Willowbed Road, NW, was not definitely slummy, only dingy3 and depressing. There were real slums hardly five minutes’ walk away. Tenement4 houses where families slept five in a bed, and, when one of them died, slept every night with the corpse5 until it was buried; alley6-ways where girls of fifteen were deflowered by boys of sixteen against leprous plaster walls. But Willowbed Road itself contrived7 to keep up a kind of mingy, lower-middle-class decency8. There was even a dentist’s brass9 plate on one of the houses. In quite two-thirds of them, amid the lace curtains of the parlour window, there was a green card with ‘Apartments’ on it in silver lettering, above the peeping foliage10 of an aspidistra.
Mrs Wisbeach, Gordon’s landlady11, specialized12 in ‘single gentlemen’. Bed-sitting-rooms, with gaslight laid on and find your own heating, baths extra (there was a geyser), and meals in the tomb-dark dining-room with the phalanx of clotted13 sauce-bottles in the middle of the table. Gordon, who came home for his midday dinner, paid twenty-seven and six a week.
The gaslight shone yellow through the frosted transom above the door of Number 31. Gordon took out his key and fished about in the keyhole — in that kind of house the key never quite fits the lock. The darkish little hallway — in reality it was only a passage — smelt14 of dishwater, cabbage, rag mats, and bedroom slops. Gordon glanced at the japanned tray on the hall-stand. No letters, of course. He had told himself not to hope for a letter, and nevertheless had continued to hope. A stale feeling, not quite a pain, settled upon his breast. Rosemary might have written! It was four days now since she had written. Moreover, there were a couple of poems that he had sent out to magazines and had not yet had returned to him. The one thing that made the evening bearable was to find a letter waiting for him when he got home. But he received very few letters — four or five in a week at the very most.
On the left of the hall was the never-used parlour, then came the staircase, and beyond that the passage ran down to the kitchen and to the unapproachable lair15 inhabited by Mrs Wisbeach herself. As Gordon came in, the door at the end of the passage opened a foot or so. Mrs Wisbeach’s face emerged, inspected him briefly16 but suspiciously, and disappeared again. It was quite impossible to get in or out of the house, at any time before eleven at night, without being scrutinized17 in this manner. Just what Mrs Wisbeach suspected you of it was hard to say; smuggling18 women into the house, possibly. She was one of those malignant19 respectable women who keep lodging-houses. Age about forty-five, stout20 but active, with a pink, fine-featured, horribly observant face, beautifully grey hair, and a permanent grievance22.
Gordon halted at the foot of the narrow stairs. Above, a coarse rich voice was singing, ‘Who’s afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?’ A very fat man of thirty-eight or nine came round the angle of the stairs, with the light dancing step peculiar23 to fat men, dressed in a smart grey suit, yellow shoes, a rakish trilby hat, and a belted blue overcoat of startling vulgarity. This was Flaxman, the first-floor lodger24 and travelling representative of the Queen of Sheba Toilet Requisites25 Co. He saluted26 Gordon with a lemon-coloured glove as he came down.
‘Hullo, chappie!’ he said blithely27. (Flaxman called everyone ‘chappie’.) ‘How’s life with you?’
‘Bloody28,’ said Gordon shortly.
Flaxman had reached the bottom of the stairs. He threw a roly-poly arm affectionately round Gordon’s shoulders.
‘Cheer up, old man, cheer up! You look like a bloody funeral. I’m off down to the Crichton. Come on down and have a quick one.’
‘I can’t. I’ve got to work.’
‘Oh, hell! Be matey, can’t you? What’s the good of mooning about up here? Come on down to the Cri and we’ll pinch the barmaid’s bum29.’
Gordon wriggled30 free of Flaxman’ s arm. Like all small frail31 people, he hated being touched. Flaxman merely grinned, with the typical fat man’s good humour. He was really horribly fat. He filled his trousers as though he had been melted and then poured into them. But of course, like other fat people, he never admitted to being fat. No fat person ever uses the word ‘fat’ if there is any way of avoiding it. ‘Stout’ is the word they use — or, better still, ‘robust’. A fat man is never so happy as when he is describing himself as ‘robust’. Flaxman, at his first meeting with Gordon, had been on the point of calling himself ‘robust’, but something in Gordon’s greenish eye had deterred33 him. He compromised on ‘stout’ instead.
