it in too many ways with too many men. By now she probably doesn't know the name of the man between her legs. And she looks . . . Her eyes—she has fucked-out eyes."
"I’m sorry."
Something very odd in Elya's expression. There were tears about, somewhere, but dignity would not permit them. Perhaps it was self-severity, not dignity. But they did not come out. They were rerouted, absorbed into the system. They were subdued185, converted into tones. They were present in the voice, in the color of the skin, in the lights of the eye.
"I must go, Elya. I’ll take Wallace with me. I’ll be back tomorrow."
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1
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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3
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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bossy
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| adj.爱发号施令的，作威作福的 | |
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flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7
bulged
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| 凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 )； 充满； 塞满（某物） | |
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bulge
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| n.突出，膨胀，激增；vt.突出，膨胀 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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glands
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| n.腺( gland的名词复数 ) | |
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12
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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13
taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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14
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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15
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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16
bugging
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| [法] 窃听 | |
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17
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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18
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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20
adolescence
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| n.青春期，青少年 | |
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retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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22
condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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23
obese
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| adj.过度肥胖的，肥大的 | |
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alcoholic
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| adj.（含）酒精的，由酒精引起的；n.酗酒者 | |
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25
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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26
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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28
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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29
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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30
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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31
bristle
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| v.（毛发）直立，气势汹汹，发怒；n.硬毛发 | |
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32
wrangling
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的现在分词 ) | |
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33
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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34
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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35
maniacs
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| n.疯子（maniac的复数形式） | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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38
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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39
molesting
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| v.骚扰( molest的现在分词 )；干扰；调戏；猥亵 | |
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40
creases
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的第三人称单数 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹 | |
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41
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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42
aggravate
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| vt.加重(剧)，使恶化；激怒，使恼火 | |
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43
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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44
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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45
distressingly
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| adv. 令人苦恼地；悲惨地 | |
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46
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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47
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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48
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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49
tremors
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| 震颤( tremor的名词复数 )； 战栗； 震颤声； 大地的轻微震动 | |
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50
obstructions
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| n.障碍物( obstruction的名词复数 )；阻碍物；阻碍；阻挠 | |
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51
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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52
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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53
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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54
laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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55
wading
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的现在分词 ) | |
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56
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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57
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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58
statistical
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| adj.统计的，统计学的 | |
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59
bloc
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| n.集团；联盟 | |
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60
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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61
inhibited
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| a.拘谨的，拘束的 | |
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62
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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63
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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64
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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65
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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66
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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67
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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68
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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69
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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70
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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71
ideology
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| n.意识形态，(政治或社会的)思想意识 | |
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72
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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73
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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74
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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75
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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76
disinterestedness
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77
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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78
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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79
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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80
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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81
lustful
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| a.贪婪的；渴望的 | |
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82
instigator
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| n.煽动者 | |
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83
additive
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| adj.附加的；n.添加剂 | |
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84
scavenger
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| n.以腐尸为食的动物，清扫工 | |
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85
magpie
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| n.喜欢收藏物品的人，喜鹊，饶舌者 | |
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86
pickpocket
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| n.扒手；v.扒窃 | |
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87
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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88
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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89
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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90
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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91
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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92
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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93
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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94
abortions
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| n.小产( abortion的名词复数 )；小产胎儿；（计划）等中止或夭折；败育 | |
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95
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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96
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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97
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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98
condensation
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| n.压缩，浓缩；凝结的水珠 | |
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99
intercede
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| vi.仲裁，说情 | |
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100
penicillin
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| n.青霉素，盘尼西林 | |
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101
gnawed
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| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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102
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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103
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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104
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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105
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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106
maneuvering
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| v.移动，用策略( maneuver的现在分词 )；操纵 | |
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107
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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108
detonations
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| n.爆炸 （声）( detonation的名词复数 ) | |
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109
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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110
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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111
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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112
bellies
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| n.肚子( belly的名词复数 )；腹部；（物体的）圆形或凸起部份；腹部…形的 | |
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113
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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114
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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115
foxholes
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| n.散兵坑( foxhole的名词复数 ) | |
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116
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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117
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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118
amorousness
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119
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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120
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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121
camouflage
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| n./v.掩饰，伪装 | |
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122
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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123
modernization
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| n.现代化，现代化的事物 | |
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124
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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125
Soviet
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| adj.苏联的，苏维埃的；n.苏维埃 | |
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126
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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127
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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128
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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129
magenta
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| n..紫红色（的染料）；adj.紫红色的 | |
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130
saner
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| adj.心智健全的( sane的比较级 )；神志正常的；明智的；稳健的 | |
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131
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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132
cramping
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| 图像压缩 | |
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133
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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134
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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135
internment
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| n.拘留 | |
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136
slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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138
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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139
pigments
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| n.（粉状）颜料( pigment的名词复数 )；天然色素 | |
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140
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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141
limousine
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| n.豪华轿车 | |
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142
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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143
blotchy
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| adj.有斑点的，有污渍的；斑污 | |
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144
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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145
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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146
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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147
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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148
inhaling
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| v.吸入( inhale的现在分词 ) | |
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149
aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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150
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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151
scrolls
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| n.（常用于录写正式文件的）纸卷( scroll的名词复数 )；卷轴；涡卷形（装饰）；卷形花纹v.（电脑屏幕上）从上到下移动（资料等），卷页( scroll的第三人称单数 )；（似卷轴般）卷起；（像展开卷轴般地）将文字显示于屏幕 | |
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152
rams
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| n.公羊( ram的名词复数 )；(R-)白羊（星）座；夯；攻城槌v.夯实（土等）( ram的第三人称单数 )；猛撞；猛压；反复灌输 | |
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153
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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154
connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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155
metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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156
dimes
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| n.（美国、加拿大的）10分铸币( dime的名词复数 ) | |
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157
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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158
hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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159
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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160
ambushes
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| n.埋伏( ambush的名词复数 )；伏击；埋伏着的人；设埋伏点v.埋伏( ambush的第三人称单数 )；埋伏着 | |
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161
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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162
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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163
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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164
stunts
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| n.惊人的表演( stunt的名词复数 )；（广告中）引人注目的花招；愚蠢行为；危险举动v.阻碍…发育[生长]，抑制，妨碍( stunt的第三人称单数 ) | |
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165
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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166
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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167
tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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168
disorders
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| n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 )；凌乱；骚乱；（身心、机能）失调 | |
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169
solidarity
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| n.团结；休戚相关 | |
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170
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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171
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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172
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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173
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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174
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
paperbacks
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| n.平装本，平装书( paperback的名词复数 ) | |
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176
meretricious
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| adj.华而不实的，俗艳的 | |
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177
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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178
frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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179
insulation
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| n.隔离；绝缘；隔热 | |
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180
moron
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| n.极蠢之人，低能儿 | |
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181
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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182
goggles
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| n.护目镜 | |
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183
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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184
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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185
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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