With a half-conscious gesture of caution he was clutching the lapel of his coat, holding it tight against him. In there, stowed away in his right-hand inner pocket, was an object whose very existence he partly doubted. It was a stout2 blue envelope with an American stamp; in the envelope was a cheque for fifty dollars; and the cheque was made out to ‘Gordon Comstock’!
He could feel the square shape of the envelope outlined against his body as clearly as though it had been red hot. All the morning he had felt it there, whether he touched it or whether he did not; he seemed to have developed a special patch of sensitiveness in the skin below his right breast. As often as once in ten minutes he had taken the cheque out of its envelope and anxiously examined it. After all, cheques are tricky3 things. It would be frightful4 if there turned out to be some hitch5 about the date or the signature. Besides, he might lose it — it might even vanish of its own accord like fairy gold.
The cheque had come from the Californian Review, that American magazine to which, weeks or months ago, he had despairingly sent a poem. He had almost forgotten about the poem, it had been so long away, until this morning their letter had come sailing out of the blue. And what a letter! No English editor ever writes letters like that. They were ‘very favorably impressed’ by his poem. They would ‘endeavor’ to include it in their next number. Would he ‘favor’ them by showing them some more of his work? (Would he? Oh, boy! — as Flaxman would say.) And the cheque had come with it. It seemed the most monstrous6 folly7, in this year of blight8 1934, that anyone should pay fifty dollars for a poem. However, there it was; and there was the cheque, which looked perfectly9 genuine however often he inspected it.
He would have no peace of mind till the cheque was cashed — for quite possibly the bank would refuse it — but already a stream of visions was flowing through his mind. Visions of girls’ faces, visions of cobwebby claret bottles and quart pots of beer, visions of a new suit and his overcoat out of pawn10, visions of a week-end at Brighton with Rosemary, visions of the crisp, crackling five pound note which he was going to give to Julia. Above all, of course, that fiver for Julia. It was almost the first thing he had thought of when the cheque came. Whatever else he did with the money, he must give Julia half of it. It was only the barest justice, considering how much he had ‘borrowed’ from her in all these years. All the morning the thought of Julia and the money he owed her had been cropping up in his mind at odd moments. It was a vaguely11 distasteful thought, however. He would forget about it for half an hour at a time, would plan a dozen ways of spending his ten pounds to the uttermost farthing, and then suddenly he would remember about Julia. Good old Julia! Julia should have her share. A fiver at the very least. Even that was not a tenth of what he owed her. For the twentieth time, with a faint malaise, he registered the thought: five quid for Julia.
The bank made no trouble about the cheque. Gordon had no banking12 account, but they knew him well, for Mr McKechnie banked there. They had cashed editors’ cheques for Gordon before. There was only a minute’s consultation13, and then the cashier came back.
‘Notes, Mr Comstock?’
‘One five pound, and the rest pounds, please.’
The flimsy luscious14 fiver and the five clean pound notes slid rustling15 under the brass16 rail. And after them the cashier pushed a little pile of half-crowns and pennies. In lordly style Gordon shot the coins into his pocket without even counting them. That was a bit of backsheesh. He had only expected ten pounds for fifty dollars. The dollar must be above par1. The five pound note, however, he carefully folded up and stowed away in the American envelope. That was Julia’s fiver. It was sacrosanct17. He would post it to her presently.
He did not go home for dinner. Why chew leathery beef in the aspidistral dining-room when he had ten quid in pocket — five quid, rather? (He kept forgetting that half the money was already mortgaged to Julia.) For the moment he did not bother to post Julia’s five pounds. This evening would be soon enough. Besides, he rather enjoyed the feeling of it in his pocket. It was queer how different you felt with all that money in your pocket. Not opulent, merely, but reassured18, revivified, reborn. He felt a different person from what he had been yesterday. He WAS a different person. He was no longer the downtrodden wretch19 who made secret cups of tea over the oil stove at 31 Willowbed Road. He was Gordon Comstock, the poet, famous on both sides of the Atlantic. Publications: Mice (1932), London Pleasures (1935). He thought with perfect confidence of London Pleasures now. In three months it should see the light. Demy octavo, white buckram covers. There was nothing that he did not feel equal to now that his luck had turned.
He strolled into the Prince of Wales for a bite of food. A cut off the joint20 and two veg., one and twopence, a pint21 of pale ale ninepence, twenty Gold Flakes22 a shilling. Even after that extravagance he still had well over ten pounds in hand — or rather, well over five pounds. Beer-warmed, he sat and meditated23 on the things you can do with five pounds. A new suit, a week-end in the country, a day-trip to Paris, five rousing drunks, ten dinners in Soho restaurants. At this point it occurred to him that he and Rosemary and Ravelston must certainly have dinner together tonight. Just to celebrate his stroke of luck; after all, it isn’t every day that ten pounds — five pounds — drops out of the sky into your lap. The thought of the three of them together, with good food and wine and money no object took hold of him as something not to be resisted. He had just a tiny twinge of caution. Mustn’t spend ALL his money, of course. Still, he could afford a quid — two quid. In a couple of minutes he had got Ravelston on the pub phone.
‘Is that you, Ravelston? I say, Ravelston! Look here, you’ve got to have dinner with me tonight.’
From the other end of the line Ravelston faintly demurred24. ‘No, dash it! You have dinner with ME.’ But Gordon overbore him. Nonsense! Ravelston had got to have dinner with HIM tonight. Unwillingly25, Ravelston assented26. All right, yes, thanks; he’d like it very much. There was a sort of apologetic misery27 in his voice. He guessed what had happened. Gordon had got hold of money from somewhere and was squandering29 it immediately; as usual, Ravelston felt he hadn’t the right to interfere30. Where should they go? Gordon was demanding. Ravelston began to speak in praise of those jolly little Soho restaurants where you get such a wonderful dinner for half a crown. But the Soho restaurants sounded beastly as soon as Ravelston mentioned them. Gordon wouldn’t hear of it. Nonsense! They must go somewhere decent. Let’s do it all regardless, was his private thought; might as well spend two quid — three quid, even. Where did Ravelston generally go? Modigliani’s, admitted Ravelston. But Modigliani’s was very — but no! not even over the phone could Ravelston frame that hateful word ‘expensive’. How remind Gordon of his poverty? Gordon mightn’t care for Modigliani’s, he euphemistically said. But Gordon was satisfied. Modigliani’s? Right you are — half past eight. Good! After all, if he spent even three quid on the dinner he’d still have two quid to buy himself a new pair of shoes and a vest and a pair of pants.
