Suddenly Sammler stopped shaving, paused and stared at himself, his dry, small, "cured" face undergoing in the mirror a strong inrush of color. Even the left, the swelled9, the opaque10 guppy eye, took up some light from this. Where were they all? Opening the door, he listened. There was no sound. He went into the garden. Dr. Lal's car was gone. He looked in the garage, and that was empty. Gone, fled!
He found Shula in the kitchen. "Everyone has left?" he said. "Now how do I get to New York?"
She was pouring coffee through the filter cane11, having first boiled the grounds, French style.
"Took off," she said. "Dr. Lal wasn't able to wait. There was no room for me. He rented a two-seater. A gorgeous little Austin Healy, did you see it?"
"And Emil, where is he?"
"He had to take Wallace to the airport. Wallace has to fly—to test-fly. For his business, you know what I mean. They're going to take pictures and so on."
"And I am stuck. Is there a timetable? I've got to be in New York."
"Well, it's nearly ten o'clock now and there aren't so many trains. I’ll phone. And then Emil should be back soon, and he can drive you. You were sleeping. Dr. Lal didn't want to disturb you."
"Extremely inconsiderate. You knew and Margotte knew that I had to get back."
"The little car was very pretty. Margotte didn't look right in it."
"I am annoyed."
"Margotte has thick legs, Father. You've probably never even noticed. Well, they won't show in the car. Dr. Lal will call later in the day. You'll see him all right."
"Whom, Lal? Why? The document is there, isn't it?"
"There?"
"Don't irritate me by repeating questions. I am already irritated. Why didn't you wake me? The document is in the locker12, isn't it?"
"I locked it up myself, with the quarter, and took out the key. No, youll see him because Margotte is out for him. Maybe you didn't notice that either. I really need to talk to you about this, Father."
"Yes, I'm sure you do. I did notice, yes, to tell the truth. Well, she's a widow, and she's had enough of mourning, and she needs somebody like that. We aren't much comfort to her. I don't know what she sees in that bushy black little fellow. It's just loneliness, I suppose."
"I can see what she sees. Dr. Lal is very distinguished13. You know it. Don't pretend, after the way you talked in the kitchen. It was beautiful."
"Well, well. What will I do? This thing of Elya's is very bad, you know."
"Very?"
"The worst. And I should have realized that returning might present problems."
"Father, just leave it to me. And you haven't finished shaving. No, go on, and I’ll bring you a cup of coffee."
He went, thinking how he had been feinted out of position. Outgeneraled. Like Pompey or Labienus by Caesar. He should not have left the city. He was cut off from his base. And now how was he to reach Elya, who needed him today? Picking up the phone in the den to call the hospital, he heard the busy signal Shula was getting from the Penn Central. Patience, waiting, now were necessary—things Mr. Sammler had no talent for. But he had studied, he had trained himself. One began with external composure. So he sat down on the hassock, looking at the sofa, and at the silken green luxurious14 wool of Elya's own afghan he had slept under. It was a lovely morning, too. The sun came in as he sipped15 the coffee Shula brought him. Glass tables on legs and semicircular struts16 of brass17 spattered the Oriental rug with light, brought out the colors and the figures.
"Busy signal," she said.
"Yes, I know."
"There's a telephone crisis, anyway, all over New York. The experts are working on it."
She went into the garden, and Sammler again tried dialing the hospital. All lines were busy in that dreary18 place, and he hung up the repetitious croaking19 instrument. Thinking of the colossal20 number of conversations, all those communings. Utilizing21 the invisible powers of the universe. Out in the garden, Shula was also engaged in conversation. It was warm. Tulips, daffodils, jonquils, and a paradise of gusts22. Evidently she asked the flowers how they were today. No answers required. Brilliant instances sufficed. She herself was a brilliant instance of something organically strange. His glimpse of the entire Shula last night now made him feel her specific weight, as she trod the grass. The entire female body was evoked23, white skin everywhere, the thighs24, the trunk, the actual feet, the belly25 with its organs, together with the kinky hair straggling from the scarf. All visible and almost palpable. And even about plants, who knew the whole truth? On educational TV one night he and Margotte watched a singular botanist26 who had attached a polygraph machine—a lie-detector—to flowers and recorded the reactions of roses to gentle and violent stimuli27. Stridency made them shrink, he said. A dead dog cast before them caused aversion. A soprano singing lullabies had the opposite effect. Sammler would have guessed that the investigator28 himself, his pale leer, his wild stern police nose would distress29 roses, African violets. Even without nerves these organisms were discerning. We with our oversupply30 of receptors were in a state of nervous chaos31. Amid the tree shadows, pliant32, and the window-frame shadows, rigid33, and the brass and glass reflections, semi- steady, Mr. Sammler wiped his shoes with the paper towel Shula had placed under the coffee cup. The shoes were damp, still. They were soggy, unpleasantly so. Margotte also had her plants, and Wallace was about to found a plant business. It would be too bad if the first contacts of plants were entirely34 with the demented. Maybe I’d better have a word with them myself. Mr. Sammler was heavyhearted and tried to divert himself. The heaviness was brutally35 persistent37, however.
He came to the point. First, how apt it was that Wallace should flood the attic38. Why, it was a metaphor39 for Elya's condition. In connection with that condition there arose other images—a blistering40 of the brain, a froth or rusty41 scum of blood over that other plant which lay in one's head. Something like convolvulus. No, like fatty cauliflower. The screw on the artery42 could not reduce the pressure, and where the vessel43 was varicose and weaker than cobweb it would open. A terrible flood! One might try to think of mitigating44 things—That, oh well! Life! Everyone who had it was bound to lose it. Or that this was Elya's moment of honor and that he called upon his best qualities. That was all very well, until death turned its full gaze on the individual. Then all such ideas were nothing. The point was that he, Sammler, should be at the hospital, now; to do what could be done; to say what might be said, and what should be said. Exactly what should or might be said Sammler did not know. He could not find the precise thing. Living as he did, in this inward style, working out his condensations45 or contractions46, one became uncommunicative . To explain or expand his thoughts tired and vexed47 him, as he had learned last night. But he did not feel uncommunicative toward Elya. On the contrary, he wanted to say everything possible. He wanted to go to the hospital and say something! He loved his nephew, and he had something that Elya needed. All concerned ought to have had it. The first place at Elya's bedside belonged to Wallace or to Angela, but they were not about to take it.
Elya was a physician and a businessman. With his own family, to his credit, he had not been businesslike. Nevertheless , he had the business outlook. And business, in business America, was also a training system for souls. The fear of being unbusinesslike was very great. As he was dying Elya might conceivably draw strength from doing business. He had in fact done that. He kept talking to Widick. And Sammler had nothing with a business flavor to offer him. But at the very end business would not do for Elya. Some, many, would go on with business to the last breath, but Elya was not like that, not so limited. Elya was not finally ruled by business considerations. He was not in that insect and mechanical state—such a surrender, such an insect disaster for human beings. Even now (now perhaps more than ever) Elya was accessible. In fact Sammler had not seen this in time. Yesterday, when Elya began to speak of Wallace, when he denounced Angela, he, Sammler, ought to have stayed with him. Any degree of frankness might have been possible. In the going phrase, a moment of truth. Meaning that most conversation was a compilation48 of lies, of course. But Elya's was not one of those sealed completed impenetrable systems, he was not one of your monstrous49 crystals or icicles. Feeling, or stroking the long green fibers50 of the afghan, Sammler put it to himself that because he and Antonina had been designated, part of a demonstration52 of the meaninglessness of this vivid shuffle53 with its pangs54 of higher intuition from the one side and the continual muddy suck of the grave underfoot—that because of this he himself, Artur Sammler, had put up obstinate55 resistance. And Elya, too, was devoted56 to ideas of conduct which seemed discredited57, which few people explicitly59 defended. It was not the behavior that was gone. What was gone was the old words. Forms and signs were absent. Not honor but the word honor. Not virtuous60 impulse, but the terms beaten into flat nonsense. Not compassion61; but what was a compassionate62 utterance64? And compassionate utterance was a mortal necessity. Utterance, sounds of hope and desire, exclamations65 of grief. Such things were suppressed, as if illicit66. Sometimes coming through in ciphers67, ... buildings (the empty tailor shop facing the hospital). At this stage of things there was a terrible dumbness. About essentials, almost nothing could be said. Still, signs could be made, should be made, must be made. One should declare something like this: "However actual I may seem to you and you to me, we are not as actual as all that. We will die. Nevertheless there is a bond. There is a bond." Mr. Sammler believed that if this was not said in so many words it should be said tacitly. In fact it was continually asserted, in many guises68. And anyway, we know what is what. But Elya at this moment had a most particular need for a sign and he, Sammler, should be there to meet that need.
He again telephoned the hospital. To his surprise, he found himself speaking with Gruner. He had asked for the private nurse. One could get through? Elya must be molested69 by calls. With the mortal bulge70 in his head he was still in the game, did business.
"How are you?"
"How are you, Uncle?"
The actual meaning of this might have been, "Where are you?"
"How are you feeling?"
"There's been no change. I thought we would be seeing each other."
"I’m coming in. I'm sorry. When there's something important there is always some delay. It never fails, Elya."
"When you left yesterday, it was like unfinished business between us. We got sidetracked by Angela and such hopeless questions. There was something I was meaning to ask. About Cracow. The old days. And by the way, I bragged71 about you to a Polish doctor here. He wanted very much to see the Polish articles you sent from the Six-Day War. Do you have copies?"
"Certainly, at home. I have plenty."
"Aren't you at home now?"
"Actually I'm not."
"I wonder if you'd mind bringing the clippings. Would you mind stopping off?"
"Of course not. But I don't want to lose the time."
"I may have to go down for tests. EIya's voice was filled with unidentifiable tones. Sammler's interpretive skill was insufficient72. He was uneasy. "Why shouldn't there be time?" Elya said. There's time enough for everything." This had an odd ring, and the accents were strange.
"Yes?"
"Of course, yes. It was good you called. A while ago I tried to phone you. There was no answer. You went out early."
Uneasiness somewhat interfered74 with Sammler's breathing. Long and thin, he held the telephone, concentrating, aware of the anxious Intensity75 gathered in his face. He was silent. Elya said, "Angela is on her way over."
"I am coming too."
"Yes. Elya lingered somewhat on the shortest words. "Well, Uncle?"
"Good-by, for now."
"Good-by, Uncle Sammler."
Rapping at the pane76, Sammler tried to get Shula’s attention . Among the wagging flowers she was conspicuously77 white. His Primavera. On her head she wore a dark-red scarf. Covering up, afflicted78 always by the meagerness of her hair. It was perhaps the natural abundance, growth power, exuberance79 that she admired in flowers. Seeing her among the blond openmouthed daffodils, which were being poured back and forth80 by the wind, her father believed that she was in love. From the hang of her shoulders, the turn of the orange lips, he saw that she was already prepared to accept unrequited longing81. Dr. Lal was not for her; she would never clasp his head or hold his beard between her breasts. You could seldom get people to long for what was possible—that was the cruelty of it. He opened the French window.
"Where is the timetable?" he said.
"I can't find it. The Gruners don't use the train. Anyway, you'll get to New York quicker with Emil. He's going to the hospital."
"I don't suppose he'd wait at the airport for Wallace. Not today."
"Why did you say that about Lal, that he was just a bushy black little fellow?"
"I hope you're not personally interested in him."
"Why not?"
"He's not at all suitable, and I'd never give my consent."
"You wouldn't?"
"No, no. He wouldn't make any kind of husband for you."
"Because he's an Asiatic? You wouldn't be so prejudiced. Not you, Father."
"Not the slightest objection to an Asiatic. There is much to be said for exotic marriages. If your husband is a bore, it takes years longer to discover it, in French. But scientists make bad husbands. Sixteen hours a day in the laboratory, absorbed in research. You'd be neglected. You'd be hurt. I wouldn't allow it."
"Not even if I loved him?"
"You also thought you loved Eisen."
"He didn't love me. Not enough to forgive my Catholic background. And I couldn't discuss anything with him. Besides, sexually, he was a very gross person. Things I wouldn't care to tell you about, Father. But he is extremely common and lousy. He's here in New York. If he comes near me, I’ll stab him."
"You amaze me, Shula. You would actually stab Eisen with a knife?"
"Or with a fork. I often regret that I let him beat me in Haifa and didn't do anything back to him. He hit me really too hard, and I should have defended myself."
"All the more important that you should avoid future mistakes. I have to protect you from failures I can foresee. A father should."
"But what if I did love Dr. Lal? And I saw him first."
"Rivalry—a poor motive82. Shula, we must take care of each other. As you look after me on the H. G. Wells side, I think about your happiness. Margotte is a much less sensitive person than you. If a man like Dr. Lal was mentally absent for weeks at a time, she'd never notice. Don't you remember how Ussher used to speak to her?" "He would tell her to shut up."
"That's right."
"If a husband treated me like that, I couldn't bear it."
