Charter had always been able to stop drinking when thoroughly2 disgusted with its effects, but his final abandonment, three years before the Skylark letters, had lasted long—up the Yangtse to the Gorges3, back to Shanghai, and around the Straits and Mediterranean4 to New York, where he had met Selma Cross; indeed, for many weeks after he had reached his own city in the Mid-West. He had now fallen into the condition in which work was practically impossible. In the early stages, he had known brief but lightning passages of expression, when his hands moved with magical speed upon his machine, and his thoughts even faster, breaking in upon achievement three or four times in a half-hour to snatch his stimulant5. Always in the midst of this sort of activity, he felt that his work was of the highest character. The swift running of his brain under the whip appeared record-breaking to the low vanity of a sot. It was with shame that he regarded his posted time-card, after such a race. Yet he had this to say of the whole work-drink matter: When at his brief best under stimulus6, a condition of mind precarious7 to reach and never to be counted upon, the product balanced well with the ordinary output, the stuff that came in quantities from honest, healthy faculties8. In a word, an occasional flashy peak standing9 forth10 from a streaky, rime-washed pile reckoned well with the easy levels of highway routine.
During his first days at home he would occupy entire forenoons in the endeavor to rouse himself to a pitch of work. Not infrequently upon awakening11, he swallowed a pint12 of whiskey in order to retain four or five ounces. Toward mid-afternoon, still without having eaten, he would draw up his chair before the type-mill to wait, and only a finished curse would evolve from the burned and stricken surfaces of his brain. If, indeed, passable copy did come at last, Charter invariably banished14 restraint, drinking as frequently as the impulse came. Clumsiness of the fingers therefore frequently intervened just as his sluggish15 mind unfolded; and in the interval16 of calling his stenographer17 out of the regular hours, the poor brain babes, still-born, were fit only for burial.
Often, again (for he could not live decently with himself without working), he would spend the day in fussy18 preparation for a long, productive evening. The room was at a proper temperature; the buffet19 admirably stocked; pipes, cigars, and cigarettes at hand; his stenographer in her usual mood of delightful20 negation—when an irresistible21 impulse would seize his mind with the necessity of witnessing a certain drama, absolutely essential to inspiration. Again, with real work actually begun, his mind would bolt into the domains22 of correspondence, or some little lyric23 started a distracting hum far back in his mind. The neglected thing of importance would be lifted from the machine, and the letters or the verses put under weigh. In the case of the latter, he would often start brilliantly with a true subconscious24 ebullition—and cast the thing aside, never to be finished, at the first hitch25 in the rhyme or obscurity in thought. Then he would find himself apologizing slavishly for Asiatic fever to the woman who helped him—whose unspoken pity he sensed, as hardened arteries26 feel the coming storm. Alone, he would give way to furious hatred27 for himself and his degradation28, and by the startling perversity29 of the drunken, hurry into a stupor30 to stifle31 remorse32. Prospecting33 thus in the abysses, Charter discovered the outcroppings of dastardly little vanities and kindred nastiness which normally he could not have believed to exist in his composite or in the least worthy34 of his friends. A third trick drink played upon him when he was nicely prepared for a night of work. The summons which he dared not disregard since it came now so irregularly—to dine—would sound imperiously in the midst of the first torture-wrung page, probably for the first time since the night before. In the actual illness, which followed partaking of the most delicate food, work was, of course, out of the question.
Finally, the horrors closed in upon his nights. The wreck35 that could not sleep was obsessed36 with passions, even perversions—how curiously38 untold39 are these abominations—until a place where the wreck lay seemed permeated40 with the foulest42 conceptions of the dark. What pirates board the unhelmed mind of the drunken to writhe43 and lust44 and despoil45 the alien decks—wingless, crawling abdomens47, which, even in the shades, are but the ganglia of appetite!... A brand of realism, this, whose only excuse is that it carries the red lamps of peril48.