He had fixed31 it up with Rosemary in another five minutes. The New Albion did not like their employees being rung up on the phone, but it did not matter once in a way. Since that disastrous32 Sunday journey, five days ago, he had heard from her once but had not seen her. She answered eagerly when she heard whose voice it was. Would she have dinner with him tonight? Of course! What fun! And so in ten minutes the whole thing was settled. He had always wanted Rosemary and Ravelston to meet, but somehow had never been able to contrive33 it. These things are so much easier when you’ve got a little money to spend.
The taxi bore him westward34 through the darkling streets. A three-mile journey — still, he could afford it. Why spoil the ship for a ha’porth of tar35? He had dropped that notion of spending only two pounds tonight. He would spend three pounds, three pounds ten — four pounds if he felt like it. Slap up and regardless — that was the idea. And, oh! by the way! Julia’s fiver. He hadn’t sent it yet. No matter. Send it first thing in the morning. Good old Julia! She should have her fiver.
How voluptuous36 were the taxi cushions under his bum37! He lolled this way and that. He had been drinking, of course — had had two quick ones, or possibly three, before coming away. The taxi-driver was a stout philosophic38 man with a weather-beaten face and a knowing eye. He and Gordon understood one another. They had palled39 up in the bar where Gordon was having his quick ones. As they neared the West End the taximan drew up, unbidden, at a discreet40 pub on a corner. He knew what was in Gordon’s mind. Gordon could do with a quick one. So could the taximan. But the drinks were on Gordon — that too was understood.
‘You anticipated my thoughts,’ said Gordon, climbing out.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I could just about do with a quick one.’
‘Thought you might, sir.’
‘And could you manage one yourself, do you think?’
‘Where there’s a will there’s a way,’ said the taximan.
‘Come inside,’ said Gordon.
They leaned matily on the brass-edged bar, elbow to elbow, lighting41 two of the taximan’s cigarettes. Gordon felt witty42 and expansive. He would have liked to tell the taximan the history of his life. The white-aproned barman hastened towards them.
‘Yes sir?’ said the barman.
‘Gin,’ said Gordon.
‘Make it two,’ said the taximan.
More matily than ever, they clinked glasses.
‘Many happy returns,’ said Gordon.
‘Your birthday today, sir?’
‘Only metaphorically43. My re-birthday, so to speak.’
‘I never had much education,’ said the taximan.
‘I was speaking in parables,’ said Gordon.
‘English is good enough for me,’ said the taximan.
‘It was the tongue of Shakespeare,’ said Gordon.
‘Literary gentleman, are you, sir, by any chance?’
‘Do I look as moth-eaten as all that?’
‘Not moth-eaten, sir. Only intellectual-like.’
‘You’re quite right. A poet.’
‘Poet! It takes all sorts to make a world, don’t it now?’ said the taximan.
‘And a bloody44 good world it is,’ said Gordon.
His thoughts moved lyrically tonight. They had another gin and presently went back to the taxi all but arm in arm, after yet another gin. That made five gins Gordon had had this evening. There was an ethereal feeling in his veins45; the gin seemed to be flowing there, mingled46 with his blood. He lay back in the corner of the seat, watching the great blazing skysigns swim across the bluish dark. The evil red and blue of the Neon lights pleased him at this moment. How smoothly47 the taxi glided48! More like a gondola49 than a car. It was having money that did that. Money greased the wheels. He thought of the evening ahead of him; good food, good wine, good talk — above all, no worrying about money. No damned niggling with sixpences and ‘We can’t afford this’ and ‘We can’t afford that!’ Rosemary and Ravelston would try to stop him being extravagant50. But he would shut them up. He’d spend every penny he had if he felt like it. Ten whole quid to bust51! At least, five quid. The thought of Julia passed flickeringly through his mind and disappeared again.
He was quite sober when they got to Modigliani’s. The monstrous commissionaire, like a great glittering waxwork52 with the minimum of joints53, stepped stiffly forward to open the taxi door. His grim eye looked askance at Gordon’s clothes. Not that you were expected to ‘dress’ at Modigliani’s. They were tremendously Bohemian at Modigliani’s, of course; but there are ways and ways of being Bohemian, and Gordon’s way was the wrong way. Gordon did not care. He bade the taximan an affectionate farewell, and tipped him half a crown over his fare, whereat the commissionaire’s eye looked a little less grim. At this moment Ravelston emerged from the doorway54. The commissionaire knew Ravelston, of course. He lounged out on to the pavement, a tall distinguished55 figure, aristocratically shabby, his eye rather moody56. He was worrying already about the money this dinner was going to cost Gordon.
‘Ah, there you are, Gordon!’
‘Hullo, Ravelston! Where’s Rosemary?’
‘Perhaps she’s waiting inside. I don’t know her by sight, you know. But I say, Gordon, look here! Before we go in, I wanted —’
‘Ah, look, there she is!’
She was coming towards them, swift and debonair57. She threaded her way through the crowd with the air of some neat little destroyer gliding58 between large clumsy cargo-boats. And she was nicely dressed, as usual. The sub-shovel hat was cocked at its most provocative59 angle. Gordon’s heart stirred. There was a girl for you! He was proud that Ravelston should see her. She was very gay tonight. It was written all over her that she was not going to remind herself or Gordon of their last disastrous encounter. Perhaps she laughed and talked just a little too vivaciously60 as Gordon introduced them and they went inside. But Ravelston had taken a liking61 to her immediately. Indeed, everyone who met her did take a liking to Rosemary. The inside of the restaurant overawed Gordon for a moment. It was so horribly, artistically62 smart. Dark gate-leg tables, pewter candlesticks, pictures by modern French painters on the walls. One, a street scene, looked like a Utrillo. Gordon stiffened63 his shoulders. Damn it, what was there to be afraid of? The five pound note was tucked away in its envelope in his pocket. It was Julia’s five pounds, of course; he wasn’t going to spend it. Still, its presence gave him moral support. It was a kind of talisman64. They were making for the corner table — Ravelston’s favourite table — at the far end. Ravelston took Gordon by the arm and drew him a little back, out of Rosemary’s hearing.
‘Gordon, look here!’
‘What?’
‘Look here, you’re going to have dinner with ME tonight.’
‘Bosh! This is on me.’
‘I do wish you would. I hate to see you spending all that money.’