"Exactly. Wells also thought that people in scientific research made poor husbands."
"He didn't!"
"I seem to remember his saying that. Does Wallace really know the first thing about aerial photography?"
"He knows so many things. What do you think of his business idea?"
"He doesn't have ideas—he has delusions83, brainstorms84. However, he wouldn't be the first maniac85 to make money. And his scheme has charm, dealing87 in plant names . . . well, some of the plants do have beautiful names. Take one like Gazania Pavonia."
"Gazania Pavonia is darling. Well, come out in the sun and enjoy the weather. I feel much better when you take an interest in me. I’m glad you understand that I took the moon thing for you. You aren't going to give up the project, are you? It would be a sin. You were made to write the Wells book, and it would be a masterpiece. Something terrible will happen if you don't. Bad luck. I feel it inside."
"I may try again."
"You must."
"To find a place for it among my preoccupations."
"You should have no other preoccupations. Only creative ones."
Mr. Sammler, smelling of sandalwood soap, decided88 to sit in the garden to wait for Emil. Perhaps the soap odor would evaporate in the sun. He didn't have it in him to rinse89 again in the onyx bathroom. Too close in there.
"Bring your coffee out."
"I’d like that, Shula." He handed her the cup and stepped onto the lawn. "And my shoes are wet from last night."
Black fluid, white light, green ground, the soil heated and soft, penetrated90 by new growth. In the grass, a massed shine of particles, a turf-buried whiteness, and from this dew, wherever the sun could reach it, the spectrum91 flashed like night cities seen from the jet, or the galactic sperm5 of worlds.
"Here. Sit. Take those things off. You'll catch cold. I can dry them in the oven." Kneeling, she removed the wet shoes. "How can you wear them? Do you want to catch pneumonia93?"
"Is Emil coming straight back or waiting for that lunatic?"
"I don't know. Why do you keep calling him a lunatic? Why is Wallace a lunatic?"
To a lunatic, how would you define a lunatic? And was he himself a perfect example of sanity94? He was certainly not. They were his people—he was their Sammler. They shared the same fundamentals.
"Because he flooded the house?" said Shula.
"Because he flooded it. Because now he's flying around with his cameras."
"He was looking for money. That's not crazy, is it?"
"How do you know about this money?"
"He told me. He thinks there's a fortune here. What do you think?"
"I wouldn't know. But Wallace would have such fantasies—Ali Baba, Captain Kidd, or Tom Sawyer treasure fantasies."
"But he says—no joking—there's a fortune of money in the house. He won't rest until he finds it. Wouldn't it be a little mean of Cousin Elya . . ."
"To die without saying where it is?"
"Yes." Shula seemed slightly ashamed, now that her meaning was explicit58.
"It's up to him. Elya will do as he likes. I assume Wallace has asked you to help find this secret hoard95."
"Yes."
"What did he do, promise a reward?"
"Yes, he did."
"I don't want you to meddle96, Shula. Keep out of it."
"Shall I bring you a slice of toast, Father?"
He didn't answer. She went away, taking his wet shoes.
Above New Rochelle, several small planes snored and buzzed. Probably Wallace was piloting one of them. Unto himself a roaring center. To us, a sultry beetle97, a gnat51 propelling itself through blue acres. Sammler set back his chair into the shade. What had been in the sun a mass of pine foliage98 now resolved itself into separate needles and trees. Then the silver-gray Rolls turned the corner of the high hedges. The geometrical, dignified99, monogrammed radiator100 flashed its rods. Emil stepped out, looking upward. A yellow plane flew over the house.
"That must be Wallace for sure. He said he was going to fly a Cessna."
"I suppose it is Wallace."
"He wanted to try the equipment on a place he knows."
"Emil, I've been waiting to go to the station."
"Of course, Mr. Sammler. But right now there aren't many trains. How is Dr. Gruner, do you know?"
"I spoke101 to him," Sammler said. "No change."
"I'd be glad to take you to town."
"When?"
"Very soon."
"It would save time. I have to stop at home. You aren't going back to the airport for Wallace?"
"He was going to land at Newark and take the bus."
"Do you think he knows what he's doing, Emil?"
"Without a license102 they wouldn't let him fly."
"That's not what I mean."
"He's the type of kid who wants to put things together his own way."
"I'm not sure he’ll ever know . . ."
"He finds out as he goes along. He says that's what Action painters do."
"I could have more confidence in the process. I don't think he should be flying about today. His feelings, whatever they are—rivalry with his father, grief, or whatever—may carry him away."
"If it was my dad, I’d be at the hospital right now. It's different, now. We old guys have to go along."
Lifting his cap to extend the shade over his eyes, he gazed after the speeding Cessna. He revealed his long, full-bottomed Lombard nose. He had the wolfish North Italian look. His skin was tight. Perhaps he had been, as Wallace insisted, Emilio, a fierce little driver for the Mafia. But he was now at the stage of life at which the once-compact person begins to show an elderly frailty103. This appeared in the shoulders and at the back of the neck, where the creases104 were deep. He was connected with the very finest, the supreme105 land vehicle. No competition with aircraft. He leaned against the fender, arms folded, making sure that no button scratched the finish. He held the hair-fragrant cap and tapped himself. He lightly struck the descending107 terraces, the large wrinkles of his forehead.
"I figure he wants shots from every altitude. He's flying low, all right."
"If he doesn't hit the house, I’ll be very pleased."
"He could rack up the perfect score, after flooding the joint108. You wonder, will he want to top that?"
Mr. Sammler brought out the folded handkerchief to slip under the lenses before removing his glasses, covering his disfigurement from Emil. He was unable to stare up longer, his eyes were smarting.
"How can one guess?" said Sammler. "Yesterday he said that it was his unconscious self that opened the wrong pipe."
"Yes, he talks that way to me, too. But I've been eighteen years with the Gruners and know that character. He's very, very disturbed about the doctor."
"Yes, I think he is. I agree. But that little machine . . . Like an ironing board with an egg beater. Are you a family man, Em—do you have children?"
"Two. Grown up and graduated."
"Do they love you?"
"They act like it."
"That's already a great deal."
He was beginning to consider that he might not reach New York in time. Even Elya's request for clippings might delay him too long. But—one thing at a time. Then Wallace 's engine grew louder. The noise attacked one's skull109. It gave Sammler a headache. The injured eye felt pressure. The air was parted. On one side nuisance, on the other a singular current, an insidious110 spring brightness.
Blasting, shining, clear yellow, the color of a bird's bill, the Cessna made another, lower pass at the house. The trees threshed under it.
"He's going to crash. He'll hit the roof next time."
"I don't think he can buzz it any closer while snapping pictures," Emil said.
"He must certainly be below the permissible111 point."
The plane, rising, banking112, grew smaller; you could hardly hear it now.
"Wasn't he about to strike the chimney?"
"It looked close, but only from our angle," said Emil.
"They shouldn't let him fly."
"Well, he's gone. Maybe that's it."
"Shall we start?" said Sammler.
"I'm supposed to pick up the cleaning woman at eleven—I think the phone has been ringing."
"The cleaning woman? Shula's in the house. She will answer."
"She's not," said Emil. "When I drove up I saw her in the road, walking along with her purse."
"Going where?"
"I wouldn't know. To the store, maybe. I’ll get the phone."
The call was for Sammler. It was Margotte.
"Hello, Margotte. Well—?"
"We opened the lockers113."
"What did you find, what she said?"
"Not exactly, Uncle. In the first locker was one of Shula's shopping bags, and in it there was only the usual stuff. Christian114 Science Monitors from way back, clippings, and some old copies of Life. Also a great deal of student-revolt literature. SDS. Dr. Lal was shocked. He was very upset."
"Come, what about the second locker?"
"Thank God! We found the manuscript there."
"Intact?"
"I think so. He's looking through it." She spoke away from the phone. "Are pages torn out? No, Uncle, he doesn't think so."
"Oh, I am very glad. For him, and for myself. Even for Shula. But where is the copy she made on Widick's machine? She must have misplaced or lost that. But Dr. Lal must be delighted."
"Oh, he is. He's just going to wait at the soda115 fountain. It's such a chaos in Grand Central."
"I wish you had knocked at my door. You knew I had to get to town."
"Dear Uncle Sammler, we thought of that, but there was no room in the car. Am I mistaken, or are you irritated? You sound annoyed. We could have dropped you at the station." What Sammler refrained from saying was that he and Lal might have dropped her, Margotte, at the station. Was he annoyed! But even now, with skull-pressure, eye-pangs, he did not want to be too hard on her. No. She had her own female vital aims. No sense of the vital aims of others. His tension now. "Govinda was so anxious to leave. He insisted. However, the trains are fast. Besides, I phoned the hospital and talked to Angela. Elya's condition is just the same."
"I know. I've spoken to him."
"Well, you see? And he has to have some tests, so you would only have to wait if you were here. Now I'm taking Dr. Lal home to lunch. There's so much he doesn't eat, and Grand Central is a madhouse. And it smells so of hot dogs. Because of him, I notice it now for the first time."
"Of course. Home is better. By all means."
"Angela talked to me in a very, mature way. She was sad, but she sounded so calm, and so aware." Margotte’s kind and considerate views of people were terribly trying to Sammler. "She said that Elya was asking for you. He very much wishes to see you."
"I might have been there now. . . ."
"Well, he's down below anyhow," she said. "So take your time. Have lunch with us."
"I need to stop at the house. But no lunch."
"You wouldn't be in the way. Govinda likes you so much. He admires you. Anyway, you are my family. We love you like a father. All of us. I know I am a pest to you. I was to Ussher, too. Still, we loved each other."
"Well, well, Margotte. All right. Now let's hang up."
"I know you want to get away. And you don't like long phone conversations. But Uncle, I'm insecure about my ability to interest a man like Dr. Lal on the mental level."
"Nonsense, Margotte, don't be a fool. Don't get on the mental level. You charm him. He finds you exotic. Don't have long discussions. Let him do the talking."
But Margotte went on talking. She was putting in more coins. There were bongs and chimes. He did not hang up. Neither did he listen.
Further tests for Elya he took to be a tactic116 of the doctors. They protected their prestige by appearing to make real moves. But Elya himself was a doctor. He had lived by such gestures and had to submit to them now and without complaint. That certainly he would do. Now what of Elya's unfinished business? Before the vessel wall gave out did he really want to go on about Cracow? To talk about Uncle Hessid, who ground cornmeal and wore a derby and fancy vest? Sammler could recall no such individual. No. Elya with strong family feelings he could not gratify, wanted Sammler there to represent the family. His thin, lean presence, his small ruddy face, wrinkled on the one side. It was even more than piety117 for kinship which the age, acting118 through his children ("high-IQ moron119, fucked-out eyes"), had leveled with derision and knocked flat. And Gruner called upon Sammler as more than an old uncle, one-eyed, growling120 peculiarly in Polish-Oxonian. He must have believed that he had some unusual power, magical perhaps, to affirm the human bond. What had he done to generate this belief? How had he induced it? By coming back from the dead, probably.
Margotte had much to say. She did not notice his silence.
By coming back, by preoccupation with the subject, the dying, the mystery of dying, the state of death. Also, by having been inside death. By having been given the shovel122 and told to dig. By digging beside his digging wife. By this digging, not speaking, he tried to convey something to her and fortify123 her. But as it had turned out, he had prepared her for death without sharing it. She was killed, not he. She had passed the course, and he had not. The hole deepened, the sand clay and stones of Poland, their birthplace, opened up. He had just been blinded, he had a stunned124 face, and he was unaware125 that blood was coming from him till they stripped and he saw it on his clothes. When they were as naked as children from the womb, and the hole was supposedly deep enough, the guns began to blast, and then came a different sound of soil. The thick fall of soil. A ton, two tons, thrown in. A sound of shovel-metal, gritting126. Strangely exceptional, Mr. Sammler had come through the top of this. It seldom occurred to him to consider it an achievement. Where was the achievement? He had clawed his way out. If he had been at the bottom, he would have suffocated127. If there had been another foot of dirt. Perhaps others had been buried alive in that ditch. There was no special merit, there was no wizardry. There was only suffocation128 escaped. And had the war lasted a few months more, he would have died like the rest. Not a Jew would have avoided death. As it was, he still had his consciousness , earthliness, human actuality—got up, breathed his earth gases in and out, drank his coffee, consumed his share of goods, ate his roll from Zabar’s, put on certain airs—all human beings put on certain airs—took the bus to Forty-second Street as if he had an occupation, ran into a black pickpocket129. In short, a living man. Or one who had been sent back again to the end of the line. Waiting for something. Assigned to figure out certain things, to condense , in short views, some essence of experience, and because of this having a certain wizardry ascribed to him. There was, in fact, unfinished business. But how did business finish? We entered in the middle of the thing and somehow became convinced that we must conclude it. How? And since he had lasted—survived—with a sick headache—he would not quibble over words—was there an assignment implicit130? Was he meant to do something?
"I never want to annoy Lal," said Margotte. "He's gentle and small. By the way, Uncle, is the cleaning woman there?"