At the end of months of swift and dreadful dissipation, Charter determined49 abruptly50 to stop his self-poisoning on the morning of his Thirtieth birthday. Coming to this decision within a week before the date, so confident was he of strength, that instead of making the end easy by graduating the doses in the intervening days, he dropped the bars of conduct altogether, and was put to bed unconscious late in the afternoon of the last. He awoke in the night, and slowly out of physical agony and mental horror came the realization51 that the hour of fighting-it-out-alone was upon him. He shuddered52 and tried to sleep, cursed himself for losing consciousness so early in the day without having prepared his mind for the ordeal53. Suddenly he leaped out of bed, turned on the lights, and found his watch. With a cry of joy, he discovered that it was seven minutes before twelve. In the next seven minutes, he prepared himself largely from a quart bottle, and lay down again as the midnight-bells relayed over the city. Ordinarily, sleep would have come to him after such an application in the midst of the night, but the thought assumed dimensions that the bells had struck. He thought of his nights on the big, yellow river in China, and of the nearer nights in New York. There was a vague haunt about the latter—as of something neglected. He thought of the clean boy he had been, and of the scarred mental cripple he must be from now on.... In all its circling, his mind invariably paused at one station—the diminished quart bottle on the buffet. He arose at last, hot with irritation54, poured the remaining liquor into the washbasin, and turned on the water to cleanse55 even the odor away. For a moment he felt easier, as if the Man stirred within him. Here he laughed at himself low and mockingly—for the Man was the whiskey he had drunk in the seven minutes before twelve.
Now the thought evolved to hasten the work of systemic cleansing56, begun with denial. At the same time, he planned that this would occupy his mind until daylight. He prepared a hot tub, drinking hot water at the same time—glass after glass until he was as sensitive within as only a fresh-washed sore can be. Internally, the difference between hot and cold water is just the difference between pouring the same upon a greasy57 plate. The charred58 flaccid passages in due time were flushed free from its sustaining alcohol; and every exterior59 pore cratered60 with hot water and livened to the quick with a rough towel. Long before he had finished, the trembling was upon him, and he sweated with fear before the reaction that he had so ruthlessly challenged in washing the spirit from his veins61.
Charter rubbed the steam from the bath-room window, shaded his eyes, and looked for the daylight which was not there. Stars still shone clear in the unwhitened distances. Why was he so eager for the dawn? It was the drunkard in him—always frightened and restless, even in sleep, while buffets62 are closed. This is so, even though a filled flask63 cools the fingers that grope under the pillow.... Any man who has ever walked the streets during the two great cycles of time between three and five in the morning, waiting for certain sinister64 doors to open, does not cease to shiver at the memory even in his finer years. It is not the discordant65 tyranny of nerves, nor the need of the body, pitiful and actual though it is, wherein the terror lies,—but living, walking with the consciousness that the devil is in power; that you are the debauched instrument of his lust, putting away the sweet fragrant66 dawn for a place of cuspidors, dormant67 flies, sticky woods, where bleared, saturated68 messes of human flesh sneak69 in, even as you, to lick their love and their life.... That you have waited for this moment for hours—oh, God!—while the fair new day comes winging over mountains and lakes, bringing, cleansed70 from inter-stellar spaces, the purity of lilies, new mysteries of love, the ruddy light of roses and heroic hopes for clean men—that you should hide from this adoring light in a dim place of brutes71, a place covered with the psychic72 stains of lust; that you should run from clean gutters73 to drink this hell-seepage.
He asked himself why he thirsted for light. If every door on his floor were a saloon, he would not have entered the nearest. And yet a summer dawn was due. Hours must have passed since midnight. He glanced into the medicine-case before turning off the lights in the bath-room. Alcohol was the base in many of the bottles; this thought incited75 fever in his brain.... He could hardly stand. A well-man would have been weakened by the processes of cleansing he had endured. The blackness, pressing against the outer window, became the form of his great trouble. "I wish the day would come," he said aloud. His voice frightened him. It was like a whimper from an insane ward13. He hastened to escape from the place, now hateful.