‘I do admit, chappie,’ he said, ‘to being — well, just a wee bit on the stout side. Nothing unwholesome, you know.’ He patted the vague frontier between his belly34 and his chest. ‘Good firm flesh. I’m pretty nippy on my feet, as a matter of fact. But — well, I suppose you might call me STOUT.’
‘Like Cortez,’ Gordon suggested.
‘Cortez? Cortez? Was that the chappie who was always wandering about in the mountains in Mexico?’
‘That’s the fellow. He was stout, but he had eagle eyes.’
‘Ah? Now that’s funny. Because the wife said something rather like that to me once. “George,” she said, “you’ve got the most wonderful eyes in the world. You’ve got eyes just like an eagle,” she said. That would be before she married me, you’ll understand.’
Flaxman was living apart from his wife at the moment. A little while back the Queen of Sheba Toilet Requisites Co. had unexpectedly paid out a bonus of thirty pounds to all its travellers, and at the same time Flaxman and two others had been sent across to Paris to press the new Sexapeal Naturetint lipstick35 on various French firms. Flaxman had not thought it necessary to mention the thirty pounds to his wife. He had had the time of his life on that Paris trip, of course. Even now, three months afterwards, his mouth watered when he spoke36 of it. He used to entertain Gordon with luscious37 descriptions. Ten days in Paris with thirty quid that wifie hadn’t heard about! Oh boy! But unfortunately there had been a leakage38 somewhere; Flaxman had got home to find retribution awaiting him. His wife had broken his head with a cut-glass whisky decanter, a wedding present which they had had for fourteen years, and then fled to her mother’s house, taking the children with her. Hence Flaxman’s exile in Willowbed Road. But he wasn’t letting it worry him. It would blow over, no doubt; it had happened several times before.
Gordon made another attempt to get past Flaxman and escape up the stairs. The dreadful thing was that in his heart he was pining to go with him. He needed a drink so badly — the mere32 mention of the Crichton Arms had made him feel thirsty. But it was impossible, of course; he had no money. Flaxman put an arm across the stairs, barring his way. He was genuinely fond of Gordon. He considered him ‘clever’—‘cleverness’, to him, being a kind of amiable39 lunacy. Moreover, he detested40 being alone, even for so short a time as it would take him to walk to the pub.
‘Come on, chappie!’ he urged. ‘You want a Guinness to buck41 you up, that’s what you want. You haven’t seen the new girl they’ve got in the saloon bar yet. Oh, boy! There’s a peach for you!’
‘So that’s why you’re all dolled up, is it?’ said Gordon, looking coldly at Flaxman’s yellow gloves.
‘You bet it is, chappie! Coo, what a peach! Ash blonde she is. And she knows a thing or two, that girlie does. I gave her a stick of our Sexapeal Naturetint last night. You ought to have seen her wag her little bottom at me as she went past my table. Does she give me the palpitations? Does she? Oh, boy!’
Flaxman wriggled lascivously. His tongue appeared between his lips. Then, suddenly pretending that Gordon was the ash-blonde barmaid, he seized him by the waist and gave him a tender squeeze. Gordon shoved him away. For a moment the desire to go down to the Crichton Arms was so ravishing that it almost overcame him. Oh, for a pint42 of beer! He seemed almost to feel it going down his throat. If only he had had any money! Even sevenpence for a pint. But what was the use? Twopence halfpenny in pocket. You can’t let other people buy your drinks for you.
‘Oh, leave me alone, for God’s sake!’ he said irritably43, stepping out of Flaxman’s reach, and went up the stairs without looking back.
Flaxman settled his hat on his head and made for the front door, mildly offended. Gordon reflected dully that it was always like this nowadays. He was for ever snubbing friendly advances. Of course it was money that was at the bottom of it, always money. You can’t be friendly, you can’t even be civil, when you have no money in your pocket. A spasm44 of self-pity went through him. His heart yearned45 for the saloon bar at the Crichton; the lovely smell of beer, the warmth and bright lights, the cheery voices, the clatter46 of glasses on the beer-wet bar. Money, money! He went on, up the dark evil-smelling stairs. The thought of his cold lonely bedroom at the top of the house was like a doom47 before him.