‘We won’t talk about money tonight,’ said Gordon.
‘Fifty-fifty, then,’ pleaded Ravelston.
‘It’s on me,’ said Gordon firmly.
Ravelston subsided65. The fat, white-haired Italian waiter was bowing and smiling beside the corner table. But it was at Ravelston, not at Gordon, that he smiled. Gordon sat down with the feeling that he must assert himself quickly. He waved away the menu which the waiter had produced.
‘We must settle what we’re going to drink first,’ he said.
‘Beer for me,’ said Ravelston, with a sort of gloomy haste. ‘Beer’s the only drink I care about.’
‘Me too,’ echoed Rosemary.
‘Oh, rot! We’ve got to have some wine. What do you like, red or white? Give me the wine list,’ he said to the waiter.
‘Then let’s have a plain Bordeaux. Medoc or St Julien or something,’ said Ravelston.
‘I adore St Julien,’ said Rosemary, who thought she remembered that St Julien was always the cheapest wine on the list.
Inwardly, Gordon damned their eyes. There you are, you see! They were in league against him already. They were trying to prevent him from spending his money. There was going to be that deadly, hateful atmosphere of ‘You can’t afford it’ hanging over everything. It made him all the more anxious to be extravagant. A moment ago he would have compromised on Burgundy. Now he decided66 that they must have something really expensive — something fizzy, something with a kick in it. Champagne67? No, they’d never let him have champagne. Ah!
‘Have you got any Asti?’ he said to the waiter.
The waiter suddenly beamed, thinking of his corkage. He had grasped now that Gordon and not Ravelston was the host. He answered in the peculiar69 mixture of French and English which he affected70.
‘Asti, sir? Yes, sir. Very nice Asti! Asti Spumanti. Tres fin71! Tres vif!’
Ravelston’s worried eye sought Gordon’s across the table. You can’t afford it! his eye pleaded.
‘Is that one of those fizzy wines?’ said Rosemary.
‘Very fizzy, madame. Very lively wine. Tres vif! Pop!’ His fat hands made a gesture, picturing cascades73 of foam74.
‘Asti,’ said Gordon, before Rosemary could stop him
Ravelston looked miserable75. He knew that Asti would cost Gordon ten or fifteen shillings a bottle. Gordon pretended not to notice. He began talking about Stendhal — association with Duchesse de Sanseverina and her ‘force vin d’Asti’. Along came the Asti in a pail of ice — a mistake, that, as Ravelston could have told Gordon. Out came the cork68. Pop! The wild wine foamed76 into the wide flat glasses. Mysteriously the atmosphere of the table changed. Something had happened to all three of them. Even before it was drunk the wine had worked its magic. Rosemary had lost her nervousness, Ravelston his worried preoccupation with the expense, Gordon his defiant77 resolve to be extravagant. They were eating anchovies78 and bread and butter, fried sole, roast pheasant with bread sauce and chipped potatoes; but principally they were drinking and talking. And how brilliantly they were talking — or so it seemed to them, anyway! They talked about the bloodiness79 of modern life and the bloodiness of modern books. What else is there to talk about nowadays? As usual (but, oh! how differently, now that there was money in his pocket and he didn’t really believe what he was saying) Gordon descanted on the deadness, the dreadfulness of the age we live in. French letters and machine-guns! The movies and the Daily Mail! It was a bone-deep truth when he walked the streets with a couple of coppers80 in his pocket; but it was a joke at this moment. It was great fun — it IS fun when you have good food and good wine inside you — to demonstrate that we live in a dead and rotting world. He was being witty at the expense of the modern literature; they were all being witty. With the fine scorn of the unpublished Gordon knocked down reputation after reputation. Shaw, Yeats, Eliot, Joyce, Huxley, Lewis, Hemingway — each with a careless phrase or two was shovelled81 into the dustbin. What fun it all was, if only it could last! And of course, at this particular moment, Gordon believed that it COULD last. Of the first bottle of Asti, Gordon drank three glasses, Ravelston two, and Rosemary one. Gordon became aware that a girl at the table opposite was watching him. A tall elegant girl with a shell-pink skin and wonderful, almond-shaped eyes. Rich, obviously; one of the moneyed intelligentsia. She thought him interesting — was wondering who he was. Gordon found himself manufacturing special witticisms82 for her benefit. And he WAS being witty, there was no doubt about that. That too was money. Money greasing the wheels — wheels of thought as well as wheels of taxis.
But somehow the second bottle of Asti was not such a success as the first. To begin with there was uncomfortableness over its ordering. Gordon beckoned83 to the waiter.
‘Have you got another bottle of this?’
The waiter beamed fatly. ‘Yes, sir! Mais certainement, monsieur!’
Rosemary frowned and tapped Gordon’s foot under the table. ‘No, Gordon, NO! You’re not to.’
‘Not to what?’
‘Order another bottle. We don’t want it.’
‘Oh, bosh! Get another bottle, waiter.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Ravelston rubbed his nose. With eyes too guilty to meet Gordon’s he looked at his wine glass. ‘Look here, Gordon. Let ME stand this bottle. I’d like to.’
‘Bosh!’ repeated Gordon.
‘Get half a bottle, then,’ said Rosemary.
‘A whole bottle, waiter,’ said Gordon.
After that nothing was the same. They still talked, laughed, argued, but things were not the same. The elegant girl at the table opposite had ceased watching Gordon. Somehow, Gordon wasn’t being witty any longer. It is almost always a mistake to order a second bottle. It is like bathing for a second time on a summer day. However warm the day is, however much you have enjoyed your first bathe, you are always sorry for it if you go in a second time. The magic had departed from the wine. It seemed to foam and sparkle less, it was merely a clogging84 sourish liquid which you gulped85 down half in disgust and half in hopes of getting drunk quicker. Gordon was now definitely though secretly drunk. One half of him was drunk and the other half sober. He was beginning to have that peculiar blurred86 feeling, as though your features had swollen87 and your fingers grown thicker, which you have in the second stage of drunkenness. But the sober half of him was still in command to outward appearance, anyway. The conversation grew more and more tedious. Gordon and Ravelston talked in the detached uncomfortable manner of people who have had a little scene and are not going to admit it. They talked about Shakespeare. The conversation tailed off into a long discussion about the meaning of Hamlet. It was very dull. Rosemary stifled88 a yawn. While Gordon’s sober half talked, his drunken half stood aside and listened. Drunken half was very angry. They’d spoiled his evening, damn them! with their arguing about that second bottle. All he wanted now was to be properly drunk and have done with it. Of the six glasses in the second bottle he drank four — for Rosemary refused more wine. But you couldn’t do much on this weak stuff. Drunken half clamoured for more drink, and more, and more. Beer by the quart and the bucket! A real good rousing drink! And by God! he was going to have it later on. He thought of the five pound note stowed away in his inner pocket. He still had that to blow, anyway.