The chill of the hall, as he emerged, struck into his flesh, a polar blast. Like an animal he scurried76 to the bed and crawled under cover, shaking convulsively. His watch ticked upon the bed-post. Presently he was burning—as if hot cloths were quickly being renewed upon his flesh. Yet instantaneously upon lifting the cover, the chill would seize him again. Finally he squirmed his head about until he could see his watch. Two-fifteen, it said. Manifestly, this was a lie. He had not wound the thing the night before, though its ticking filled the room. He recalled that when he was drinking, frequently he wound his watch a dozen times a day, or quite as frequently forgot it entirely77. At all events, it was lying now. Thoughts of the whiskey he had poured out, of the drugs in the medicine-case, controlled. He needed a drink, and nothing but alcohol would do. This is the terrible thing. Without endangering one's heart, it is impossible to take enough morphine to deaden a whiskey reaction. A little only horrifies78 one's dreams. There is no bromide. He cried out for the poison he had washed away from his veins. This would have been a crutch79 for hours. In the normal course of bodily waste, he would not have been brought to this state of need in twenty-four hours. He felt the rapping of old familiar devils against his brain. He needed a drink.
The lights were turned on full in his room. The watch hanging above his head ticked incessant80 lies regarding the energy of passing time. He could lose himself in black gorges of agony, grope his way back to find that the minute hand had scarcely stirred.... He lay perfectly81 rigid82 until a wave, half of drowsiness83, half of weakness, slowed-down the vibrations84 of his mind.... Somewhere in the underworld, he found a consciousness—a dank smell, the dimness of a cave; the wash of fins85 gliding86 in lazy curves across the black, sluggish water; an eye, green, steadfast87, ashine like phosphor which is concentrated decay,—the eye of rapacity88 gorged89. His nostrils90 filled with the foreign odor of menageries and aquariums91. A brief hiatus now, in which objects altered. A great weight pressed against his chest, not to hurt, but to fill his consciousness with the thought of its cold crushing strength; the weight of a tree-trunk, the chill of stone, the soft texture92 of slimy flesh.... Full against him upon the rock, in his half-submerged cavern93, lay the terror of all his obsessions—the crocodile. Savage95 incarnations were shaken out of his soul as he regarded this beast, a terror so great that his throat shut, his spine96 stiffened97. Still as a dead tree, the creature pressed against him, bulging98 stomach, the narrow, yellow-brown head, moveless, raised from the rock. This was the armed abdomen46 he feared most—cruelty, patience, repletion—and the dirty-white of nether99 parts!... He heard the scream within him—before it broke from his throat.
Out of one of these, Charter emerged with a cry, wet with sweat as the cavern-floor from which he came—to find that the minute-hand of his watch had not traversed the distance between two Roman numerals. He seized the time-piece and flung it across the room, lived an age of regret before it struck the walnut100 edge of his dresser and crashed to the floor.... The sounds of running-down fitted to words in his brain.
"Tick—tick!... tick-tick-tick." A spring rattled101 a disordered plaint; then after a silence: "I served you—did my work well—very well—very well!..." Charter writhed102, wordlessly imploring103 it to be still. It was not the value, but the sentient104 complaining of a thing abused. Faithful, and he had crushed it. He felt at last in the silence that his heart would stop if it ticked again; and as he waited, staring at it, his mind rushed off to a morning of boyhood and terrible cruelty.... He had been hunting at the edge of a half-cleared bit of timber. A fat gray squirrel raced across the dead leaves, fully105 sixty yards away—its mate following blithely106. The leader gained the home-tree as Charter shot, crippling the second—the male. It was a long shot and a very good one, but the boy forgot that. The squirrel tried to climb the tree, but could not. It crawled about, uncoupled, among the roots, and answered the muffled107 chattering108 from the hole above—this, as the boy came up, his breast filling with the deadliest shame he had ever known. The squirrel told him all, and answered his mate besides. It was not a chatter109 for mercy. The little male was cross about it—bewildered, too, for its life-business was so important. The tortured boy dropped the butt110 of his gun upon the creature's head.... Now the tone changed—the flattened111 head would not die.... He had fled crying from the thing, which haunted him almost to madness. He begged now, as the old thoughts of that hour began to run about in the deep-worn groove112 of his mind....