On the second floor lived Lorenheim, a dark, meagre, lizard-like creature of uncertain age and race, who made about thirty-five shillings a week by touting48 vacuum-cleaners. Gordon always went very hurriedly past Lorenheim’s door. Lorenheim was one of those people who have not a single friend in the world and who are devoured49 by a lust50 for company. His loneliness was so deadly that if you so much as slowed your pace outside his door he was liable to pounce51 out upon you and half drag, half wheedle52 you in to listen to interminable paranoiac53 tales of girls he had seduced54 and employers he had scored off. And his room was more cold and squalid than even a lodging-house bedroom has any right to be. There were always half-eaten bits of bread and margarine lying about everywhere. The only other lodger in the house was an engineer of some kind, employed on nightwork. Gordon only saw him occasionally — a massive man with a grim, discoloured face, who wore a bowler55 hat indoors and out.
In the familiar darkness of his room, Gordon felt for the gas-jet and lighted it. The room was medium-sized, not big enough to be curtained into two, but too big to be sufficiently56 warmed by one defective57 oil lamp. It had the sort of furniture you expect in a top floor back. White-quilted single-bed; brown lino floor-covering; wash-hand-stand with jug58 and basin of that cheap white ware59 which you can never see without thinking of chamberpots. On the window-sill there was a sickly aspidistra in a green-glazed pot.
Up against this, under the window, there was a kitchen table with an inkstained green cloth. This was Gordon’s ‘writing’ table. It was only after a bitter struggle that he had induced Mrs Wisbeach to give him a kitchen table instead of the bamboo ‘occasional’ table — a mere stand for the aspidistra — which she considered proper for a top floor back. And even now there was endless nagging60 because Gordon would never allow his table to be ‘tidied up’. The table was in a permanent mess. It was almost covered with a muddle61 of papers, perhaps two hundred sheets of sermon paper, grimy and dog-eared, and all written on and crossed out and written on again — a sort of sordid62 labyrinth63 of papers to which only Gordon possessed64 the key. There was a film of dust over everything, and there were several foul65 little trays containing tobacco ash and the twisted stubs of cigarettes. Except for a few books on the mantelpiece, this table, with its mess of papers, was the sole mark Gordon’s personality had left on the room.
It was beastly cold. Gordon thought he would light the oil lamp. He lifted it — it felt very light; the spare oil can also was empty — no oil till Friday. He applied66 a match; a dull yellow flame crept unwillingly67 round the wick. It might burn for a couple of hours, with any luck. As Gordon threw away the match his eye fell upon the aspidistra in its grass-green pot. It was a peculiarly mangy specimen68. It had only seven leaves and never seemed to put forth69 any new ones. Gordon had a sort of secret feud70 with the aspidistra. Many a time he had furtively71 attempted to kill it — starving it of water, grinding hot cigarette-ends against its stem, even mixing salt with its earth. But the beastly things are practically immortal72. In almost any circumstances they can preserve a wilting73, diseased existence. Gordon stood up and deliberately74 wiped his kerosiny fingers on the aspidistra leaves.
At this moment Mrs Wisbeach’s voice rang shrewishly up the stairs:
‘Mister Com-stock!’
Gordon went to the door. ‘Yes?’ he called down.
‘Your supper’s been waiting for you this ten minutes. Why can’t you come down and have it, ‘stead of keeping me waiting for the washing up?’
Gordon went down. The dining-room was on the first floor, at the back, opposite Flaxman’s room. It was a cold, close-smelling room, twilit even at midday. There were more aspidistras in it than Gordon had ever accurately75 counted. They were all over the place — on the sideboard, on the floor, on ‘occasional’ tables; in the window there was a sort of florist’s stand of them, blocking out the light. In the half-darkness, with aspidistras all about you, you had the feeling of being in some sunless aquarium76 amid the dreary77 foliage of water-flowers. Gordon’s supper was set out, waiting for him, in the circle of white light that the cracked gas-jet cast upon the table cloth. He sat down with his back to the fireplace (there was an aspidistra in the grate instead of a fire) and ate his plate of cold beef and his two slices of crumbly white bread, with Canadian butter, mousetrap cheese and Pan Yan pickle78, and drank a glass of cold but musty water.