"Who? Cleaning?"
"You say charwoman. So is that the char86? I hear the vacuum running."
"No, my dear, what you hear is our relative Wallace in his airplane. Don't ask me more. Well see each other later."
He found his sodden131 shoes baking in the kitchen. Shula had set them on the open door of the electric oven and the toes were smoking. That, too! hen he had cooled them, he labored132 to put them on with the handle of a tablespoon. The recovery of the manuscript helped him to be patient with Shula. She did not actually step over the line. The usefulness of these shoes, however, was at an end. They were ready for the dustbin. Not even Shula herself would want to retrieve133 them. And the immediate134 problem was not shoes, he could get to New York without shoes. Emil had already gone to fetch the charwoman. Taxis were listed in the Yellow Pages, but Sammler did not know which company to call, nor how much it might cost. He had only four dollars. Not to embarrass the Gruners you had to tip fifty cents at least. There was also fare to the city. Longmouthed, silent, and with a hectic135 color, he tried to make the penny calculations. He saw himself, somewhere, eight cents short, trying to convince a policeman that he was not a panhandler. It would be better to wait. Perhaps Emil would meet Shula in the road, bringing her back with the char. Shula usually had money.
But Emil returned with the Croatian woman alone, and when he had shown her the water damage, he put on his cap, and, behaving to Sammler like a chauffeur136, not at all treating him like a poor relation, he opened the silver door.
"Would you like the air conditioner, Mr. Sammler?"
"Thank you, Emil."
Examining the sky, Emil said, "It looks as if Wallace has all his pictures. He must be on his way to Newark."
"Yes, he's gone, thank God."
"I know the doctor wants to see you." Sammler was already seated. "What's the matter with your shoes?"
"I had trouble getting them on, and now I can't lace them. There's another pair at home. May we stop at the apartment?"
"The doctor talks about you all the time."
"Does he?"
"He's an affectionate fellow. I don't want to badmouth Mrs. Gruner, but you know how she was."
"Not demonstrative."
Emil shut the door, and very correct, walked behind the car and let himself into the driver's seat. "Well, she was very organized," he said. "As lady of the house, first class. Like laid out with a ruler. Reserved. Fair. O.K. She ran the place like IBM—the gardener, the laundress, the cook, me. The doctor was grateful, being a kid from a rough neighborhood. She made him real Ivy137. A gentleman." Emil backed the slow, silver high-bodied car, poor Elya’s car, out of the drive. He gave Sammler the proper options of conversation or privacy. Sammler chose privacy and drew shut the glass panel.
Mr. Sammler's root feeling (a prejudice, if you like) was that women with exceedingly skinny legs could not be loving wives or passionate63 mistresses. Especially if with such legs they also had bouffant138 hairstyles. Hilda had been an agreeable person, cheerful, amiable139, high-pitched, even at times breezy. But strictly140 correct. Often the doctor would demonstratively embrace her and say, "The world's best wife. Oh! I love you, Hil." He would clasp her from the side and kiss her on the cheek. This was permitted. It was allowed under a new dispensation which acknowledged the high value of warmth and impulsiveness143. Undoubtedly144 Elya's feelings were strong, unlike Hilda’s. But impulsive142? There was in his conduct a strong element of propaganda. It came to him, perhaps, from the American system as a whole and showed his submissiveness. Everyone, to everyone, had a way of making propaganda for the good. Democracy was propagandistic in its style. Conversation was often nothing but the repetition of liberal principles. But Elya had certainly been disappointed in his wife. Sammler hoped that he had love affairs. With a nurse, perhaps? Or a patient who had become a mistress? Sammler did not recommend this for everyone, but in Elya's case it would have been beneficial. But no, probably the doctor was respectable. And it's a doomed147 man that woos affection so much.
It would soon be full spring. The Cross County, the Saw Mill River, the Henry Hudson thick with reviving grass and dandelions, the oven of the sun baking green life again. One was both sickened and strengthened by this swirling148, this roughness and sweetness. Then—Mr. Sammler's elbow at rest on the gray cushion, and holding the back of one hand in the palm of the other—then there were the gray, yellow, homogeneous highways, from the engineering standpoint so impressive, from the moral, aesthetic149, political something else. Staggering billions appropriated. But as someone had said about statesmen, the foremost of the Gadarene swine. Who had? He couldn't remember. Yet he was not cynical150 about these matters. He was not against civilization, nor against politics, institutions, nor against order. When the grave was dug, institutions and the rest had not been for him. No politics, no order intervened for Antonina. But there was no need to thrust oneself personally into every general question—to assail151 Churchill, Roosevelt, for having known (and surely they did know) what was happening and failing to bomb Auschwitz. Why not have bombed Auschwitz? But they didn't. Well, they didn't. They wouldn't. Emotions of justified152 reproach, supremacy153 in blame, made no appeal to Sammler. The individual was the supreme judge of nothing. Because he had to find things out for himself, he was necessarily the intermediate judge. But never final. Existence was not accountable to him. Indeed not. Nor would he ever put together the inorganic154, organic, natural, bestial155, human, and superhuman in any dependable arrangement but, however fascinating and original his genius, only idiosyncratically, a shaky scheme, mainly decorative156 or ingenious. Of course at the moment of launching from this planet to another something was ended, finalities were demanded, summaries. Everyone appeared to feel this need. Unanimously all tasted, and each in his own way, the flavor of the end of things-as-known. And by way of summary, perhaps, each accented more strongly his own subjective157 style and the practices by which he was known. Thus Wallace, on the day of destiny for his father, roared and snored in the Cessna snapping photographs. Thus Shula, hiding from Sammler, was undoubtedly going to hunt for treasure, for the alleged158 abortion159 dollars. Thus Angela, making more experiments in sensuality, in sexology, smearing160 all with her female fluids. Thus Eisen with his art, the Negro with his penis. And in the series, but not finally, himself with his condensed views. Eliminating the superfluous161. Identifying the necessary.
Looking from the window, passing all in state, fn an automobile162 costing of twenty thousand dollars, Mr. Sammler still saw that together with the end of things-as- known the feeling for new beginnings was nevertheless very strong. Marriage for Margotte, America for Eisen, business for Wallace, love for Govinda. And away from this death-burdened, rotting, spoiled, sullied, exasperating163, sinful earth but already looking toward the moon and Mars with plans for founding cities. And for himself . . .
He tapped the glass partition with a coin. The toll164 booth was approaching.
"It's O.K., Mr. Sammler."
Sammler insisted, 'Here, Emil, take it, take it."
Measured by watch hands the trip was brief. In the off-hour, traffic moved quickly on the gray-and-yellow masterwork roads. Emil knew exactly how to drive. He was the faultless driver of the faultless car. He entered the city at One hundred twenty-fifth Street, under the ultrahigh railroad bridge that crossed the meat wholesalers' area. Sammler had some affection for this intricate bridge and the structural165 shadows it threw. Reflected in the shine of the meat trucks. The sides of beef and pork, gauze-wrapped, blood-spotted. Things edible166 would always be respected by a man who had nearly starved to death. The laborers167, too, in white smocks, broad and heavy, a thickset personnel, butchers' men. By the river the smell was equivocal. You were not sure whether the rawness came from the tidewater or the blood. And here Sammler once saw a rat he took for a dachshund. The breeze out of this electric-lighted corner had the fragrance170 of meat dust. That was sprayed from the band saws that went through frozen fat, through marbled red or icy porphyry, and whizzed through bone. Try to stroll here. The pavements were waxed with fat.
Then a right turn, downtown on Broadway. The street rose while the subway was lowering. Up, the brown masonry171; and down, the black shadow and steel tracks. Then tenements172, the Puerto Rican squalor. Then the University, squalid in a different way. It was already too warm in the city. Spring lost the touch of winter and got the summer rankness. Between the pillars at One hundred-sixteenth Street Sammler looked into the brick quadrangles. He half expected Feffer to pass, or the bearded man in Levi's who had said he couldn't come. He saw growing green. But green in the city had lost its association with peaceful sanctuary173. The old-time poetry of parks was banned. Obsolete174 thickness of shade leading to private meditation175. Truth was now slummier and called for litter in the setting leafy reverie? A thing of the past.
Except on special occasions (Feffer's lecture, twenty-four? forty-eight hours ago?), Sammler never came this way any more. Walking for exercise, he didn't venture this far uptown. And now, from Elya's Bolls Royce, he inspected the subculture of the underprivileged (terminology recently acquired in the New York Times), its Caribbean fruits, its plucked naked chickens with loose necks and eyelids176 blue, the wavering fumes177 of Diesel178 and hot lard. Then Ninety-sixth Street, tilted179 at all four corners, the kiosks and movie houses, the ramparts of wire-fastened newspaper bundles, and the colors of panic waving. Broadway, even when there was some urgency, hurrying to see Elya for possibly the last time, always challenged Sammler. He was never up to it. And why should there be any contest? But there was, every time. For something was stated here. By a convergence of all minds and all movements the conviction transmitted by this crowd seemed to be that reality was a terrible thing, and that the final truth about mankind was overwhelming and crushing . This vulgar, cowardly conclusion, rejected by Sammler with all his heart, was the implicit local orthodoxy, the populace itself being metaphysical and living out this interpretation180 of reality and this view of truth. Sammler could not swear that this was really accurate, but Broadway at Ninety-sixth Street gave him such a sense of things. Life, when it was like this, all question-and-answer from the top of intellect to the very bottom, was really a state of singular dirty misery181. When it was all question-and-answer from the top of intellect to the very bottom, was really a state of singular dirty misery. When it was all question-and-answer it had no charm. Life when it had no charm was entirely question-and-answer. The thing worked both ways. Also, the questions were bad. Also, the answers were horrible. This poverty of soul, its abstract state, you could see in faces on the street. And he too had a touch of the same disease—the disease of the single self explaining what was what and who was who. The results could be foreseen, foretold182. So, then, brought down Broadway in high style, Sammler visited his own (what did Wallace call it?) his own turf. As a tourist. And then Emil, by way of Riverside Drive, came round and set him down before the great, used, soiled mass of conveniences where he and Margotte lived. The time was half past twelve.
"It shouldn't take long. Elya asked for some papers."
There was a tightness at his heart. The remedy was fuller breathing, but he could not get his chest to rise and fall. Something had locked it. Margotte and Govinda were not back. The pin-up lamp burned needlessly in the foyer above the sofa with its maple183 armrests, the bandanna184 covers. There was a certain peace in the house. Or did it seem so because he had no time to sit down? He changed shoes, shook a few dollars from his jar, put the newspaper clippings into his wallet. On his desk was a bottle of vodka. Shula provided this out of the wages Elya paid her. It was excellent, Stolichnaya, imported from the Soviet185 union. Sammler made use of it about once a month. He uncorked the bottle now and drank a glass. It went down burning, and he made a face. First aid for the old. Then he opened his door to the back stairs, slipping the latch186 lest one of the strong drafts there should come slamming and lock him out. He put his old shoes into the incinerator drop. He didn't want Shula arguing that she had done them no harm in the electric oven. They had had it.
For once the lobby television worked. Gray and whitish figures, unsteady on the vertical187 hold, wavered and fizzed. Sammler saw himself mortally pale on the screen. The shuddering188 image of an aged7 man. This lobby was like certain underground carpeted rooms in disused theaters—spaces to shun169. It was less than two days ago that the pickpocket had forced him, belly-to-back, across this same brass-bolted rug into the corner beside the Florentine table.
Unbuttoning his puma189-colored coat in puma silence to show himself. Was this the sort of fellow called by Goethe eine Natur? A primary force?
He stopped Emil from getting out of the car for him.
"I can work the door myself."
"We're off, then. Open the bar, pour yourself a drink."
"I hope the traffic will not be too thick."
"We'll go straight down Broadway."
"Turn on the TV."
"Thanks. No TV."