The musical clock that was concealed89 somewhere in Modigliani’s interior struck ten.
‘Shall we shove off?’ said Gordon.
Ravelston’s eyes looked pleadingly, guiltily across the table. Let me share the bill! his eyes said. Gordon ignored him.
‘I vote we go to the Cafe Imperial,’ he said.
The bill failed to sober him. A little over two quid for the dinner, thirty bob for the wine. He did not let the others see the bill, of course, but they saw him paying. He threw four pound notes on to the waiter’s salver and said casually90, ‘Keep the change.’ That left him with about ten bob besides the fiver. Ravelston was helping91 Rosemary on with her coat; as she saw Gordon throw notes to the waiter her lips parted in dismay. She had had no idea that the dinner was going to cost anything like four pounds. It horrified92 her to see him throwing money about like that. Ravelston looked gloomy and disapproving93. Gordon damned their eyes again. Why did they have to keep on worrying? He could afford it, couldn’t he? He still had that fiver. But by God, it wouldn’t be his fault if he got home with a penny left!
But outwardly he was quite sober, and much more subdued94 than he had been half an hour ago. ‘We’d better have a taxi to the Cafe Imperial,’ he said.
‘Oh, let’s walk!’ said Rosemary. ‘It’s only a step.’
‘No, we’ll have a taxi.’
They got into the taxi and were driven away, Gordon sitting next to Rosemary. He had half a mind to put his arm round her, in spite of Ravelston’s presence. But at that moment a swirl95 of cold night air came in at the window and blew against Gordon’s forehead. It gave him a shock. It was like one of those moments in the night when suddenly from deep sleep you are broad awake and full of some dreadful realization96 — as that you are doomed98 to die, for instance, or that your life is a failure. For perhaps a minute he was cold sober. He knew all about himself and the awful folly he was committing — knew that he had squandered99 five pounds on utter foolishness and was now going to squander28 the other five that belonged to Julia. He had a fleeting100 but terribly vivid vision of Julia, with her thin face and her greying hair, in the cold of her dismal101 bed-sitting room. Poor, good Julia! Julia who had been sacrificed to him all her life, from whom he had borrowed pound after pound after pound; and now he hadn’t even the decency102 to keep her five intact! He recoiled103 from the thought; he fled back into his drunkenness as into a refuge. Quick, quick, we’re getting sober! Booze, more booze! Recapture that first fine careless rapture104! Outside, the multi-coloured window of an Italian grocery, still open, swam towards them. He tapped sharply on the glass. The taxi drew up. Gordon began to climb out across Rosemary’s knees.
‘Where are you going, Gordon?’
‘To recapture that first fine careless rapture,’ said Gordon, on the pavement.
‘What?’
‘It’s time we laid in some more booze. The pubs’ll be shutting in half an hour.’
‘No, Gordon, no! You’re not to get anything more to drink. You’ve had quite enough already.’
‘Wait!’
He came out of the shop nursing a litre bottle of Chianti. The grocer had taken the cork out for him and put it in loosely again. The others had grasped now that he was drunk — that he must have been drinking before he met them. It made them both embarrassed. They went into the Cafe Imperial, but the chief thought in both their minds was to get Gordon away and to bed as quickly as possible. Rosemary whispered behind Gordon’s back, ‘PLEASE don’t let him drink any more!’ Ravelston nodded gloomily. Gordon was marching ahead of them to a vacant table, not in the least troubled by the stares everyone was casting at the wine-bottle which he carried on his arm. They sat down and ordered coffee, and with some difficulty Ravelston restrained Gordon from ordering brandy as well. All of them were ill at ease. It was horrible in the great garish105 cafe, stuffily106 hot and deafeningly noisy with the jabber107 of several hundred voices, the clatter108 of plates and glasses, and the intermittent109 squalling of the band. All three of them wanted to get away. Ravelston was still worrying about the expense, Rosemary was worried because Gordon was drunk, Gordon was restless and thirsty. He had wanted to come here, but he was no sooner here than he wanted to escape. Drunken half was clamouring for a bit of fun. And drunken half wasn’t going to be kept in check much longer. Beer, beer! cried drunken half. Gordon hated this stuffy110 place. He had visions of a pub taproom with great oozy111 barrels and quart pots topped with foam. He kept an eye on the clock. It was nearly half past ten and the pubs even in Westminster would shut at eleven. Mustn’t miss his beer! The bottle of wine was for afterwards, when the pubs were shut. Rosemary was sitting opposite him, talking to Ravelston, uncomfortably but with a sufficient pretence112 that she was enjoying herself and there was nothing the matter. They were still talking in a rather futile113 way about Shakespeare. Gordon hated Shakespeare. As he watched Rosemary talking there came over him a violent, perverse114 desire for her. She was leaning forward, her elbows on the table; he could see her small breasts clearly through her dress. It came to him with a kind of shock, a catch of breath, which once again almost sobered him, that he had seen her naked. She was his girl! He could have her whenever he wanted her! And by God, he was going to have her tonight! Why not? It was a fitting end to the evening. They could find a place easily enough; there are plenty of hotels round Shaftesbury Avenue where they don’t ask questions if you can pay the bill. He still had his fiver. He felt her foot under the table, meaning to imprint115 a delicate caress116 upon it, and only succeeded in treading on her toe. She drew her foot away from him.
‘Let’s get out of this,’ he said abruptly117, and at once stood up.
‘Oh, let’s!’ said Rosemary with relief.
They were in Regent Street again. Down on the left Piccadilly Circus blazed, a horrible pool of light. Rosemary’s eyes turned towards the bus stop opposite.
‘It’s half past ten,’ she said doubtfully. ‘I’ve got to be back by eleven.’
‘Oh, rot! Let’s look for a decent pub. I mustn’t miss my beer.’
‘Oh, no, Gordon! No more pubs tonight. I couldn’t drink any more. Nor ought you.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Come this way.’