When he went back to his room the oil lamp had got going, more or less. It was hot enough to boil a kettle by, he thought. And now for the great event of the evening — his illicit79 cup of tea. He made himself a cup of tea almost every night, in the deadliest secrecy80. Mrs Wisbeach refused to give her lodgers81 tea with their supper, because she ‘couldn’t be bothered with hotting up extra water’, but at the same time making tea in your bedroom was strictly82 forbidden. Gordon looked with disgust at the muddled83 papers on the table. He told himself defiantly84 that he wasn’t going to do any work tonight. He would have a cup of tea and smoke up his remaining cigarettes, and read King Lear or Sherlock Holmes. His books were on the mantelpiece beside the alarm clock — Shakespeare in the Everyman edition, Sherlock Holmes, Villon’s poems, Roderick Random85, Les Fleurs du Mal, a pile of French novels. But he read nothing nowadays, except Shakespeare and Sherlock Holmes. Meanwhile, that cup of tea.
Gordon went to the door, pushed it ajar, and listened. No sound of Mrs Wisbeach. You had to be very careful; she was quite capable of sneaking86 upstairs and catching87 you in the act. This tea-making was the major household offence, next to bringing a woman in. Quietly he bolted the door, dragged his cheap suitcase from under the bed, and unlocked it. From it he extracted a sixpenny Woolworth’s kettle, a packet of Lyons’ tea, a tin of condensed milk, a tea-pot, and a cup. They were all packed in newspaper to prevent them from chinking.
He had his regular procedure for making tea. First he half filled the kettle with water from the jug and set it on the oil stove. Then he knelt down and spread out a piece of newspaper. Yesterday’s tea-leaves were still in the pot, of course. He shook them out on to the newspaper, cleaned out the pot with his thumb and folded the leaves into a bundle. Presently he would smuggle88 them downstairs. That was always the most risky89 part — getting rid of the used tea-leaves. It was like the difficulty murderers have in disposing of the body. As for the cup, he always washed it in his hand basin in the morning. A squalid business. It sickened him, sometimes. It was queer how furtively you had to live in Mrs Wisbeach’s house. You had the feeling that she was always watching you; and indeed, she was given to tiptoeing up and downstairs at all hours, in hope of catching the lodgers up to mischief90. It was one of those houses where you cannot even go to the W.C. in peace because of the feeling that somebody is listening to you.
Gordon unbolted the door again and listened intently. No one stirring. Ah! A clatter of crockery far below. Mrs Wisbeach was washing up the supper things. Probably safe to go down, then.
He tiptoed down, clutching the damp bundle of tea-leaves against his breast. The W.C. was on the second floor. At the angle of the stairs he halted, listened a moment longer. Ah! Another clatter of crockery.
All clear! Gordon Comstock, poet (‘of exceptional promise’, The Times Lit. Supp. had said), hurriedly slipped into the W.C., flung his tea-leaves down the waste-pipe, and pulled the plug. Then he hurried back to his room, rebolted the door, and, with precautions against noise, brewed91 himself a fresh pot of tea.
The room was passably warm by now. The tea and a cigarette worked their short-lived magic. He began to feel a little less bored and angry. Should he do a spot of work after all? He ought to work, of course. He always hated himself afterwards when he had wasted a whole evening. Half unwillingly, he shoved his chair up to the table. It needed an effort even to disturb that frightful92 jungle of papers. He pulled a few grimy sheets towards him, spread them out, and looked at them. God, what a mess! Written on, scored out, written over, scored out again, till they were like poor old hacked93 cancer-patients after twenty operations. But the handwriting, where it was not crossed out, was delicate and ‘scholarly’. With pain and trouble Gordon had acquired that ‘scholarly’ hand, so different from the beastly copper-plate they had taught him at school.