Again Sammler smelled the enclosed, fabric-scented air. He did not make himself comfortable. The tightness of heart was greater than before. It went on contracting; he thought it could not be worse, and then it was worse. The traffic was unusually heavy, jammed up at the lights. Delivery trucks were double-parked, triple-parked. The use of private cars in Manhattan had never seemed so irrational190 ... swept by impatience191 toward the drivers of these large, purposeless machines but then the sweeping192 feelings swept beyond him. Conveyed in air-conditioned silence by the roarless power of the engine, he sat forward with his thighs upon the backs of his hands. Evidently Elya thought that he owed it to himself to maintain this Rolls. He couldn't have had much use for such a prestigious193 machine. It wasn't as if he were a Broadway producer , an international banker, a tobacco millionaire. Where did it take him? To Widick's law office. To Hayden, Stone Incorporated, where he had an account. On High Holy Days, he went to the temple on Fifth Avenue. On Fifty-seventh Street were his tailors, Felsher and Kitto. The temple and the tailors had been selected by Hilda. Sammler would have sent him to another tailor. Elya had a tall figure and wide stiff shoulders, too wide, considering the flatness of his body. His buttocks were too high. Like my own, for that matter. Sammler, in the sound-deadened cabinet of the Rolls, saw the resemblance. Felsher and Kitto made Elya too dapper. The trousers were too narrow. The virile194 bulge that appeared when he sat was inappropriate. He used matching ties and handkerchiefs by Countess Mara, and sharp, swaggering shoes which connected him less with medicine than with Las Vegas, with racing195, broads, and singers in the rackets. Things equivocally related to his kindliness196. Swaying his shoulders like a gunman. Wearing double-vented jackets. Playing gin and canasta for high stakes and talking out of the corner of the mouth. Detesting197 Kulturny physicians who wanted to discuss Heidegger or Wittgenstein. Real doctors had no time for that phony stuff. He was a keen spotter of phonies. He could easily afford this car, but had none of the life that went with it. No Broadway musicals, no private jet. His one glamorous198 eccentricity200 was to fly to Israel on short notice and stroll into the King David Hotel without baggage, his hands in his pockets. That struck him as a sporting thing to do. Of course, thought Sammler, Elya was also peculiar121; surgery was psychically201 peculiar. To enter an unconscious body with a knife? To take out organs, sew in the flesh, splash blood? Not everyone could do that. And perhaps he kept the car for Emil’s sake. What would Emil do if there no Rolls? Now there was the likeliest answer of all. The protective instinct was strong in Elya. Undisclosed charities were his pleasure. He had many stratagems202 of benevolence203. I have reason to know. How very odd—astonishing, the desire to relieve and protect us. It was astonishing because Elya the surgeon also despised incompetence204 and weakness. Only great and powerful instincts worked so deeply and deviously205, coming out on the side of things despised. But how could Elya afford to have rigid ideas of strength? He himself was a hooked man. Hilda had been far stronger than he. In the Mafioso swagger were pretensions206 of lawless liberty. But it was little Hilda with the rodlike legs and the bouffant hair and faultless hemlines and sweet refinements207 who was the real criminal. She had had her hook in Elya. And there had never been any help for Elya. Who was there to help him? He was the sort of individual from whom help emanated208. There were no arrangements for return. However, it would soon be over. It was about to wash away.
As for the world, was it really about to change? Why? How? By the fact of moving into space, away from earth? There would be changes of heart? There would be new conduct? Why, because we were tired of the old conduct? That was not reason enough. Why, because the world was breaking up? Well, America, if not the world. Well, staggering, if not breaking.
Emil was driving more steadily209 again, below Seventy-second Street. The traffic had eased. There were no truck deliveries to impede210 it. Lincoln Center was approaching and, at Columbus Circle, the Huntington Hartford Building, which Bruch called the Taj Mahole. Wasn't that funny! said Bruch. At his own jokes he rolled with laughter. Apelike , he put his hands on his paunch and closed his eyes, letting the tongue hang out of his blind head. What a building! All holes. But that was some lunch they put down for only three bucks211. He raved212 about the bill of fare—Hawaiian chicken and saffron rice. Finally he had taken the old man there. It was indeed a grand lunch. But Lincoln Center Sammler had seen only from the outside. He was cold to the performing arts, and shunned213 large crowds. Exhibitions, electrical or nude214, he had attended only because it amused Angela to keep him up to date. But he passed by the pages of the Times that dealt with painters, singers, fiddlers, or play actors. He saved his reading eye for better things. He had noted215 with hostile interest crews wrecking216 the nice old tenements and greasy-spoons, and the new halls rising.
But now, as they were nearing the Center, Emil stopped the car and pushed back the glass slide.
"Why are you stopping?"
Emil said, "There's something happening across the street." He looked, wrinkling his face deeply, as if this explanation must really be heeded217. But why, at such a time, should he have stopped for anything? "Don't you recognize those people, Mr. Sammler?"
"Which? Has someone scraped someone? Is it a traffic thing?" Of course he lacked authority to tell Emit to drive on, but he gestured, nevertheless, with the back of his hand. He waved Emil forward.
"No, I think you’ll want to stop, Mr. Sammler. I see your son-in-law there. Isn't that him, with the big green bag? And isn't that Wallace's partner?"
"Feffer?"
"That fat kid. The pink face, the beard. He's fighting. Can't you see?"
"Where is this? In the street? Is it Eisen?"
"It's the other fellow who's in trouble. The young guy, the beard. I think he's getting hurt."
On the east side of the slant218 street a bus had pulled to the curb219 at a wide angle, obstructing220 traffic. Sammler could see now that someone was struggling there, in the midst of a crowd.
"One of those is Feffer?"
"Yes, Mr. Sammler."
"Wrestling with someone—with the bus driver?"
"Not the driver, no. I think not. Somebody else."
"Then I must go and see what it is."
The craziness of these delays! Almost deliberate, almost intentional221, they were breaking down every barrier of patience. They got to you at last. Why this, why Feffer? But he could see now what Foil meant. Feffer was pinned to the front of a bus. That was Feffer against the wide bumper222. Sammler began to pull at the handle of the door.
"Not on the street side, Mr. Sammler. You’ll be hit." But Sammler, his patience utterly223 lost, was already hurrying through traffic.
Feffer, in the midst of the crowd, was fighting the black man, the pickpocket. There were twenty people at least, and more were stopping, but no one was about to interfere73. Struggling in the criminal's grip, Feffer was forced back against the big cumbersome224 machine. His head was knocking on the windshield below the empty driver's seat. The man was squeezing him, and Feffer was scared. He resisted, he defended himself, but he was inept225. He was overmatched. Of course. How could it be otherwise? His bearded face was frightened. Upturned, the broad cheeks flamed, and his wide-spaced brown eyes appealed for help. Or were thinking what to do. What should be do? Like a man groping in a stream for a lost object, while staring into air, mouth gaping226 in his beard. But he would not give up the Minox. One arm was held straight up, out of reach. The weight of the big body in the fawn-colored suit crushed him. He had had the bad luck to get his candid227 shot. The black man was snatching at the Minox. To get the tiny camera, to give Feffer a few kicks in the ribs228, in the belly—what else would he have had in mind? Leaving, without haste if possible, before the police arrived. But Feffer, near panic, still was obstinate. Shifting his grip, the Negro grabbed and twisted his collar, holding him as he had held Sammler with his forearm against the wall. He choked Feffer with the neckband. The Dior shades, round and bluish, had not moved from the low bridged nose. Feffer had caught the spouting229 red necktie in his fist, but could do nothing with it.
How shall we save this prying230, stupid idiotic231 boy? He may be hurt. And I must go. There's no time. "Some of you," Sammler ordered. "Here! Help him. Break this up." But of course "some of you" did not exist. No one would do anything, and suddenly Sammler felt extremely foreign—voice, accent, syntax, manner, face, mind, everything, foreign.
Emil had seen Eisen. Sammler looked for him now. And there he was, smiling and very pale. He was evidently waiting to be discovered. Then he seemed delighted.
"What are you doing here?" said Sammler in Russian.
"And you, Father-in-law—what are you doing?"
"I? I am rushing to the hospital to see Elya."
"Yes. And I was with my young friend on the bus when be took the picture. Of a purse being opened. I saw it myself."
"What a stupid thing!"
Eisen held his green baize bag. It contained his sculptures or medallions. Those Dead Sea pieces—iron pyrites, or whatever they were.
"Let him give up the camera. Why doesn't he give it to him?" said Sammler.
"But how do we prevail upon him?" said Eisen in a tone of discussion.
"Get a policeman," Sammler said. He would have liked to say, too, "Stop this smiling."
"But I don't know English."
"Then help the boy."
"You help him, Father-in-law. I am a foreigner and a cripple. You're older, true. But I just got to this country."
Sammler said to the pickpocket, "Let go. Let him go."
The man's large face turned. New York was reflected in the lenses, under the stiff curves of the homburg. Perhaps he recognized Sammler. But nothing was said.
"Give him the camera, Feffer. Hand it over," Sammler said. Feffer, with a stare of shock and appeal, looked as if he expected soon to lose consciousness. He did not bring down his arm.
"I say let him have that stupid thing. He wants the film. Don't be an idiot " Feffer may have been holding out in expectation of a squad232 car, waiting for the police to save him. It was hard otherwise to explain his resistance. Considering the Negro's strength—his crouching233, squeezing, intense animal pressing-power, the terrific swelling234 of the neck and the tightness of the buttocks as he rose on his toes. In straining alligator235 shoes! In fawn-colored trousers! With a belt that matched his necktie—a crimson236 belt! How consciousness was lashed92 by such a fact!
"Eisen!" said Sammler, furious.
"Yes, Father-in-law."
"I ask you to do something."
"Let them do something." He motioned with the baize bag to the bystanders. "I only came forty-eight hours ago."
Again Mr. Sammler turned to the crowd, staring hard. Wouldn't anyone help? So even now—now, still!—one believed in such things as help. Where people were, help might be. It was an instinct and a reflex. (An unexasperated hope?) So, briefly237 examining faces, passing from face to face to face among the people along the curb—red, pale, swarthy, lined taut238 or soft, grim or adream, eyes bald-blue, iodine-reddish, coal-seam black—how strange a quality their inaction had. They were expecting gratification, oh! at last! of teased, cheated, famished239 needs. Someone was going to get it! Yes. And the black faces? A similar desire. Another side. But the same. Though there was nothing to hear, Sammler had the sense that something was barking away. Then it struck him that what united everybody was a beatitude of presence. As if it were—yes—blessed are the present. They are here and not here. They are present while absent. So they were waiting in that ecstatic state. What a supreme privilege! And there was only Eisen to break up the fight. Which was, after all, an odd sort of fight. Sammler did not believe that the black man would choke Feffer into unconsciousness; he would only go on squeezing, screwing the collar tighter until Feffer surrendered the Minox. Of course, there was always a chance that he might strike him, pull a knife, stab him. But there was something worse here than this event itself, namely, the feeling that stole over Sammler.
It was a feeling of horror and grew in strength, grew and grew. What was it? How was it to be put? He was a man who had come back. He had rejoined life. He was near to others. But in some essential way he was also companionless . He was old. He lacked physical force. He knew what to do, but had no power to execute it. He had to turn to someone else—to an Eisen! a man himself very far out on another track, orbiting a very different foreign center. Sammler was powerless. To be so powerless was death. And suddenly he saw himself not so much standing240 as strangely leaning, as reclining, and peculiarly in profile, and as a past person. That was not himself. It was someone—and this struck him—poor in spirit. Someone between the human and not-human states, between content and emptiness, between full and void, meaning and not-meaning, between this world and no world. Flying, freed from gravitation, light with release and dread241, doubting his destination, fearing there was nothing to receive him.
"Eisen, separate them," he said. "He's been choked enough. The police will come, and then there will be arrests. And I must go. To stand here is crazy. Please. Just take the camera. Take it. That will stop this."
Then, handsome Eisen, shrugging, grinning, making a crooked242 movement of his shoulders, working them free from the tight denim243, stepped away from Sammler as if he were doing an amusing thing at his special request. He drew up the sleeve of his right arm. The dark hairs were thick. Then shortening his grip on the cords of the baize bag he swung it very wide, swung with full force and struck the pickpocket on the side of the face. It was a hard blow. The glasses flew. The hat. Feffer was not immediately freed. The man seemed to rest on him. Obviously stunned. Eisen was a laborer168, a foundry worker. He had the strength not only of his trade but also of madness. There was something limitless, unbounded, about the way he squared off, took the man's measure, a kind of sturdy viciousness. Everything went into that blow, discipline, murderousness, everything. What have I done! This is much worse! This is the worst thing yet. Sammler thought Eisen had crushed the man's face. And now he was just about to hit him again, with his medallions. The black man took his hands from Feffer and was turning. His lips came away from his teeth. Eisen had gashed244 his skin and the cheek was bleeding and swelling. Eisen clinked his weights from his wrist, spread his legs. "He'll kill that cocksucker!" someone in the crowd said.
"Don't hit him, Eisen. I never said that. I tell you no!" said Sammler.
But the bag of weights was speeding from the other side, very wide but accurate. It struck more heavily than before and knocked the man down. He did not drop. He lowered himself as though he had decided to lie in the street. The blood ran in points on his cheek. The terrible metal had cut him through the baize.
Eisen now heaved his weapon back over his shoulder, prepared to slam it down on the man's skull. Sammler seized his arm and twisted him away. "You'll murder him. Do you want to beat out his brains?"
"You said, Father-in-law!"
They quarreled in Russian before the crowd.
"You said I had to do something. You said you had to go. I must do something. So I did."
I didn't say hit him with these damned irons. I didn't say to hit him at all. You're crazy, Eisen, crazy enough to murder him."
The pickpocket had tried to brace141 himself on his elbows. His body now rested on his doubled arms. He bled thickly on the asphalt.
"I am horrified245!" Sammler said.