He took her by the arm and began to lead her down towards the bottom of Regent Street, holding her rather tight as though afraid she would escape. For the moment he had forgotten about Ravelston. Ravelston followed, wondering whether he ought to leave them to themselves or whether he ought to stay and keep an eye on Gordon. Rosemary hung back, not liking the way Gordon was pulling at her arm.
‘Where are you taking me, Gordon?’
‘Round the corner, where it’s dark. I want to kiss you.’
‘I don’t think I want to be kissed.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘No!’
‘Yes!’
She let him take her. Ravelston waited on the corner by the Regent Palace, uncertain what to do. Gordon and Rosemary disappeared round the corner and were almost immediately in darker, narrower streets. The appalling118 faces of tarts120, like skulls121 coated with pink powder, peered meaningly from several doorways122. Rosemary shrank from them. Gordon was rather amused.
‘They think you’re one of them,’ he explained to her.
He stood his bottle on the pavement, carefully, against the wall, then suddenly seized her and twisted her backwards123. He wanted her badly, and he did not want to waste time over preliminaries. He began to kiss her face all over, clumsily but very hard. She let him do it for a moment, but it frightened her; his face, so close to hers, looked pale, strange, and distracted. He smelt124 very strongly of wine. She struggled, turning her face away so that he was only kissing her hair and neck.
‘Gordon, you mustn’t!’
‘Why mustn’t I?’
‘What are you doing?’
‘What do you suppose I’m doing?’
He shoved her back against the wall, and with the careful, preoccupied125 movements of a drunken man, tried to undo126 the front of her dress. It was of a kind that did not undo, as it happened. This time she was angry. She struggled violently, fending127 his hand aside.
‘Gordon, stop that at once!’
‘Why?’
‘If you do it again I’ll smack128 your face.’
‘Smack my face! Don’t you come the Girl Guide with me.’
‘Let me go, will you!’
‘Think of last Sunday,’ he said lewdly129.
‘Gordon, if you go on I’ll hit you, honestly I will.’
‘Not you.’
He thrust his hand right into the front of her dress. The movement was curiously130 brutal131, as though she had been a stranger to him. She grasped that from the expression of his face. She was not Rosemary to him any longer, she was just a girl, a girl’s body. That was the thing that upset her. She struggled and managed to free herself from him. He came after her again and clutched her arm. She smacked132 his face as hard as she could and dodged133 neatly134 out of his reach.
‘What did you do that for?’ he said, feeling his cheek but not hurt by the blow.
‘I’m not going to stand that sort of thing. I’m going home. You’ll be different tomorrow.’
‘Rot! You come along with me. You’re going to bed with me.’
‘Good night!’ she said, and fled up the dark side street.
For a moment he thought of following her, but found his legs too heavy. It did not seem worth while, anyway. He wandered back to where Ravelston was still waiting, looking moody and alone, partly because he was worried about Gordon and partly because he was trying not to notice two hopeful tarts who were on patrol just behind him. Gordon looked properly drunk, Ravelston thought. His hair was tumbling down over his forehead, one side of his face was very pale and on the other there was a red smudge where Rosemary had slapped him. Ravelston thought this must be the flush of drunkenness.
‘What have you done with Rosemary?’ he said.
‘She’s gone,’ said Gordon, with a wave of his hand which was meant to explain everything. ‘But the night’s still young.’
‘Look here, Gordon, it’s time you were in bed.’
‘In bed, yes. But not alone.’
He stood on the kerb gazing out into the hideous135 midnight-noon. For a moment he felt quite deathly. His face was burning. His whole body had a dreadful, swollen, fiery136 feeling. His head in particular seemed on the point of bursting. Somehow the baleful light was bound up with his sensations. He watched the skysigns flicking137 on and off, glaring red and blue, arrowing up and down — the awful, sinister138 glitter of a doomed civilization, like the still blazing lights of a sinking ship. He caught Ravelston’s arm and made a gesture that comprehended the whole of Piccadilly Circus.
‘The lights down in hell will look just like that.’
‘I shouldn’t wonder.’
Ravelston was looking out for a disengaged taxi. He must get Gordon home to bed without further delay. Gordon wondered whether he was in joy or in agony. That burning, bursting feeling was dreadful. The sober half of him was not dead yet. Sober half still knew with ice-cold clarity what he had done and what he was doing. He had committed follies139 for which tomorrow he would feel like killing140 himself. He had squandered five pounds in senseless extravagance, he had robbed Julia, he had insulted Rosemary. And tomorrow — oh, tomorrow, we’ll be sober! Go home, go home! cried sober half. —— to you! said drunken half contemptuously. Drunken half was still clamouring for a bit of fun. And drunken half was the stronger. A fiery clock somewhere opposite caught his eye. Twenty to eleven. Quick, before the pubs are shut! Haro! la gorge141 m’ard! Once again his thoughts moved lyrically. He felt a hard round shape under his arm, discovered that it was the Chianti bottle, and tweaked out the cork. Ravelston was waving to a taxi-driver without managing to catch his eye. He heard a shocked squeal142 from the tarts behind. Turning, he saw with horror that Gordon had up-ended the bottle and was drinking from it.
‘Hi! Gordon!’
He sprang towards him and forced his arm down. A gout of wine went down Gordon’s collar.
‘For God’s sake be careful! You don’t want the police to get hold of you, do you?’
‘I want a drink,’ complained Gordon.
‘But dash it! You can’t start drinking here.’
‘Take me to a pub,’ said Gordon.
Ravelston rubbed his nose helplessly. ‘Oh, God! I suppose that’s better than drinking on the pavement. Come on, we’ll go to a pub. You shall have your drink there.’
Gordon recorked his bottle carefully. Ravelston shepherded him across the circus, Gordon clinging to his arm, but not for support, for his legs were still quite steady. They halted on the island, then managed to find a gap in the traffic and went down the Haymarket.
In the pub the air seemed wet with beer. It was all a mist of beer shot through with the sickly tang of whisky. Along the bar a press of men seethed143, downing with Faustlike eagerness their last drinks before eleven should sound its knell144. Gordon slid easily through the crowd. He was not in a mood to worry about a few jostlings and elbowings. In a moment he had fetched up at the bar between a stout commercial traveller drinking Guinness and a tall, lean, decayed major type of man with droopy moustaches, whose entire conversation seemed to consist of ‘What ho!’ and ‘What, what!’ Gordon threw half a crown on to the beer-wet bar.
‘A quart of bitter, please!’
‘No quart pots here!’ cried the harassed145 barmaid, measuring pegs146 of whisky with one eye on the clock.