Perhaps he WOULD work; for a little while, anyway. He rummaged94 in the litter of papers. Where was that passage he had been working on yesterday? The poem was an immensely long one — that is, it was going to be immensely long when it was finished — two thousand lines or so, in rhyme royal, describing a day in London. London Pleasures, its name was. It was a huge, ambitious project — the kind of thing that should only be undertaken by people with endless leisure. Gordon had not grasped that fact when he began the poem; he grasped it now, however. How light-heartedly he had begun it, two years ago! When he had chucked up everything and descended95 into the slime of poverty, the conception of this poem had been at least a part of his motive96. He had felt so certain, then, that he was equal to it. But somehow, almost from the start, London Pleasures had gone wrong. It was too big for him, that was the truth. It had never really progressed, it had simply fallen apart into a series of fragments. And out of two years’ work that was all that he had to show — just fragments, incomplete in themselves and impossible to join together. On every one of those sheets of paper there was some hacked scrap97 of verse which had been written and rewritten and rewritten over intervals98 of months. There were not five hundred lines that you could say were definitely finished. And he had lost the power to add to it any longer; he could only tinker with this passage or that, groping now here, now there, in its confusion. It was no longer a thing that he created, it was merely a nightmare with which he struggled.
For the rest, in two whole years he had produced nothing except a handful of short poems — perhaps a score in all. It was so rarely that he could attain99 the peace of mind in which poetry, or prose for that matter, has got to be written. The times when he ‘could not’ work grew commoner and commoner. Of all types of human being, only the artist takes it upon him to say that he ‘cannot’ work. But it is quite true; there ARE times when one cannot work. Money again, always money! Lack of money means discomfort100, means squalid worries, means shortage of tobacco, means ever-present consciousness of failure — above all, it means loneliness. How can you be anything but lonely on two quid a week? And in loneliness no decent book was ever written. It was quite certain that London Pleasures would never be the poem he had conceived — it was quite certain, indeed, that it would never even be finished. And in the moments when he faced facts Gordon himself was aware of this.
Yet all the same, and all the more for that very reason, he went on with it. It was something to cling to. It was a way of hitting back at his poverty and his loneliness. And after all, there were times when the mood of creation returned, or seemed to return. It returned tonight, for just a little while — just as long as it takes to smoke two cigarettes. With smoke tickling101 his lungs, he abstracted himself from the mean and actual world. He drove his mind into the abyss where poetry is written. The gas-jet sang soothing102 overhead. Words became vivid and momentous103 things. A couplet, written a year ago and left as unfinished, caught his eye with a note of doubt. He repeated it to himself, over and over. It was wrong, somehow. It had seemed all right, a year ago; now, on the other hand, it seemed subtly vulgar. He rummaged among the sheets of foolscap till he found one that had nothing written on the back, turned it over, wrote the couplet out anew, wrote a dozen different versions of it, repeated each of them over and over to himself. Finally there was none that satisfied him. The couplet would have to go. It was cheap and vulgar. He found the original sheet of paper and scored the couplet out with thick lines. And in doing this there was a sense of achievement, of time not wasted, as though the destruction of much labour were in some way an act of creation.
Suddenly a double knock deep below made the whole house rattle104. Gordon started. His mind fled upwards105 from the abyss. The post! London Pleasures was forgotten.
His heart fluttered. Perhaps Rosemary HAD written. Besides, there were those two poems he had sent to the magazines. One of them, indeed, he had almost given up as lost; he had sent it to an American paper, the Californian Review, months ago. Probably they wouldn’t even bother to send it back. But the other was with an English paper, the Primrose106 Quarterly. He had wild hopes of that one. The Primrose Quarterly was one of those poisonous literary papers in which the fashionable Nancy Boy and the professional Roman Catholic walk bras dessus, bras dessous. It was also by a long way the most influential107 literary paper in England. You were a made man once you had had a poem in it. In his heart Gordon knew that the Primrose Quarterly would never print his poems. He wasn’t up to their standard. Still, miracles sometimes happen; or, if not miracles, accidents. After all, they’d had his poem six weeks. Would they keep it six weeks if they didn’t mean to accept it? He tried to quell108 the insane hope. But at the worst there was a chance that Rosemary had written. It was four whole days since she had written. She wouldn’t do it, perhaps, if she knew how it disappointed him. Her letters — long, ill-spelt letters, full of absurd jokes and protestations of love for him — meant far more to him than she could ever understand. They were a reminder109 that there was still somebody in the world who cared for him. They even made up for the times when some beast had sent back one of his poems; and, as a matter of fact, the magazines always did send back his poems, except Antichrist, whose editor, Ravelston, was his personal friend.