Eisen, still handsome, curly, still with the smile, though now panting, and the peculiar set of his toeless feet, seemed amused at Sammler's ludicrous inconsistency. He said, "You can't hit a man like that just once. When you hit him, you must really hit him. Otherwise he'll kill you. You know. We both fought in the war. You were a Partisan246. You had a gun. So don't you know?" His laughter, his logic247, laughing and reasoning at Sammler's absurdities248, made him repeat until he stuttered. "If in—in. No? If out—out. Yes? No? So answer."
It was the reasoning that sank Sammler's heart completely. "Where is Feffer?" he said, and turned away.
Feffer, resting his forehead against the bus, was getting back his breath. Putting it on, no doubt. To Sammler this exaggeration was revolting.
Damn these—these occasions! he was thinking. Damn them, it was IIya who needed him. It was only IIya he wanted to see. To whom there was something to say. Here there was nothing to say.
Now he heard someone ask, "Where are the cops?"
"Busy. On the take. Writing tickets, someplace. Those shits. When you need 'em."
"There's plenty of blood. They better bring an ambulance."
The light upon the dull kinks, the porous249 carbon-cake of the man's head, still dropping blood, showed his eye shut. But he wished to get to his feet. He made efforts.
Eisen said to Sammler, "This is the man, isn't it? The man you told about who followed you? Who showed you his jinjik?"
"Get away from me, Eisen."
"What should I do?"
"Go away. Get away from here. You're in trouble," said Sammler. He spoke to Feffer, "What have you to say now?"
"I caught him in the act. Please wait awhile, he hurt my throat."
"Nonsense, don't put on agony with me. This is the man. He’s badly hurt."
"I swear he was picking the purse, and I got two shots of him."
"Did you, now!"
"You seem angry, sir. Why are you so angry with me?"
Sammler now saw the squad car, the whirling roof light, and the policemen coming out at a saunter, pushing away the crowd. Emil drew Sammler away to the side of the bus and said, "You don't want any of this. We have to go."
"Yes, Emil, of course."
They crossed the street. Avoid getting mixed up with the police. They might detain him for hours. He should never have stopped at the fiat250. He should have gone directly to the hospital.
"I think I would like to sit in the front with you, Emil."
"Why, sure. Are you all shook up?" He helped him In. Emirs own hand was shaking, and Sammler himself had trembling arms and legs. An extraordinary weakness came up the legs from beneath.
The great engine ignited. Coolness poured from the air conditioner. Then the Rolls entered traffic.
"What was all that about?"
"I wish I knew," said Sammler.
"Who was that black character?"
"Poor man, I can't really say who he is."
"He took two mean wallops, there."
"Eisen is brutal36."
"What did he have in that bag?"
"Pieces of metal. I feel responsible, Emil, because I appealed to Eisen, because I wanted so badly to get to Dr. Gruner."
"Well, maybe the guy has a thick skull. I guess you never saw anybody hitting to kill. You want to lie down in back for ten minutes? I can stop."
"Do I look sick? No, Emil. But I think I will shut my eyes." Sammler was sick with rage at Eisen. The black man? The black man was a megalomaniac. But there was a certain—a certain princeliness. The clothing, the shades, the sumptuous251 colors, the barbarous-majestical manner. He was probably a mad spirit. But mad with an idea of noblesse. And how much Sammler sympathized with him—how much he would have done to prevent such atrocious blows! How red the blood was, and how thick—and how terrible those crusted, spiny252 lumps of metal were! And Eisen? He counted as a war victim, even though he might anyhow have been mad. But he belonged in the mental hospital. A homicidal maniac. If only, thought Sammler, Shula and Eisen had been a little less crazy. Just a little less. They would have gone on playing casino in Haifa, those two cuckoos, in their whitewashed253 Mediterranean254 cage. For they used to get the cards out when they weren't scandalizing the neighborhood with their screams and slaps. But no. Such individuals had the right to be considered normal. They had liberty of movement, on top of it..They had passports, tickets . So then, poor Eisen flew across with his works. Poor soul, poor dog-laughing Eisen.
They all had such fun! Wallace, Feffer, Eisen, Bruch, too, and Angela. They laughed so much. Dear brethren, let us all be human together. Let us all be in the great fun fair, and do this droll255 mortality with one another. Be entertainers of your near and dear. Treasure hunts, flying circuses, comical thefts, medallions, wigs256 and saris, beards. Charity, all of it, sheer charity, when you consider the state of things, the blindness of the living. It is fearful! Not to be borne! Intolerable! Let us divert each other while we live!
"I’ll park here and go up with you," said Emil. "They can give me a ticket if they like."
"The doctor is not back?" said Emil.
Obviously not. Angela sat alone in the hospital room.
"Then O.K. I’ll be standing by if you want me."
"I seem to be smoking three packs a day. I’m out of cigarettes, Emil. I can't even concentrate on a newspaper."
"Benson and Hedges, right?"
When he left she said, "I don't like to send an elderly elderly person on errands."
Sammler made no reply. The Augustus John hat was in his hand. He didn't lay it on the clean newmade bed.
"Emil is part of Daddy's gang. They're very attached."
"What's happening?"
"I wish I knew. He was taken down for tests, but two hours is a long time. I assume Dr. Cosbie knows his stuff. I don't like the man. I don't go for the magnolia charm. He acts as if he ran a military academy in the South. But I'm not one of the boys. Drill is not my dish. He's cross, cold, and repulsive258. One of those good-looking men who don't realize that women dislike them. Take the straight chair, Uncle. You like those better. I have to talk to you."
Sammler drew the seat under him, and out of the light—he couldn't bear to face windows through which nothing but blue sky was visible. He saw trouble. Himself aroused, he was sensitive to all the signs. Another woman would have had a hectic color; Angela was candle-white. The amusing husky voice, copying Tallulah's perhaps, fell short of amusement. Her throat was prominent, it looked swollen259, and the light brown brows, penciled out like wings, kept rising. She tried at times to give a look of appeal. She was angry, too. It was heavy going. Even wrinkling her forehead seemed difficult. Something was obstructed260. With a low necked satin blouse she wore a miniskirt. No, Sammler changed that, it was a microskirt, a band of green across the things. The frosted hair was pulled back tightly; the skin was full of female qualities (the hormones). On her cheeks large gold earrings261 lay. A big, shapely woman childishly dressed, erotically playing the kid, she was not likely to be taken for a boy. Sitting near her, Sammler could not smell the usual Arabian musk262. Instead her female effluence was very strong, a salt odor, similar to tears or tidewater, something from within the woman. Elya's words had taken effect strongly—his "Too much sex." Even the white lipstick263 suggested perversion264. But this was curiously265 without prejudice. Sammler felt no prejudice about perversion, about sexual matters. Nothing. It was too late in the day for that. Too much heat was on. Much larger powers of distortion were at work. The smash of Eisen’s medallions on the pickpocket's face was still with Sammler. His own nerves, in the elementary way of nerves connected this with the crushing of his eye under the rifle butt106 thirty years ago. The sensations of choking and falling—one could live through that again. If it was worth living through. He waited for the rubber bump of Elya's wheeled stretcher against the door.
"Has Wallace shown up? He was supposed to land at Newark."
"He didn't. I've got to tell you about Brother. When did you see him? I heard from Margotte about the pipes."
"In the flesh? I saw him last night. And this morning in the sky."
"Oh, so you watched him looping around, that idiot."
"Has he had an accident?"
"Oh, don't worry, he isn't hurt. I wish he had given himself a good bang, but he's like a Hollywood stunt266 man."
"He hasn't crashed, has he?"
"What do you think! It's already an item on the radio. He scraped his wheels off on a house."
"Dear Lord! Did he have to parachute? Was it your house?"
"He made a crash landing. It was some big place in Westchester. God alone knows why that creep should be out buzzing houses when we're in this predicament. It's enough to drive me mad."
"You don't mean that Elya heard this on the radio!"
"No, he didn't hear. He was already going down in the elevator."
"You say Wallace isn't hurt?"
"Wallace is in seventh heaven. Overjoyed. He had to have stitches in his cheek."
"I see. He’ll have a scar. All this is terrible!"
"You have too much sympathy for him."
"I do admit that all this feeling sorry for people can be wearing. I also am provoked by him."
"You should be. They really ought to put my kid brother away. Lock him up in an asylum267. You should have heard him babbling268."
"Then you've spoken to him?"
"He had some guy to describe the beautiful landing. Then he took the phone in person. Something terrific. As if he had reached the North Pole by bicycle. You know we'll be sued for damages to the house. The plane is wrecked269. Civil Aeronautics270 will take away his license. I wish they'd take him away, too. But he was very high. He said, 'Shouldn't we tell Dad?'"
"No!"
"Yes," said Angela. She was furious. With Dr. Cosbie, with Wallace, with Widick, Horricker. And she was bitter with Sammler, too. And he himself was far from normal. Far! The injured black man. The blood. And now, confronted by all that superfeminity, sensuality, he saw everything with heightened clarity. As he had seen Riverside Drive, wickedly illuminated271, after watching the purse being picked on, the bus. That was how he was seeing now. To see was delicious. Oh, of course! An extreme pleasure! The sun may shine, and be a blessing272, but sometimes shows the fury of the world. Brightness like this, the vividness of everything, also dismayed him. The soft clearness of Angela's face, the effort of her brows—the full mixture of fineness and rankness he saw there. And the sun was squarely at the window. The streaked273 glass ran with light like honey. A barrage274 of sweetness and intolerable brightness was laid down. Sammler did not really want to experience this. It all rose against him, too dizzy, too turbulent.
"I can see that you and Elya went on talking about that event."
"He won't let it alone. It's cruel. Both to himself and to me. I can't stop him."
"What is there for you to do but give in? He's the one with the thing to do. There should be no arguments. Perhaps young Mr. Horricker should come up. Why doesn't he come? Show that he doesn't take it too much to heart. Does he, by the way?"
"He says so."
"Maybe he loves you."
"Him? Who knows. But I wouldn't ask him to come. That would be using Daddy's illness."
"You don't want him back?"
"Want him? Maybe. I'm not sure."
Was there a successor in view? Human attachments275 being so light, there were probably lists of alternates, preconscious reserves—men met in the park while walking the dog; people one had chatted with at the Museum of Modern Art; this fellow with the sideburns; that one with dark sexy eyes; the person with the child in a sanitarium, the wife with multiple sclerosis. To go with quantities of ideas and purposes there were quantities of people. And all this came from Angela's conversation. He heard and remembered everything, every drab fact, every crimson touch. He didn't want to listen, but she told him things. He had no wish to remember, but he remembered it all. And Angela really was a beauty. She was big, but a beauty, a healthy young woman. Healthy young women have their needs. Her legs were—her thighs nearly all shown down from the green ribbon of skirt—she was, beautiful. Horricker would suffer, knowing he had lost her. Sammler was still thinking things through. Tired, dizzy, despairing, he still thought. Still in touch. With reality, that is.
"Wharton is no kid. He knew what he was getting into, down in Mexico," said Angela.
"Ah, I don't understand any of that. I assume he's read some of those books you lent me—Bataille and other theorists—about transgression276 and pain and sex; lust277, crime, and desire; murder and erotic pleasure. It didn't mean much to me, any of that stuff."
"I know it's not your kind of thing. But Wharton got his kicks out of that little broad. He liked her. Better than I liked the other man. I'd never see him again. But then on the plane Wharton perversely278 became jealous. Wouldn't let it alone."
"My only thought is that Elya might feel more at peace with you if he saw Horricker."
"I'm furious that Wharton should blab to Widick, and Widick to Father."
"I'm not prepared to believe that Mr. Widick would speak to Elya of this. He's decent enough in most ways. I don't know him well, of course. My main impression is of a stout279 lawyer. Not a villain280. A big soft face."
"That fat sonofabitch. I'll curse him when I see him. I'll tear his hair out."
"Don't be so sure that it was some evil-doer. You may be wrong. Elya's extremely intelligent and quick to pick up hints."
"Who could it be, then? Wallace? Emil? But whoever dropped the hint, it began with Wharton, too weak to keep his mouth shut. Well, if he wants to visit Father that's all right. But I'm offended. I'm furious."
"You do have a feverish281 look, Angela. I don't want to agitate282 you. But in view of your father's preoccupation with all this, with Mexico, do you think you should arrive in such a costume?"
"This skirt, you mean?"
"It's very short. My opinion may be worthless, but it seems bad judgment283 to wear that kind of sexual kindergarten dress."
"Now it's my clothes! Are you speaking for him, or for yourself?"
The sunlight was yellow, sweet. It was horrible.
"Oh yes, I know I may be out of order, with bad puritanical284 attitudes from the sick past which have damaged civilization so much. I did read your books. We've discussed all this. But really, how do you expect your father not to be excited, to feel bitter, when he sees this provoking Baby Doll costume?"
"Really? My skirt? It never occurred to me. I dressed quickly and ran out. This is a strange thing to take up with me now. Everybody wears these skirts. I don't think I care for the way you put it."
"Undoubtedly I could have put it better. I don't want to be disagreeable. There are other things to think about."