‘Quart pots on the top shelf, Effie!’ shouted the landlord over his shoulder, from the other side of the bar.
The barmaid hauled the beer-handle three times hurriedly. The monstrous glass pot was set before him. He lifted it. What a weight! A pint of pure water weighs a pound and a quarter. Down with it! Swish — gurgle! A long, long sup of beer flowed gratefully down his gullet. He paused for breath, and felt a little sickish. Come on, now for another. Swish — gurgle! It almost choked him this time. But stick it out, stick it out! Through the cascade72 of beer that poured down his throat and seemed to drown his ears he heard the landlord’s shout: ‘Last orders, gentlemen, please!’ For a moment he removed his face from the pot, gasped147, and got his breath back. Now for the last. Swish — gurgle! A-a-ah! Gordon set down the pot. Emptied in three gulps148 — not bad. He clattered149 it on the bar.
‘Hi! Give me the other half of that — quick!’
‘What ho!’ said the major.
‘Coming it a bit, aren’t you?’ said the commercial traveller.
Ravelston, farther down the bar and hemmed150 in by several men, saw what Gordon was doing. He called to him, ‘Hi, Gordon!’, frowned and shook his head, too shy to say in front of everybody, ‘Don’t drink any more.’ Gordon settled himself on his legs. He was still steady, but consciously steady. His head seemed to have swollen to an immense size, his whole body had the same horrible, swollen, fiery feeling as before. Languidly he lifted the refilled beerpot. He did not want it now. Its smell nauseated151 him. It was just a hateful, pale yellow, sickly-tasting liquid. Like urine, almost! That bucketful of stuff to be forced down into his bursting guts152 — horrible! But come on, no flinching153! What else are we here for? Down with it! Here she is so near my nose. So tip her up and down she goes. Swish — gurgle!
In the same moment something dreadful happened. His gullet had shut up of its own accord, or the beer had missed his mouth. It was pouring all over him, a tidal wave of beer. He was drowning in beer like lay-brother Peter in the Ingoldsby Legends. Help! He tried to shout, choked, and let fall the beer-pot. There was a flurry all round him. People were leaping aside to avoid the jet of beer. Crash! went the pot. Gordon stood rocking. Men, bottles, mirrors were going round and round. He was falling, losing consciousness. But dimly visible before him was a black upright shape, sole point of stability in a reeling world — the beer-handle. He clutched it, swung, held tight. Ravelston started towards him.
The barmaid leaned indignantly over the bar. The roundabout world slowed down and stopped. Gordon’s brain was quite clear.
‘Here! What are you hanging on to the beer-handle for?’
‘All over my bloody trousers!’ cried the commercial traveller.
‘What am I hanging on to the beer-handle for?’
‘YES! What are you hanging on to the beer-handle for?’
Gordon swung himself sideways. The elongated154 face of the major peered down at him, with wet moustaches drooping155.
‘She says, “What am I hanging on to the beer-handle for?”’
‘What ho! What?’
Ravelston had forced his way between several men and reached him. He put a strong arm round Gordon’s waist and hoisted156 him to his feet.
‘Stand up, for God’s sake! You’re drunk.’
‘Drunk?’ said Gordon.
Everyone was laughing at them. Ravelston’s pale face flushed.
‘Two and three those mugs cost,’ said the barmaid bitterly.
‘And what about my bloody trousers?’ said the commercial traveller.
‘I’ll pay for the mug,’ said Ravelston. He did so. ‘Now come on out of it. You’re drunk.’
He began to shepherd Gordon towards the door, one arm round his shoulder, the other holding the Chianti bottle, which he had taken from him earlier. Gordon freed himself. He could walk with perfect steadiness. He said in a dignified157 manner:
‘Drunk did you say I was?’
Ravelston took his arm again. ‘Yes, I’m afraid you are. Decidedly.’
‘Swan swam across the sea, well swam swan,’ said Gordon.
‘Gordon, you ARE drunk. The sooner you’re in bed the better.’
‘First cast out the beam that is in thine own eye before thou castest out the mote158 that is in thy brother’s,’ said Gordon.
Ravelston had got him out on to the pavement by this time. ‘We’d better get hold of a taxi,’ he said, looking up and down the street.
There seemed to be no taxis about, however. The people were streaming noisily out of the pub, which was on the point of closing. Gordon felt better in the open air. His brain had never been clearer. The red satanic gleam of a Neon light, somewhere in the distance, put a new and brilliant idea into his head. He plucked at Ravelston’s arm.
‘Ravelston! I say, Ravelston!’
‘What?’
‘Let’s pick up a couple of tarts.’
In spite of Gordon’s drunken state, Ravelston was scandalized. ‘My dear old chap! You can’t do that kind of thing.’
‘Don’t be so damned upper-class. Why not?’
‘But how could you, dash it! After you’ve just said good night to Rosemary — a really charming girl like that!’
‘At night all cats are grey,’ said Gordon, with the feeling that he voiced a profound and cynical159 wisdom.
Ravelston decided to ignore this remark. ‘We’d better walk up to Piccadilly Circus,’ he said. ‘There’ll be plenty of taxis there.’
The theatres were emptying. Crowds of people and streams of cars flowed to and fro in the frightful corpse-light. Gordon’s brain was marvellously clear. He knew what folly and evil he had committed and was about to commit. And yet after all it hardly seemed to matter. He saw as something far, far away, like something seen through the wrong end of the telescope, his thirty years, his wasted life, the blank future, Julia’s five pounds, Rosemary. He said with a sort of philosophic interest:
‘Look at the Neon lights! Look at those awful blue ones over the rubber shop. When I see those lights I know that I’m a damned soul.’
‘Quite,’ said Ravelston, who was not listening. ‘Ah, there’s a taxi!’ He signalled. ‘Damn! He didn’t see me. Wait here a second.’
He left Gordon by the Tube station and hurried across the street. For a little while Gordon’s mind receded160 into blankness. Then he was aware of two hard yet youthful faces, like the faces of young predatory animals, that had come close up to his own. They had blackened eye-brows and hats that were like vulgarer versions of Rosemary’s. He was exchanging badinage161 with them. This seemed to him to have been going on for several minutes.
‘Hullo, Dora! Hullo, Barbara! (He knew their names, it seemed.) And how are you? And how’s old England’s winding-sheet?’
‘Oo — haven’t you got a cheek, just!’