Andas he had treated the squirrel, the watch—so he was treating his own life....
Again he was called to consciousness by some one uttering his name. He answered. The apartment echoed with the flat, unnatural113 cry of his voice; silence mocking him.... Then, in delusion114, he would find himself hurrying across the yard, attracted by some psychic terror of warning. Finally, as he opened the stable-door, sounds of a panting struggle reached him from the box-stall where he kept his loved saddle-mare115. Light showed him that she had broken through the flooring, and, frenziedly struggling to get her legs clear from the wreck, had torn the skin and flesh behind, from hoof116 to hock. He saw the yellow tendons and the gleaming white bone. She was half-up, half-down, the smoky look of torture and accusation117 in her brown eyes....
Finally came back his inexorable memories—one after another, his nights of degraded passion; the memory of brothels, where drunkenness had carried him; songs, words, laughter he had heard; pictures on the walls; combs, cards, cigarettes of the dressing118-tables, low ceilings and noisome119 lamps; that individual something about each woman, and her especial perversion37; peregrinations among the lusts120 of half the world's ports, where a man never gets so low that he cannot fall into a woman's arms. How they had clung to him and begged him to come back! His nostrils filled again with sickening perfumes that never could overpower the burnt odor of harlot's hair. Down upon him these horrors poured, until he was driven to the floor from the very foulness121 of the place wherein he lay, but a chill struck his heart and forced him back into the nest of sensual dreams....
Constantly he felt that dry direct need for cigarette inhalation—that nervous craving122 which makes a man curse viciously at the break of a match or its missing fire—but his heart responded instantly to the mild poisoning, a direct and awful pounding like the effect of cocaine123 upon the strong, and his sickness was intensified124. So he would put the cigarette down, lest the aorta125 burst within him—only to light the pest again a moment later.
He could feel his liver, a hot turgid weight; even, mark its huge boundary upon the surface of his body. Back of his teeth, began the burning insatiable passage, collapsing126 for alcohol in every inch of its coiled length; its tissues forming an articulate appeal in his brain: "You have filled us with burning for weeks and months, until we have come to rely upon the false fire. Take this away suddenly now and we must die. We cannot keep you warm, even alive, without more of the fuel which destroyed us. We do not want much—just enough to help us until we rebuild our own energy." And his brain reiterated127 a warning of its own. "I, too, am charred and helpless. The devils run in and out and over. I have no resistance. I shall open entirely to them—unless you strengthen me with fire. You are doing a very wicked and dangerous thing in stopping short like this. Deserted128 of me, you are destitute129, indeed."
Charter felt his unshaven mouth. It was soft and fallen like an imbecile's. A man in hell does not curse himself. He saw himself giving. He felt that he was giving up life and its every hope, but the fear of madness, or driveling idiocy130, was worse than this. He would drink for nerve to kill himself decently. The abject131 powerlessness of his will was the startling revelation. He had played with his will many times, used it to drink when its automatic action was to refrain. Always he had felt it to be unbreakable, until now. He was a yellow, cowering132 elemental, more hideous133 and pitiable than prohibition-orator ever depicted134 in his most dreadful scare-climax. There is no will when Nature turns loose her dogs of fear upon a sick and shattered spirit—no more will than in the crisis of pneumonia135 or typhoid.