"That's right. And I'm under a terrible burden. It is terrible."
"I'm sure of it."
"I'm in despair, Uncle."
"Yes, you must be. Of course you are. Yes."
"Yes, what? It sounds as if there's something more."
"There is. I'm in a state, too, about your father. He's been a great friend to me. I am sick, too, about him."
"We don't have to beat around the bush, Uncle."
"No. He's going to die."
"That's coming out with it all right," she said. She was for plain speaking, was this too plain?
"It's as terrible to say as to hear."
"I'm sure you love Daddy," she said.
"I do."
"Apart from the practical reasons, I mean."
"Of course Shula and I have been supported by him. I never concealed285 my gratitude286. I hope that has been no secret," said Sammler. As he was dry and old, the beating of his heart, even violent beating, would not be evident. "If I were practical, if I were very practical, I would be careful not to antagonize you. I think there are reasons other than the practical ones."
"Well, I hope we're not going to quarrel."
"That's right," said Sammler. She was angry with Wallace, with Cosbie, Horricker. He did not want to add himself to the list. He needed no victory over Angela. He only wanted to persuade her of something, and didn't know whether even that was feasible. But he was certainly not about to make war on suffering females. He began to talk. "I'm feeling very jumpy, Angela. There are certain damaged nerves you don't hear from for years, and then they act up, they flare287 up. They're burning now, very painfully. Now I'd like to say something about your father, as long as we're waiting for him. On the surface, I don't have much In common with Elya. He's a sentimental288 person. He makes a point, too much of a point, of treasuring certain old feelings. He's on an old system. I’ve always been skeptical289 of that myself. One might ask, where is the new system? But we don't have to get into that. I never had much natural liking290 for people who make open ..."never had much natural liking for people who make open declarations of affection. Being a 'Britisher' was one of my foibles. Cold? But I still appreciate a certain restraint. I didn't care for the way Elya courted everyone, tried to make contact with people, winning their hearts, engaging their interest, getting personal even with waitresses, lab technicians, manicurists. It was always too easy for him to say 'I love you.' He was forever saying it to your mother in public, embarrassing her. I don't intend to discuss her with you. She had her good points. But as I was a snob291 about the British, she was a German Jewess who cultivated the Wasp292 style (now outmoded, by the way), and I recognized it. She was going to refine your father, an Ostjude. He was supposed to be the expressive293 one, the one with the heart. Isn't that about right? So your father was assigned to be expressive. He certainly had his work cut out for him with your mother. I think it would have been easier to love a theorem in geometry than your poor mother. Excuse me, Angela, for going on like this."
She said, "It's like we're sitting on the edge of a cliff anyway, waiting here." "All right, Angela. One might as well talk, then. Not to add to your difficulties . . . I just saw something peculiarly nasty, on my way over. Partly my fault. I feel distressed294 . But I was saying that your father has had his assignments. Husband, medical man—he was a good doctor—family man, success, American, wealthy retirement295 with a Rolls Royce. We have our assignments. Feeling, outgoingness, expressiveness296, kindness, heart—all these fine human things which by a peculiar turn of opinion strike people now as shady activities. Openness and candor297 about vices298 seem far easier. Anyway, there is Elya's assignment. That's what's in his good face. That's why he has such a human look. He's made something of himself. He hasn't done badly. He didn't like surgery. You know that. He dreaded299 those three- and four-hour operations. But he performed them. He did what he disliked. He had an unsure loyalty300 to certain pure states. He knew there had been good men before him, that there were good men to come, and he wanted to be one of them. I think he did all right. I don't come out nearly so well myself. Till forty or so I was simply an Anglophile intellectual Polish Jew and person of culture—relatively useless. But Elya, by sentimental repetition and by formulas if you like, partly by propaganda, has accomplished301 something good. Brought himself through. He loves you. I'm sure he loves Wallace. I believe he loves me. I've learned much from him. I have no illusions about your father, you understand. He's touchy302, boastful, he repeats himself. He's vain, grouchy303, proud. But he's done well, and I admire him."
"So he's human. All right, he's human." She was, perhaps, only half following him, though she looked straight at him, full-face, knees apart so that he saw the pink material of her undergarment. Seeing that pink band, he thought, "Why argue? What is the point?" But he replied.
"Well, everybody's human only in some degree. Same more than others."
"Some very little?"
"That's the way it seems. Very little. Faulty. Scanty304. Dangerous."
"I thought everybody was born human."
"It's not a natural gift at all. Only the capacity is natural."
"Well, Uncle, why are you putting me through this? What have you got in mind? You're after something."
"Yes, I suppose I am."
"You're criticizing me."
"No, I'm praising your father."
Angela's gaze was dilated305, brilliant, smeary306, angry. No fights, for God's sake, with a despairing woman. Still, he was getting at something. He held his thin body rigid; the ginger-gray brows overhung the tinted307 dimness of the shades.
"I don't like the opinion I think you have of me," she said.
"Why should that matter on a day like this? Well, perhaps I do feel that today there ought to be a difference. Perhaps if we were in India or Finland we might not be in quite the same mood. New York makes one think about the collapse308 of civilization, about Sodom and Gomorrah, the end of the world. The end wouldn’t come as a surprise here. Many people already bank on it. And I don’t know whether humankind is really all that much worse. In one day, Caesar massacred the Tencteri, four hundred and thirty thousand souls. Even Rome was appalled309. I am not sure that this is the worst of all times. But it is in the air that things are falling apart, and I am affected310 by it. I always hated people who declared it was the end. What did they know about the end? From personal experience, from the grave if I may say so, I knew something about it. But I was flat, dead wrong. Anybody may feel the truth. But suppose it to be true—true, and not a mood, not ignorance or destructive pleasure or the doom146 desired by people who have botched everything. Suppose it to be so. There is still such a thing as a man—or there was. There are still human qualities. Our weak species fought its fear, our crazy species fought its criminality. We are an animal of genius."
This was a thing he often thought. At the moment it was only a formula. He did not thoroughly311 feel it.
"O.K., Uncle."
"But we don't have to decide whether the world is ending. The point is that for your father it is the end."
"Why are you pushing that, as if I didn't know. What do you want from me?"
Indeed what? From her, sitting there, breasts shown, diffusing312 woman-odors, big eyes practically merged313; tormented314 , and at this moment strangely badgered by Caesar and the Tencteri, by ideas. Let the poor creature be. For now she was claiming to be a poor creature. And she was. But he could not let her be—not yet.
"As a rule these aneurysms cause instant death," he said. "With Elya there has been a delay, which gives an opportunity."
"An opportunity? What do you mean?"
"A chance to resolve some things. And it has made your father realistic—facing up to facts that were obscure."
"Facts about me, for instance? He didn't really want to know about me."
"Yes."
"What are you getting at?"
"You've got to do something for him. He has a need."
"What something am I supposed to do?"
"That's up to you. If you love him, you can make some sign. He's grieving. He's in a rage. He's disappointed. And I don't really think it is the sex. At this moment that might well be a trivial consideration. Don't you see, Angela? You wouldn't need to do much. It would give the man a last opportunity to collect himself."
"As far as I can see, if there is anything at all in what you say, you want an old-time deathbed scene."
"What difference does it make what you call it?"
"I should ask him to forgive me? Are you serious?"
"I am perfectly315 serious."
"But how could I—It goes against everything. You’re talking to the wrong person. Even for my father it would be too hokey. I can't see it."
"He's been a good man. And he's being swept out. Can't you think of something to say to him?"
"What is there to say? And can't you think of anything but death?"
"But that's what we have before us."
"And you won't stop. I know you're going to say something more. Well, say it."
"In so many words?"
"In so many words. The fewer the better."
"I don't know what happened in Mexico. The details don't matter. I only note the peculiarity316 that it is possible to be gay, amorous199, intimate with holiday acquaintances. Diversions, group intercourse317, fellatio with strangers—one can do that but not come to terms with one's father at the last opportunity. He's put an immense amount of feeling into you. Probably most of his feeling has gone toward you. If you can in some way see this and make some return . . ."
"Uncle Sammler!" She was furious.
"Ah. You're angry. Naturally."
"You've insulted me. You've been trying hard enough. Well, now you have—you've insulted me, Uncle Sammler."
"It was not the object. I only believe that there are things everyone knows, and must know."
"For God's sake, quit this."
"I shall mind my own business."
"You lead a special life in that dumpy room. Charming, but what's it got to do with anything! I don't think you understand people's business. What do you mean about fellatio ? What do you know about it?"
Well, it hadn't worked. What she threw at him was what the young man at Columbia had also cried out. He was out of it. A tall, dry, not agreeable old man, censorious, giving himself airs. Who in hell was he? Hors d'usage. Against the wall. A la lanterne! Very well. That was little enough. He ought not perhaps to have provoked Angela so painfully. By now he himself was shaking.
The gray nurse at this moment came and called Sammler to the telephone. "You are Mr. Sammler, aren't you?"
He started. Quickly he got to his feet. "Ah! Who wants me? Who is it?" He didn't know what to expect.
"The phone wants you. Your daughter. You can take it outside, at the desk."
"Yes, Shula, yes?" her father said. "Speak up. What is it? Where are you?"
"In New Rochelle. Where is Elya?"
"We are waiting for him. What do you want now, Shula?"
"Have you heard about Wallace?"
"Yes, I've heard."
"He did a really great thing when he brought in that plane without wheels."
"Yes, magnificent. He's certainly marvelous. Now, Shula, I want you out of there. You are not to prowl around that house, you have no business there. I wanted you to come back with me. You are not supposed to disobey me."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
"But you did."
"I didn't. If we differ, it's in your interest."
"Shula, don't fool with me. Enough of my interests. Let them alone. You called with a purpose. I’m afraid I begin to understand."
"Yes, Father."
"You succeeded!"
"Yes, Father, aren't you pleased? In the—guess where? In the den where you slept. In the hassock you sat on this morning. When I brought in the coffee and saw you on it, I said, That's where the money is. I was just about sure. So when you went away, I came back and opened it up, and it was filled—filled with money. Would you think that about Cousin Elya? I’m surprised at him. I didn't want to believe it. The hassock was upholstered with packages of hundred-dollar bills. Money was the stuffing."
"Dear God."
"I haven't counted it," she said.
"I will not have you lying."
"All right, I did count. But I don't really know about money. I don't understand business."
"Did you speak to Wallace on the phone?"
"Yes."
"And did you tell him about this?"
"I didn't say one single word."
"Good, very good, Shula. I expect you to turn it over to Mr. Widick. Call him to come and get it, and tell him you want a receipt for it."
"Father!"
"Yes, Shula."
He waited. He knew that, gripping one of those New Rochelle white telephones, she was marshaling her arguments, she was mastering her resentment318 at his ancient- father's stubbornness and stupid rectitude. At her expense. He knew quite well what she was feeling. "What will you live on, Father, when Elya is gone?" she said.
An excellent question, a shrewd, relevant question. He had lost out with Angela, he had infuriated her. He knew what she would say. "I’ll never forgive you, Uncle." And what's more she never would.
"We will live on what there is."
"But suppose he doesn't leave any provision?"
"That's as he wishes. Up to him, entirely."
"We are part of the family. You are the closest to him."
"You will do as I tell you."
"Listen to me, Father. I have to look out for you. You haven't even said anything to me about finding this."
"It was damn clever of you, Shula. Yes. Congratulations . That was clever."
"It really was. I noticed how the hassock bulged319 under you, not like other hassocks, and when I felt around I heard the money rustle320. I knew from the rustle, what it was. Of course I didn't say anything to Wallace. He'd squander321 it in a week. I thought rd buy some clothes. If I was dressed at Lord and Taylor, maybe I’d be less of an eccentric type, and I’d have a chance with somebody."
"Like Govinda Lal."
"Yes, why not? I’ve made myself as interesting as I could within my means."
Her father was astonished by this. Eccentric type? She was aware of herself, then. There was a degree of choice. Wig257, scavenging, shopping bags, were to an extent deliberate. Was that what she meant? How fascinating!
"And I think," she was saying, "that we should keep this. I think EIya would agree. I’m a woman without a husband, and I’ve never had children, and this money comes from preventing children, and I think it’s only right that I should take it. For you, too, Father."
"I’m afraid not, Shula. Elya may already have told Mr. Widick about this hoard. I’m sorry. But we're not thieves. It's not our money. Tell me how much it was?"
"Each time I count, it's different."
"How much was it the last time?"
"Either six or eight thousand. I laid it all out on the floor. But I was too excited to count straight."
"I assume it's much, much more, and I can't allow you to keep any."
"I won't."
Of course she would, he was certain of it. As a trash- collector, treasure-hunter, she would be unable to surrender it all.
"You must give Widick every cent."
"Yes, Father. It's painful, but I will. Ill hand it over to Widick. I think you're making a mistake."
"No mistake. And don't take off as you did with Govtnda 's manuscript."
Too late to be tempted322. One more desire gone. He very nearly smiled at himself.