‘And what are you up to at this time of night?’
‘Oo — jes’ strolling around.’
‘Like a lion, seeking whom he may devour162?’
‘Oo — you haven’t half got a cheek! Hasn’t he got a cheek, Barbara? You HAVE got a cheek!’
Ravelston had caught the taxi and brought it round to where Gordon was standing163. He stepped out, saw Gordon between the two girls, and stood aghast.
‘Gordon! Oh, my God! What the devil have you been doing?’
‘Let me introduce you. Dora and Barbara,’ said Gordon.
For a moment Ravelston looked almost angry. As a matter of fact, Ravelston was incapable164 of being properly angry. Upset, pained, embarrassed — yes; but not angry. He stepped forward with a miserable effort not to notice the two girls’ existence. Once he noticed them the game was up. He took Gordon by the arm and would have bundled him into the taxi.
‘Come on, Gordon, for God’s sake! Here’s the taxi. We’ll go straight home and put you to bed.’
Dora caught Gordon’s other arm and hauled him out of reach as though he had been a stolen handbag.
‘What bloody business is it of yours?’ she cried ferociously165.
‘You don’t want to insult these two ladies, I hope?’ said Gordon.
Ravelston faltered166, stepped back, rubbed his nose. It was a moment to be firm; but Ravelston had never in his life been firm. He looked from Dora to Gordon, from Gordon to Barbara. That was fatal. Once he had looked them in the face he was lost. Oh, God! What could he do? They were human beings — he couldn’t insult them. The same instinct that sent his hand into his pocket at the very sight of a beggar made him helpless at this moment. The poor, wretched girls! He hadn’t the heart to send them packing into the night. Suddenly he realized that he would have to go through with this abominable167 adventure into which Gordon had led him. For the first time in his life he was let in for going home with a tart119.
‘But dash it all!’ he said feebly.
‘Allons-y,’ said Gordon.
The taximan had taken his direction at a nod from Dora. Gordon slumped168 into the corner seat and seemed immediately to sink into some immense abyss from which he rose again more gradually and with only partial consciousness of what he had been doing. He was gliding smoothly through darkness starred with lights. Or were the lights moving and he stationary169? It was like being on the ocean bottom, among the luminous170, gliding fishes. The fancy returned to him that he was a damned soul in hell. The landscape in hell would be just like this. Ravines of cold evil-coloured fire, with darkness all above. But in hell there would be torment171. Was this torment? He strove to classify his sensations. The momentary172 lapse173 into unconsciousness had left him weak, sick, shaken; his forehead seemed to be splitting. He put out a hand. It encountered a knee, a garter, and a small soft hand which sought mechanically for his. He became aware that Ravelston, sitting opposite, was tapping his toe urgently and nervously174.
‘Gordon! Gordon! Wake up!’
‘What?’
‘Gordon! Oh, damn! Causons en francais. Qu’est-ce que tu as fait? Crois-tu que je veux coucher avec une sale — oh, damnation!’
‘Oo-parley-voo francey!’ squealed175 the girls.
Gordon was mildly amused. Do Ravelston good, he thought. A parlour Socialist176 going home with a tart! The first genuinely proletarian action of his life. As though aware of this thought, Ravelston subsided into his corner in silent misery, sitting as far away from Barbara as possible. The taxi drew up at a hotel in a side-street; a dreadful, shoddy, low place it was. The ‘hotel’ sign over the door looked skew-eyed. The windows were almost dark, but the sound of singing, boozy and dreary177, trickled178 from within. Gordon staggered out of the taxi and felt for Dora’s arm. Give us a hand, Dora. Mind the step. What ho!
A smallish, darkish, smelly hallway, lino-carpeted, mean, uncared-for, and somehow impermanent. From a room somewhere on the left the singing swelled179, mournful as a church organ. A cross-eyed, evil-looking chambermaid appeared from nowhere. She and Dora seemed to know one another. What a mug! No competition there. From the room on the left a single voice took up the song with would-be facetious180 emphasis:
‘The man that kisses a pretty girl And goes and tells his mother, Ought to have his lips cut off, Ought to —’
It tailed away, full of the ineffable181, undisguisable sadness of debauchery. A very young voice it sounded. The voice of some poor boy who in his heart only wanted to be at home with his mother and sisters, playing hunt-the-slipper. There was a party of young fools in there, on the razzle with whisky and girls. The tune182 reminded Gordon. He turned to Ravelston as he came in, Barbara following.
‘Where’s my Chianti?’ he said.
Ravelston gave him the bottle. His face looked pale, harassed, hunted, almost. With guilty restless movements he kept himself apart from Barbara. He could not touch her or even look at her, and yet to escape was beyond him. His eyes sought Gordon’s. ‘For the love of God can’t we get out of it somehow?’ they signalled. Gordon frowned at him. Stick it out! No flinching! He took Dora’s arm again. Come on, Dora! Now for those stairs. Ah! Wait a moment.
Her arm round his waist, supporting him, Dora drew him aside. Down the darkish, smelly stairs a young woman came mincingly183, buttoning on a glove; after her a bald, middle-aged184 man in evening clothes, black overcoat, and white silk muffler, his opera hat in his hand. He walked past them with small mean mouth tightened185, pretending not to see them. A family man, by the guilty look in his eye. Gordon watched the gaslight gleam on the back of his bald head. His predecessor186. In the same bed, probably. The mantle187 of Elisha. Now then, Dora, up we go! Ah, these stairs! Difficilis ascensus Averni. That’s right, here we are! ‘Mind the step,’ said Dora. They were on the landing. Black and white lino like a chessboard. White-painted doors. A smell of slops and a fainter smell of stale linen188.
We this way, you that. At the other door Ravelston halted, his fingers on the handle. He could not — no, he COULD not do it. He could not enter that dreadful room. For the last time his eyes, like those of a dog about to be whipped, turned upon Gordon. ‘Must I, must I?’ his eyes said. Gordon eyed him sternly. Stick it out, Regulus! March to your doom97! Atqui sciebat quae sibi Barbara. It is a far, far more proletarian thing that you do. And then with startling suddenness Ravelston’s face cleared. An expression of relief, almost of joy, stole over it. A wonderful thought had occurred to him. After all, you could always pay the girl without actually doing anything! Thank God! He set his shoulders, plucked up courage, went in. The door shut.