There was a shuffling110 below. It was always some minutes before Mrs Wisbeach brought the letters upstairs. She liked to paw them about, feel them to see how thick they were, read their postmarks, hold them up to the light and speculate on their contents, before yielding them to their rightful owners. She exercised a sort of droit du seigneur over letters. Coming to her house, they were, she felt, at least partially111 hers. If you had gone to the front door and collected your own letters she would have resented it bitterly. On the other hand, she also resented the labour of carrying them upstairs. You would hear her footsteps very slowly ascending112, and then, if there was a letter for you, there would be loud aggrieved113 breathing on the landing — this to let you know that you had put Mrs Wisbeach out of breath by dragging her up all those stairs. Finally, with a little impatient grunt114, the letters would be shoved under your door.
Mrs Wisbeach was coming up the stairs. Gordon listened. The footsteps paused on the first floor. A letter for Flaxman. They ascended115, paused again on the second floor. A letter for the engineer. Gordon’s heart beat painfully. A letter, please God, a letter! More footsteps. Ascending or descending116? They were coming nearer, surely! Ah, no, no! The sound grew fainter. She was going down again. The footsteps died away. No letters.
He took up his pen again. It was a quite futile117 gesture. She hadn’t written after all! The little beast! He had not the smallest intention of doing any more work. Indeed, he could not. The disappointment had taken all the heart out of him. Only five minutes ago his poem had still seemed to him a living thing; now he knew it unmistakably for the worthless tripe118 that it was. With a kind of nervous disgust he bundled the scattered119 sheets together, stacked them in an untidy heap, and dumped them on the other side of the table, under the aspidistra. He could not even bear to look at them any longer.
He got up. It was too early to go to bed; at least, he was not in the mood for it. He pined for a bit of amusement — something cheap and easy. A seat in the pictures, cigarettes, beer. Useless! No money to pay for any of them. He would read King Lear and forget this filthy120 century. Finally, however, it was The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes that he took from the mantelpiece. Sherlock Holmes was his favourite of all books, because he knew it by heart. The oil in the lamp was giving out and it was getting beastly cold. Gordon dragged the quilt from his bed, wrapped it round his legs, and sat down to read. His right elbow on the table, his hands under his coat to keep them warm, he read through ‘The Adventure of the Speckled Band.’ The little gas-mantle sighed above, the circular flame of the oil lamp burned low, a thin bracket of fire, giving out no more heat than a candle.
Down in Mrs Wisbeach’s lair the clock struck half past ten. You could always hear it striking at night. Ping-ping, ping-ping — a note of doom! The ticking of the alarm clock on the mantelpiece became audible to Gordon again, bringing with it the consciousness of the sinister121 passage of time. He looked about him. Another evening wasted. Hours, days, years slipping by. Night after night, always the same. The lonely room, the womanless bed; dust, cigarette ash, the aspidistra leaves. And he was thirty, nearly. In sheer self-punishment he dragged forth a wad of London Pleasures, spread out the grimy sheets, and looked at them as one looks at a skull122 for a memento123 mori. London Pleasures, by Gordon Comstock, author of Mice. His magnum opus. The fruit (fruit, indeed!) of two years’ work — that labyrinthine124 mess of words! And tonight’s achievement — two lines crossed out; two lines backward instead of forward.
The lamp made a sound like a tiny hiccup125 and went out. With an effort Gordon stood up and flung the quilt back on to his bed. Better get to bed, perhaps, before it got any colder. He wandered over towards the bed. But wait. Work tomorrow. Wind the clock, set the alarm. Nothing accomplished126, nothing done, has earned a night’s repose127.
It was some time before he could find the energy to undress. For a quarter of an hour, perhaps, he lay on the bed fully21 dressed, his hands under his head. There was a crack on the ceiling that resembled the map of Australia. Gordon contrived to work off his shoes and socks without sitting up. He held up one foot and looked at it. A smallish, delicate foot. Ineffectual, like his hands. Also, it was very dirty. It was nearly ten days since he had a bath. Becoming ashamed of the dirtiness of his feet, he sagged128 into a sitting position and undressed himself, throwing his clothes on to the floor. Then he turned out the gas and slid between the sheets, shuddering129, for he was naked. He always slept naked. His last suit of pyjamas130 had gone west more than a year ago.