"Good-by, Shula. You're a good daughter. The best of any. No better daughter."
Wallace, then, had been right about his father. He had done favors for the Mafia. Performed some operations. The money did exist. There was no time to think about all this, however. He put up the phone and left the marble counter to find that Dr. Cosbie had been waiting for him. The one-time football star in his white coat held his upper lip pressed by the nether323 one. The bloodless face and gas-blue eyes had been trained to transmit surgeons' messages. The message was plain. It was all over.
"When did he die?" said Sammler. "Just now?"
While I was stupidly urging Angela!
"A little while back. We had him down in the special unit, doin' the maximum possible."
"You couldn't do anything about a hemorrhage, I see, yes."
"You are his uncle. He asked me to say good-by to you."
"I wish I had been able to say it also to him. So it didn't happen in one rush?"
"He knew it was startin'. He was a doctor. He knew it. He asked me to take him from the room."
"He asked you to?"
"It was obvious he wanted to spare his daughter. So I said tests. It's Miss Angela?"
"Yes, Angela."
"He said he preferred downstairs. He knew I'd take him anyway."
"Of course. As a surgeon, Elya knew. He certainly knew the operation was futile324, all that torture of putting a screw in his throat." Sammler removed his glasses. His eyes, one a sightless bubble, under the hair of overhanging brows, were level with Dr. Cosbie's. "Of course it was futile."
"The procedure was correct. He knew it was."
"My nephew wished always to agree. Of course he knew. It might have been kinder though not to make him go through it."
"I suppose you want to go in and tell Miss Angela?"
"Please tell Miss Angela yourself. What I want is to see my nephew. How do I get to him? Give me directions."
"You’ll have to wait and see him at the chapel325, sir. It's not allowed."
"Young man, it is important and you had better allow me. Take my word for it. I am determined326. Let us not have a bad scene out here in the corridor. You would not want that, would you?"
"Would you make one?"
"I would."
"I'll send his nurse with you," said the doctor.
They went down in the elevator, the gray woman and Mr. Sammler, and through lower passages paved in speckled material, through tunnels, up and down ramps327, past laboratories and supply rooms. Well, this famous truth for which he was so keen, he had it now, or it had him. He felt that he was being destroyed, what was left of him. He wept to himself. He walked at the habitual328 rapid sweeping pace, waiting at crossways for the escorting nurse. In stirring air flavored with body-things, sickness, drugs. He felt that he was breaking up, that irregular big fragments inside were melting, sparkling with pain, floating off. Well, Elya was gone. He was deprived of one more thing, stripped of one more creature. One more reason to live trickled329 out. He lost his breath. Then the woman came up. More hundreds of yards in this winding330 underground smelling of serum331, of organic soup, of fungus332, of cell-brew. The nurse took Sammler’s hat and said, "In there." The door sign read P.M. That would mean post-mortem. They were ready to do an autopsy333 as soon as Angela signed the papers. And of course she would sign. Let's find out what went wrong. And then cremation334.
"To see Dr. Gruner. Where?" said Sammler.
The attendant pointed145 to the wheeled stretcher on which Elya lay. Sammler uncovered his face. The nostrils335, the creases were very dark, the shut eyes pale and full, the bald head high marked by gradients of wrinkles. In the lips bitterness and an expression of obedience336 were combined.
Sammler in a mental whisper said, "Well, Elya. Well, well, Elya." And then in the same way he said, "Remember, God, the soul of Elya Gruner, who, as willingly as possible and as well as he was able, and even to an intolerable point, and even in suffocation and even as death was coming was eager, even childishly perhaps (may I be forgiven for this), even with a certain servility, to do what was required of him. At his best this man was much kinder than at my very best I have ever been or could ever be. He was aware that he must meet, and he did meet—through all the confusion and degraded clowning of this life through which we are speeding—he did meet the terms of his contract. The terms which, in his inmost heart, each man knows. As I know mine. As all know. For that is the truth of it—that we all know, God, that we know, that we know, we know, we know."
The End
点击收听单词发音
1 lavatory | |
n.盥洗室,厕所 | |
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2 den | |
n.兽穴;秘密地方;安静的小房间,私室 | |
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3 faucets | |
n.水龙头( faucet的名词复数 ) | |
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4 mink | |
n.貂,貂皮 | |
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5 sperm | |
n.精子,精液 | |
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6 porcelain | |
n.瓷;adj.瓷的,瓷制的 | |
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7 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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8 mattresses | |
褥垫,床垫( mattress的名词复数 ) | |
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9 swelled | |
增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 ); 肿胀; (使)凸出; 充满(激情) | |
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10 opaque | |
adj.不透光的;不反光的,不传导的;晦涩的 | |
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11 cane | |
n.手杖,细长的茎,藤条;v.以杖击,以藤编制的 | |
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12 locker | |
n.更衣箱,储物柜,冷藏室,上锁的人 | |
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13 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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14 luxurious | |
adj.精美而昂贵的;豪华的 | |
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15 sipped | |
v.小口喝,呷,抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16 struts | |
(框架的)支杆( strut的名词复数 ); 支柱; 趾高气扬的步态; (尤指跳舞或表演时)卖弄 | |
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17 brass | |
n.黄铜;黄铜器,铜管乐器 | |
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18 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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19 croaking | |
v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 );用粗的声音说 | |
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20 colossal | |
adj.异常的,庞大的 | |
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21 utilizing | |
v.利用,使用( utilize的现在分词 ) | |
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22 gusts | |
一阵强风( gust的名词复数 ); (怒、笑等的)爆发; (感情的)迸发; 发作 | |
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23 evoked | |
[医]诱发的 | |
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24 thighs | |
n.股,大腿( thigh的名词复数 );食用的鸡(等的)腿 | |
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25 belly | |
n.肚子,腹部;(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分,膛 | |
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26 botanist | |
n.植物学家 | |
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27 stimuli | |
n.刺激(物) | |
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28 investigator | |
n.研究者,调查者,审查者 | |
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29 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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30 oversupply | |
n.供应过量;v.过度供给 | |
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31 chaos | |
n.混乱,无秩序 | |
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32 pliant | |
adj.顺从的;可弯曲的 | |
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33 rigid | |
adj.严格的,死板的;刚硬的,僵硬的 | |
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34 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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35 brutally | |
adv.残忍地,野蛮地,冷酷无情地 | |
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36 brutal | |
adj.残忍的,野蛮的,不讲理的 | |
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37 persistent | |
adj.坚持不懈的,执意的;持续的 | |
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38 attic | |
n.顶楼,屋顶室 | |
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39 metaphor | |
n.隐喻,暗喻 | |
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40 blistering | |
adj.酷热的;猛烈的;使起疱的;可恶的v.起水疱;起气泡;使受暴晒n.[涂料] 起泡 | |
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41 rusty | |
adj.生锈的;锈色的;荒废了的 | |
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42 artery | |
n.干线,要道;动脉 | |
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43 vessel | |
n.船舶;容器,器皿;管,导管,血管 | |
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44 mitigating | |
v.减轻,缓和( mitigate的现在分词 ) | |
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45 condensations | |
n.冷凝( condensation的名词复数 );冷凝液;凝结的水珠;节略 | |
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46 contractions | |
n.收缩( contraction的名词复数 );缩减;缩略词;(分娩时)子宫收缩 | |
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47 vexed | |
adj.争论不休的;(指问题等)棘手的;争论不休的问题;烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 );使苦恼;使生气;详细讨论 | |
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48 compilation | |
n.编译,编辑 | |
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49 monstrous | |
adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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50 fibers | |
光纤( fiber的名词复数 ); (织物的)质地; 纤维,纤维物质 | |
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51 gnat | |
v.对小事斤斤计较,琐事 | |
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52 demonstration | |
n.表明,示范,论证,示威 | |
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53 shuffle | |
n.拖著脚走,洗纸牌;v.拖曳,慢吞吞地走 | |
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54 pangs | |
突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 ); 悲痛 | |
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55 obstinate | |
adj.顽固的,倔强的,不易屈服的,较难治愈的 | |
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56 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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57 discredited | |
不足信的,不名誉的 | |
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58 explicit | |
adj.详述的,明确的;坦率的;显然的 | |
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59 explicitly | |
ad.明确地,显然地 | |
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60 virtuous | |
adj.有品德的,善良的,贞洁的,有效力的 | |
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61 compassion | |
n.同情,怜悯 | |
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62 compassionate | |
adj.有同情心的,表示同情的 | |
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63 passionate | |
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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64 utterance | |
n.用言语表达,话语,言语 | |
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65 exclamations | |
n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 );感叹;感叹语;感叹词 | |
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66 illicit | |
adj.非法的,禁止的,不正当的 | |
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67 ciphers | |
n.密码( cipher的名词复数 );零;不重要的人;无价值的东西 | |
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68 guises | |
n.外观,伪装( guise的名词复数 )v.外观,伪装( guise的第三人称单数 ) | |
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69 molested | |
v.骚扰( molest的过去式和过去分词 );干扰;调戏;猥亵 | |
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70 bulge | |
n.突出,膨胀,激增;vt.突出,膨胀 | |
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71 bragged | |
v.自夸,吹嘘( brag的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72 insufficient | |
adj.(for,of)不足的,不够的 | |
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73 interfere | |
v.(in)干涉,干预;(with)妨碍,打扰 | |
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74 interfered | |
v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 );调停;妨碍;干涉 | |
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75 intensity | |
n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
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76 pane | |
n.窗格玻璃,长方块 | |
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77 conspicuously | |
ad.明显地,惹人注目地 | |
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78 afflicted | |
使受痛苦,折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79 exuberance | |
n.丰富;繁荣 | |
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80 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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81 longing | |
n.(for)渴望 | |
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82 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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83 delusions | |
n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 );谬见;错觉;妄想 | |
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84 brainstorms | |
脑猝病( brainstorm的名词复数 ); 计上心头; 突来的灵感; 集体研讨 | |
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85 maniac | |
n.精神癫狂的人;疯子 | |
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86 char | |
v.烧焦;使...燃烧成焦炭 | |
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87 dealing | |
n.经商方法,待人态度 | |
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88 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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89 rinse | |
v.用清水漂洗,用清水冲洗 | |
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90 penetrated | |
adj. 击穿的,鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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91 spectrum | |
n.谱,光谱,频谱;范围,幅度,系列 | |
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92 lashed | |
adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 );煽动;紧系;怒斥 | |
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93 pneumonia | |
n.肺炎 | |
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94 sanity | |
n.心智健全,神智正常,判断正确 | |
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95 hoard | |
n./v.窖藏,贮存,囤积 | |
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96 meddle | |
v.干预,干涉,插手 | |
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97 beetle | |
n.甲虫,近视眼的人 | |
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98 foliage | |
n.叶子,树叶,簇叶 | |
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99 dignified | |
a.可敬的,高贵的 | |
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100 radiator | |
n.暖气片,散热器 | |
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101 spoke | |
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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102 license | |
n.执照,许可证,特许;v.许可,特许 | |
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103 frailty | |
n.脆弱;意志薄弱 | |
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104 creases | |
(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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105 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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106 butt | |
n.笑柄;烟蒂;枪托;臀部;v.用头撞或顶 | |
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107 descending | |
n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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108 joint | |
adj.联合的,共同的;n.关节,接合处;v.连接,贴合 | |
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109 skull | |
n.头骨;颅骨 | |
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110 insidious | |
adj.阴险的,隐匿的,暗中为害的,(疾病)不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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111 permissible | |
adj.可允许的,许可的 | |
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112 banking | |
n.银行业,银行学,金融业 | |
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113 lockers | |
n.寄物柜( locker的名词复数 ) | |
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114 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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115 soda | |
n.苏打水;汽水 | |
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116 tactic | |
n.战略,策略;adj.战术的,有策略的 | |
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117 piety | |
n.虔诚,虔敬 | |
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118 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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119 moron | |
n.极蠢之人,低能儿 | |
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120 growling | |
n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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121 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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122 shovel | |
n.铁锨,铲子,一铲之量;v.铲,铲出 | |
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123 fortify | |
v.强化防御,为…设防;加强,强化 | |
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124 stunned | |
adj. 震惊的,惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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125 unaware | |
a.不知道的,未意识到的 | |
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126 gritting | |
v.以沙砾覆盖(某物),撒沙砾于( grit的现在分词 );咬紧牙关 | |
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127 suffocated | |
(使某人)窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 ); (将某人)闷死; 让人感觉闷热; 憋气 | |
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128 suffocation | |
n.窒息 | |
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129 pickpocket | |
n.扒手;v.扒窃 | |
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130 implicit | |
a.暗示的,含蓄的,不明晰的,绝对的 | |
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131 sodden | |
adj.浑身湿透的;v.使浸透;使呆头呆脑 | |
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132 labored | |
adj.吃力的,谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 );苦干;详细分析;(指引擎)缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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133 retrieve | |
vt.重新得到,收回;挽回,补救;检索 | |
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134 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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135 hectic | |
adj.肺病的;消耗热的;发热的;闹哄哄的 | |
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136 chauffeur | |
n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机;v.为…开车 | |
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137 ivy | |
n.常青藤,常春藤 | |
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138 bouffant | |
adj.(发式、裙子等)向外胀起的 | |
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139 amiable | |
adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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140 strictly | |
adv.严厉地,严格地;严密地 | |
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141 brace | |
n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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142 impulsive | |
adj.冲动的,刺激的;有推动力的 | |
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143 impulsiveness | |
n.冲动 | |
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144 undoubtedly | |
adv.确实地,无疑地 | |
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145 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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146 doom | |
n.厄运,劫数;v.注定,命定 | |
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147 doomed | |
命定的 | |
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148 swirling | |