So here we are. A mean, dreadful room. Lino on the floor, gas-fire, huge double bed with sheets vaguely dingy189. Over the bed a framed coloured picture from La Vie Parisienne. A mistake, that. Sometimes the originals don’t compare so well. And, by Jove! on the bamboo table by the window, positively190 an aspidistra! Hast thou found me, O mine enemy? But come here, Dora. Let’s have a look at you.
He seemed to be lying on the bed. He could not see very well. Her youthful, rapacious191 face, with blackened eyebrows192, leaned over him as he sprawled193 there.
‘How about my present?’ she demanded, half wheedling194, half menacing.
Never mind that now. To work! Come here. Not a bad mouth. Come here. Come closer. Ah!
No. No use. Impossible. The will but not the way. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. Try again. No. The booze, it must be. See Macbeth. One last try. No, no use. Not this evening, I’m afraid.
All right, Dora, don’t you worry. You’ll get your two quid all right. We aren’t paying by results.
He made a clumsy gesture. ‘Here, give us that bottle. That bottle off the dressing-table.’
Dora brought it. Ah, that’s better. That at least doesn’t fail. With hands that had swollen to monstrous size he up-ended the Chianti bottle. The wine flowed down his throat, bitter and choking, and some of it went up his nose. It overwhelmed him. He was slipping, sliding, falling off the bed. His head met the floor. His legs were still on the bed. For a while he lay in this position. Is this the way to live? Down below the youthful voices were still mournfully singing:
‘For tonight we’ll merry be, For tonight we’ll merry be, For tonight we’ll merry be-e-e — Tomorrow we’ll be so-ober!’
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收听单词发音
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1
par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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tricky
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| adj.狡猾的，奸诈的；(工作等)棘手的，微妙的 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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9
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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pawn
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| n.典当，抵押，小人物，走卒；v.典当，抵押 | |
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11
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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13
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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14
luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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15
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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16
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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sacrosanct
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| adj.神圣不可侵犯的 | |
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18
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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23
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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demurred
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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squander
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| v.浪费，挥霍 | |
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squandering
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的现在分词 ) | |
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30
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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32
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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bum
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| n.臀部；流浪汉，乞丐；vt.乞求，乞讨 | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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palled
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| v.（因过多或过久而）生厌，感到乏味，厌烦( pall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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41
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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42
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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metaphorically
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| adv. 用比喻地 | |
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44
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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45
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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46
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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47
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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48
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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49
gondola
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| n.威尼斯的平底轻舟；飞船的吊船 | |
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50
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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51
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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52
waxwork
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| n.蜡像 | |
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53
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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54
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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55
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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56
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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57
debonair
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| adj.殷勤的，快乐的 | |
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58
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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59
provocative
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| adj.挑衅的，煽动的，刺激的，挑逗的 | |
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60
vivaciously
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| adv.快活地；活泼地；愉快地 | |
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61
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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62
artistically
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| adv.艺术性地 | |
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63
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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64
talisman
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| n.避邪物，护身符 | |
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65
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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66
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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67
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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68
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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69
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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70
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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71
fin
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| n.鳍；(飞机的)安定翼 | |
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72
cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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73
cascades
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| 倾泻( cascade的名词复数 )； 小瀑布（尤指一连串瀑布中的一支）； 瀑布状物； 倾泻（或涌出）的东西 | |
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74
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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75
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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76
foamed
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| 泡沫的 | |
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77
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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78
anchovies
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| n. 鯷鱼，凤尾鱼 | |
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79
bloodiness
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| n.血染；血污；残忍；野蛮 | |
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80
coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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81
shovelled
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| v.铲子( shovel的过去式和过去分词 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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82
witticisms
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| n.妙语，俏皮话( witticism的名词复数 ) | |
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83
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
clogging
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| 堵塞，闭合 | |
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85
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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86
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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87
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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88
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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89
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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90
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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91
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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92
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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93
disapproving
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| adj.不满的，反对的v.不赞成( disapprove的现在分词 ) | |
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94
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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95
swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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96
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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97
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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98
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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99
squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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101
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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102
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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103
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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104
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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105
garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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106
stuffily
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107
jabber
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| v.快而不清楚地说；n.吱吱喳喳 | |
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108
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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109
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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110
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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111
oozy
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| adj.软泥的 | |
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112
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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113
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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114
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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115
imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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116
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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117
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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118
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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119
tart
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| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
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120
tarts
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| n.果馅饼( tart的名词复数 )；轻佻的女人；妓女；小妞 | |
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121
skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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122
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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123
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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124
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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125
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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126
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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127
fending
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| v.独立生活，照料自己( fend的现在分词 )；挡开，避开 | |
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128
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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129
lewdly
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130
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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131
brutal
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|
| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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132
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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134
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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135
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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136
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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137
flicking
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的现在分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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138
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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139
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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140
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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141
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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142
squeal
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| v.发出长而尖的声音；n.长而尖的声音 | |
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143
seethed
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| （液体）沸腾( seethe的过去式和过去分词 )； 激动，大怒； 强压怒火； 生闷气(~with sth|~ at sth) | |
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144
knell
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| n.丧钟声；v.敲丧钟 | |
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145
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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146
pegs
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| n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 )；挂钉；系帐篷的桩；弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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147
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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148
gulps
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| n.一大口（尤指液体）( gulp的名词复数 )v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的第三人称单数 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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149
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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150
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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151
nauseated
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| adj.作呕的，厌恶的v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
guts
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| v.狼吞虎咽，贪婪地吃，飞碟游戏（比赛双方每组5人，相距15码，互相掷接飞碟）；毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的第三人称单数 )；取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 )；内脏；消化道的下段；肠 | |
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153
flinching
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的现在分词 ) | |
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154
elongated
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| v.延长，加长( elongate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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155
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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156
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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157
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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158
mote
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| n.微粒；斑点 | |
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159
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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160
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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161
badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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162
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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163
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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164
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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165
ferociously
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| 野蛮地，残忍地 | |
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166
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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167
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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168
slumped
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| 大幅度下降，暴跌( slump的过去式和过去分词 )； 沉重或突然地落下[倒下] | |
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169
stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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170
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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171
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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172
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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173
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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174
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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175
squealed
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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176
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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177
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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178
trickled
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| 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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179
swelled
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| 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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180
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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181
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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182
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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183
mincingly
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184
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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185
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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186
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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187
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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188
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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189
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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190
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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191
rapacious
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| adj.贪婪的，强夺的 | |
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192
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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193
sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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194
wheedling
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的现在分词 ) | |
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