The clock downstairs struck eleven. As the first coldness of the sheets wore off, Gordon’s mind went back to the poem he had begun that afternoon. He repeated in a whisper the single stanza131 that was finished:
Sharply the menacing wind sweeps over The bending poplars, newly bare, And dark ribbons of the chimneys Veer132 downward; flicked133 by whips of air, Torn posters flutter.
The octosyllables flicked to and fro. Click-click, click-click! The awful, mechanical emptiness of it appalled134 him. It was like some futile little machine ticking over. Rhyme to rhyme, click-click, click-click. Like the nodding of a clock-work doll. Poetry! The last futility135. He lay awake, aware of his own futility, of his thirty years, of the blind alley into which he had led his life.
The clock struck twelve. Gordon had stretched his legs out straight. The bed had grown warm and comfortable. The upturned beam of a car, somewhere in the street parallel to Willowbed Road, penetrated136 the blind and threw into silhouette137 a leaf of the aspidistra, shaped like Agamemnon’s sword.
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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specialized
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| adj.专门的，专业化的 | |
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clotted
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| adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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15
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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17
scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18
smuggling
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| n.走私 | |
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19
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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21
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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22
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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23
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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24
lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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25
requisites
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| n.必要的事物( requisite的名词复数 ) | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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blithely
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| adv.欢乐地，快活地，无挂虑地 | |
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28
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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29
bum
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| n.臀部；流浪汉，乞丐；vt.乞求，乞讨 | |
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wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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31
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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32
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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33
deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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35
lipstick
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| n.口红，唇膏 | |
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36
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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37
luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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38
leakage
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| n.漏，泄漏；泄漏物；漏出量 | |
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39
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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40
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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42
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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43
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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44
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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45
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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47
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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48
touting
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| v.兜售( tout的现在分词 )；招揽；侦查；探听赛马情报 | |
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49
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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50
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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51
pounce
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| n.猛扑；v.猛扑，突然袭击，欣然同意 | |
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52
wheedle
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| v.劝诱，哄骗 | |
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53
paranoiac
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| n.偏执狂患者 | |
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54
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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55
bowler
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| n.打保龄球的人，（板球的）投（球）手 | |
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56
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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57
defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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58
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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59
ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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60
nagging
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| adj.唠叨的，挑剔的；使人不得安宁的v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的现在分词 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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61
muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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62
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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63
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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64
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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65
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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66
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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67
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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68
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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69
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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70
feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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71
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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72
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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73
wilting
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| 萎蔫 | |
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74
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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75
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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76
aquarium
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| n.水族馆，养鱼池，玻璃缸 | |
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77
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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78
pickle
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| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
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79
illicit
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| adj.非法的，禁止的，不正当的 | |
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80
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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81
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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82
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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83
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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84
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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85
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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86
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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87
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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88
smuggle
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| vt.私运；vi.走私 | |
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89
risky
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| adj.有风险的，冒险的 | |
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90
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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91
brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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92
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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93
hacked
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| 生气 | |
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94
rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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95
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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96
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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97
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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98
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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99
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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100
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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101
tickling
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| 反馈，回授，自旋挠痒法 | |
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102
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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103
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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104
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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105
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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106
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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107
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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108
quell
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| v.压制，平息，减轻 | |
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109
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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110
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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111
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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112
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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113
aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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114
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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115
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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117
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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118
tripe
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| n.废话，肚子, 内脏 | |
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119
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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120
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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121
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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122
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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123
memento
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| n.纪念品，令人回忆的东西 | |
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124
labyrinthine
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| adj.如迷宫的；复杂的 | |
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125
hiccup
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| n.打嗝 | |
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126
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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127
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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128
sagged
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| 下垂的 | |
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129
shuddering
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| 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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130
pyjamas
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| n.（宽大的）睡衣裤 | |
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131
stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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132
veer
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| vt.转向，顺时针转，改变；n.转向 | |
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133
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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134
appalled
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| 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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135
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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136
penetrated
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| 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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137
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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