v.旋转,打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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149 aesthetic | |
adj.美学的,审美的,有美感 | |
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150 cynical | |
adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的,不信世道向善的 | |
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151 assail | |
v.猛烈攻击,抨击,痛斥 | |
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152 justified | |
a.正当的,有理的 | |
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153 supremacy | |
n.至上;至高权力 | |
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154 inorganic | |
adj.无生物的;无机的 | |
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155 bestial | |
adj.残忍的;野蛮的 | |
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156 decorative | |
adj.装饰的,可作装饰的 | |
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157 subjective | |
a.主观(上)的,个人的 | |
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158 alleged | |
a.被指控的,嫌疑的 | |
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159 abortion | |
n.流产,堕胎 | |
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160 smearing | |
污点,拖尾效应 | |
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161 superfluous | |
adj.过多的,过剩的,多余的 | |
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162 automobile | |
n.汽车,机动车 | |
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163 exasperating | |
adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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164 toll | |
n.过路(桥)费;损失,伤亡人数;v.敲(钟) | |
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165 structural | |
adj.构造的,组织的,建筑(用)的 | |
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166 edible | |
n.食品,食物;adj.可食用的 | |
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167 laborers | |
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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168 laborer | |
n.劳动者,劳工 | |
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169 shun | |
vt.避开,回避,避免 | |
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170 fragrance | |
n.芬芳,香味,香气 | |
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171 masonry | |
n.砖土建筑;砖石 | |
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172 tenements | |
n.房屋,住户,租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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173 sanctuary | |
n.圣所,圣堂,寺庙;禁猎区,保护区 | |
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174 obsolete | |
adj.已废弃的,过时的 | |
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175 meditation | |
n.熟虑,(尤指宗教的)默想,沉思,(pl.)冥想录 | |
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176 eyelids | |
n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 );眼睛也不眨一下;不露声色;面不改色 | |
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177 fumes | |
n.(强烈而刺激的)气味,气体 | |
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178 diesel | |
n.柴油发动机,内燃机 | |
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179 tilted | |
v. 倾斜的 | |
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180 interpretation | |
n.解释,说明,描述;艺术处理 | |
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181 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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182 foretold | |
v.预言,预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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183 maple | |
n.槭树,枫树,槭木 | |
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184 bandanna | |
n.大手帕 | |
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185 Soviet | |
adj.苏联的,苏维埃的;n.苏维埃 | |
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186 latch | |
n.门闩,窗闩;弹簧锁 | |
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187 vertical | |
adj.垂直的,顶点的,纵向的;n.垂直物,垂直的位置 | |
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188 shuddering | |
v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 );发抖;(机器、车辆等)突然震动;颤动 | |
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189 puma | |
美洲豹 | |
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190 irrational | |
adj.无理性的,失去理性的 | |
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191 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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192 sweeping | |
adj.范围广大的,一扫无遗的 | |
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193 prestigious | |
adj.有威望的,有声望的,受尊敬的 | |
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194 virile | |
adj.男性的;有男性生殖力的;有男子气概的;强有力的 | |
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195 racing | |
n.竞赛,赛马;adj.竞赛用的,赛马用的 | |
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196 kindliness | |
n.厚道,亲切,友好的行为 | |
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197 detesting | |
v.憎恶,嫌恶,痛恨( detest的现在分词 ) | |
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198 glamorous | |
adj.富有魅力的;美丽动人的;令人向往的 | |
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199 amorous | |
adj.多情的;有关爱情的 | |
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200 eccentricity | |
n.古怪,反常,怪癖 | |
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201 psychically | |
adv.精神上 | |
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202 stratagems | |
n.诡计,计谋( stratagem的名词复数 );花招 | |
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203 benevolence | |
n.慈悲,捐助 | |
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204 incompetence | |
n.不胜任,不称职 | |
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205 deviously | |
弯曲地,绕道地 | |
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206 pretensions | |
自称( pretension的名词复数 ); 自命不凡; 要求; 权力 | |
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207 refinements | |
n.(生活)风雅;精炼( refinement的名词复数 );改良品;细微的改良;优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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208 emanated | |
v.从…处传出,传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 );产生,表现,显示 | |
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209 steadily | |
adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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210 impede | |
v.妨碍,阻碍,阻止 | |
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211 bucks | |
n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 );钱;(英国十九世纪初的)花花公子;(用于某些表达方式)责任v.(马等)猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 );抵制;猛然震荡;马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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212 raved | |
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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213 shunned | |
v.避开,回避,避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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214 nude | |
adj.裸体的;n.裸体者,裸体艺术品 | |
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215 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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216 wrecking | |
破坏 | |
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217 heeded | |
v.听某人的劝告,听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 );变平,使(某物)变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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218 slant | |
v.倾斜,倾向性地编写或报道;n.斜面,倾向 | |
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219 curb | |
n.场外证券市场,场外交易;vt.制止,抑制 | |
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220 obstructing | |
阻塞( obstruct的现在分词 ); 堵塞; 阻碍; 阻止 | |
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221 intentional | |
adj.故意的,有意(识)的 | |
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222 bumper | |
n.(汽车上的)保险杠;adj.特大的,丰盛的 | |
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223 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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224 cumbersome | |
adj.笨重的,不便携带的 | |
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225 inept | |
adj.不恰当的,荒谬的,拙劣的 | |
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226 gaping | |
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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227 candid | |
adj.公正的,正直的;坦率的 | |
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228 ribs | |
n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 );(船或屋顶等的)肋拱;肋骨状的东西;(织物的)凸条花纹 | |
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229 spouting | |
n.水落管系统v.(指液体)喷出( spout的现在分词 );滔滔不绝地讲;喋喋不休地说;喷水 | |
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230 prying | |
adj.爱打听的v.打听,刺探(他人的私事)( pry的现在分词 );撬开 | |
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231 idiotic | |
adj.白痴的 | |
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232 squad | |
n.班,小队,小团体;vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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233 crouching | |
v.屈膝,蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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234 swelling | |
n.肿胀 | |
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235 alligator | |
n.短吻鳄(一种鳄鱼) | |
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236 crimson | |
n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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237 briefly | |
adv.简单地,简短地 | |
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238 taut | |
adj.拉紧的,绷紧的,紧张的 | |
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239 famished | |
adj.饥饿的 | |
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240 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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241 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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242 crooked | |
adj.弯曲的;不诚实的,狡猾的,不正当的 | |
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243 denim | |
n.斜纹棉布;斜纹棉布裤,牛仔裤 | |
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244 gashed | |
v.划伤,割破( gash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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245 horrified | |
a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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246 partisan | |
adj.党派性的;游击队的;n.游击队员;党徒 | |
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247 logic | |
n.逻辑(学);逻辑性 | |
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248 absurdities | |
n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 );荒谬;谬论;荒谬的行为 | |
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249 porous | |
adj.可渗透的,多孔的 | |
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250 fiat | |
n.命令,法令,批准;vt.批准,颁布 | |
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251 sumptuous | |
adj.豪华的,奢侈的,华丽的 | |
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252 spiny | |
adj.多刺的,刺状的;n.多刺的东西 | |
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253 whitewashed | |
粉饰,美化,掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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254 Mediterranean | |
adj.地中海的;地中海沿岸的 | |
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255 droll | |
adj.古怪的,好笑的 | |
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256 wigs | |
n.假发,法官帽( wig的名词复数 ) | |
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257 wig | |
n.假发 | |
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258 repulsive | |
adj.排斥的,使人反感的 | |
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259 swollen | |
adj.肿大的,水涨的;v.使变大,肿胀 | |
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260 obstructed | |
阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 ); 堵塞; 阻碍; 阻止 | |
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261 earrings | |
n.耳环( earring的名词复数 );耳坠子 | |
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262 musk | |
n.麝香, 能发出麝香的各种各样的植物,香猫 | |
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263 lipstick | |
n.口红,唇膏 | |
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264 perversion | |
n.曲解;堕落;反常 | |
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265 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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266 stunt | |
n.惊人表演,绝技,特技;vt.阻碍...发育,妨碍...生长 | |
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267 asylum | |
n.避难所,庇护所,避难 | |
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268 babbling | |
n.胡说,婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 );作潺潺声(如流水);含糊不清地说话;泄漏秘密 | |
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269 wrecked | |
adj.失事的,遇难的 | |
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270 aeronautics | |
n.航空术,航空学 | |
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271 illuminated | |
adj.被照明的;受启迪的 | |
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272 blessing | |
n.祈神赐福;祷告;祝福,祝愿 | |
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273 streaked | |
adj.有条斑纹的,不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 );使布满条纹 | |
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274 barrage | |
n.火力网,弹幕 | |
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275 attachments | |
n.(用电子邮件发送的)附件( attachment的名词复数 );附着;连接;附属物 | |
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276 transgression | |
n.违背;犯规;罪过 | |
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277 lust | |
n.性(淫)欲;渴(欲)望;vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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278 perversely | |
adv. 倔强地 | |
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280 villain | |
n.反派演员,反面人物;恶棍;问题的起因 | |
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281 feverish | |
adj.发烧的,狂热的,兴奋的 | |
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282 agitate | |
vi.(for,against)煽动,鼓动;vt.搅动 | |
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283 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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284 puritanical | |
adj.极端拘谨的;道德严格的 | |
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285 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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286 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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287 flare | |
v.闪耀,闪烁;n.潮红;突发 | |
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288 sentimental | |
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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289 skeptical | |
adj.怀疑的,多疑的 | |
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290 liking | |
n.爱好;嗜好;喜欢 | |
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291 snob | |
n.势利小人,自以为高雅、有学问的人 | |
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292 wasp | |
n.黄蜂,蚂蜂 | |
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293 expressive | |
adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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294 distressed | |
痛苦的 | |
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295 retirement | |
n.退休,退职 | |
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296 expressiveness | |
n.富有表现力 | |
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297 candor | |
n.坦白,率真 | |
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298 vices | |
缺陷( vice的名词复数 ); 恶习; 不道德行为; 台钳 | |
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299 dreaded | |
adj.令人畏惧的;害怕的v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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300 loyalty | |
n.忠诚,忠心 | |
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301 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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302 touchy | |
adj.易怒的;棘手的 | |
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303 grouchy | |
adj.好抱怨的;愠怒的 | |
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304 scanty | |
adj.缺乏的,仅有的,节省的,狭小的,不够的 | |
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305 dilated | |
adj.加宽的,扩大的v.(使某物)扩大,膨胀,张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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306 smeary | |
弄脏的 | |
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307 tinted | |
adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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308 collapse | |
vi.累倒;昏倒;倒塌;塌陷 | |
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309 appalled | |
v.使惊骇,使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的;丧胆的 | |
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310 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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311 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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312 diffusing | |
(使光)模糊,漫射,漫散( diffuse的现在分词 ); (使)扩散; (使)弥漫; (使)传播 | |
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313 merged | |
(使)混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 ); 相融; 融入; 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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314 tormented | |
饱受折磨的 | |
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315 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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316 peculiarity | |
n.独特性,特色;特殊的东西;怪癖 | |
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317 intercourse | |
n.性交;交流,交往,交际 | |
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318 resentment | |
n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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319 bulged | |
凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 ); 充满; 塞满(某物) | |
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320 rustle | |
v.沙沙作响;偷盗(牛、马等);n.沙沙声声 | |
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321 squander | |
v.浪费,挥霍 | |
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322 tempted | |
v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
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323 nether | |
adj.下部的,下面的;n.阴间;下层社会 | |
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324 futile | |
adj.无效的,无用的,无希望的 | |
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325 chapel | |
n.小教堂,殡仪馆 | |
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326 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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327 ramps | |
resources allocation and multiproject scheduling 资源分配和多项目的行程安排 | |
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328 habitual | |
adj.习惯性的;通常的,惯常的 | |
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329 trickled | |
v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 );淌;使)慢慢走;缓慢移动 | |
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330 winding | |
n.绕,缠,绕组,线圈 | |
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331 serum | |
n.浆液,血清,乳浆 | |
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332 fungus | |
n.真菌,真菌类植物 | |
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333 autopsy | |
n.尸体解剖;尸检 | |
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334 cremation | |
n.火葬,火化 | |
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335 nostrils | |
鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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336 obedience | |
n.服从,顺从 | |
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