He wrapped the bed-clothes about him and staggered to the medicine-case. There was no pure alcohol; no wood-alcohol luckily. However, a quart bottle of liver-tonic—turkey rhubarb, gum guaiac, and aloes, steeped in Holland gin. A teaspoonful136 before meals is the dose—for the spring of the year. An old family remedy, this,—one of the bitterest and most potent137 concoctions138 ever shaken in a bottle, a gold-brown devil that gagged full-length. The inconceivable organic need for alcohol worked strangely, since Charter's stomach retained a half-tumbler of this horrible dosage. Possibly, it could not have held straight whiskey at once. Internally cleansed, he, of course, responded immediately to the warmth. Plans for whiskey instantly awoke in his brain. He touched the button which connected with his man in the stable; then waited by a rear window until the other appeared.
"Bob," he called down shakily, "have you got any whiskey?"
"The half of a half-pint, sir."
"Bring it up quickly. Here—watch close—I'm tossing down my latch-key."
The key left his hand badly. He could have embraced Bob for finding it in the dark as he did. Charter then sat down—still with the bed-clothes wrapped about him—to wait for the other's step. He felt close to death in the silence.... Bob poured and held the single drink to his lips. Charter sat still, swallowing for a moment. Part remained within him.
"Now, Bob," he said, "run across the street to Dr. Whipple, and tell him I need some whiskey. Tell him he needn't come over—unless he wants to. I'm ill, and I've got to get out of here. Hurry back."
He dared not return to bed now—fear of dreams. To draw on parts of his clothing was an heroic achievement, but he could not bend forward to put on stockings or shoes without overturning his stomach, the lining139 of which was sore as a festering wound. His nostrils, with their continual suggestions, now tortured him with a certain half-cooked odor of his own inner tissues. The consciousness of having lost his will—that he was thirty years old, and shortly to be drunk again—became the nucleus140 for every flying storm-cloud in his brain. He knew what it would be now. He would drink regularly, fatten141, redden, and betray every remnant of good left within him—more and more distended142 and brutalized—until his heart stopped or his liver hardened. And the great work? He tried to smile at this. Those who had looked for big things from his maturity143 had chosen a musty vessel144. He would write of the loves of the flesh, and of physical instincts—one of the common—with a spark of the old genius now and then to light up the havoc—that he might writhe! Yes, he would never get past that—the instantaneous flash of his real self to lift him where he belonged—so he would not forget to suffer—when he fell back.... "I'll break that little system," he muttered angrily, as to an enemy in the room, "I'll drink my nerve back and shoot my head off...." But bigger, infinitely145 more important, than any of these thoughts, was the straining of every sense for Bob's step in the hall—Bob with the whiskey from his never-failing friend, Dr. Whipple.... Yes, he had chosen whiskey to drive out the God-stuff from his soul. What a dull, cheap beast he was!
The day was breaking—a sweet summer morning. He wrapped the bed-clothes closer about him, and lifted the window higher. The nostrils that had brought him so much of squalor and horror now expanded to the new life of the day—vitality that stirred flowers and foliage146, grasses and skies to beauty; the blessed morning winds, lit with faint glory. The East was a great, gray butterfly's wing, shot with quivering lines of mauve and gold. It shamed the hulk huddled147 at the window. Bob's foot on the stairs was the price of his brutality148.
"Great mornin' for a ride. Beth is fit as a circus. I'd better get her ready, hadn't I, sir?"
"God, no!" Charter mumbled149. "Help me on with my boots, and pour out a drink. Bring fresh water.... Did Doctor——"
"Didn't question me, sir. Brought what you wanted, and said he'd drop over to see you to-day."
"Let me sit still for a minute or two. Don't joggle about the room, Bob."
Revulsion quieted, the nausea152 passed. Bob finished dressing him, and Charter moved abroad. He took the flask with him, lest it be some forgotten holiday and the bars closed. A man who has had such a night as his is slavish for days before the fear of being without. He was pitifully weak, but the stimulus had lifted his mind out of the hells of obsession94.
The morning wind had sweetened the streets. Lawns, hedges, vines, and all the greens seemed washed and preened153 to meet the sun. To one who has hived with demons154, there is something so simple and sanative about the restoring night—the rest of healing and health. He could have wept at the virtue155 of simple goodness—so easy, so vainly sought amid the complications of vanity and desire. Well and clearly he saw now that mild good, undemonstrative, unaggressive good—seventy years of bovine156 plodding157, sunning, grazing, drowsing—is a step toward the Top. What a travesty158 is genius when it is arraigned159 by an august morning; men who summon gods to their thinking, yet fail in the simple lessons that dogs and horses and cats have grasped! All the more foul41 and bestial160 are those whom gods have touched within; charged with treason of manhood by every good and perfect thing, when they cannot rise and meet the day with clean hearts. Charter would have given all his evolution for the simple decency161 of his man, Bob, or his mare, Beth.
The crowd of thoughts incensed162 him, so he hurried.... Dengler was sweeping163 out his bar. Screen-doors slammed open, and a volume of dust met the early caller as he was about to enter. Dengler didn't drink, and he was properly pleased with the morning. Lafe Schiel, who was scrubbing cuspidors for Dengler, drank. That's why he cleaned cuspidors. Dengler greeted his honored patron effusively164.
"Suppose you've been working all night, Mr. Charter. You look a little roughed and tired. You work while we sleep—eh? That's the way with you writer-fellows. I've got a niece that writes. I told you about her. She's ruined her eyes. She says she can get her best thoughts at night. You're all alike."
"Have a little touch, Lafe?" Charter asked, turning to the porter, who wiped his hands on his trousers and stepped forward gratefully.
Bottles were piled on the bar, still beer-stained from the night before. Dengler put forward clean, dripping glasses from below, and stroked the bottle with his palm, giving Lafe water, and inquiring of Charter what he would have "for a wash...." Dengler, so big-necked, healthy, and busy, talking about his breakfast and not corrupting165 his body with the stuff others paid for; Lafe Schiel in his last years—nothing but whiskey left—no thought, no compunction, no man, no soul, just a galvanic desire—these three in a tawdry little up-town bar at five in the morning—and he, Quentin Charter, with a splendid mare to ride, a mother to breakfast with, a world's work to do; he, Quentin Charter, in this diseased growth upon the world's gutter74, in this accumulation of cells which taints166 all society.
Charter drank and glanced at the morning paper. The sheet still damp from the press reminded him of the night's toil167 in the office down-town (a veritable strife168 of work, while he had grovelled)—copy-makers, copy-readers, compositors, form-makers, and pressmen—he knew many of them—all fine fellows, decently resting now, deservedly resting. And the healthy little boys, cutting their sleep short, to deliver from door to door, even to Dengler's, this worthy product for the helpful dollar! Ah, God, the world was so sweet and pure in its worthier169 activities! God only asked that—not genius, just slow-leisured decency would pass with a blessing170. God had eternity171 to build men, and genius which looked out upon a morning like this, from a warm tube of disease, was concentrated waste! Charter cleared his throat. Thoughts were pressing down upon him too swiftly again. He ordered another drink, and Dengler winked172 protestingly as he turned to call Lafe Schiel. The look said, "Don't buy him another, or I won't get my cuspidors cleaned."
So Charter felt that he was out of range and alignment173 everywhere, and the drink betrayed him, as it always does when in power. Not even in Lafe Scheil was the devil surer of his power this day. The whiskey did not brighten, but stimulated174 thought-terrors upon the subject of his own shattering.... Dengler found him interesting—this man so strangely honored by others; by certain others honored above politicians. He wondered now why the other so recklessly plied175 the whip.... The change that came was inevitable176.
"There now, old fellow," Dengler remonstrated177 familiarly, "I don't like to turn you down, but you can't—honest, you can't—stand much more."
This was at seven-thirty. Charter straightened up, laughed, and started to say, "This is the first——"
But he reflected that once before this same thing had happened somewhere: he had been deemed too drunk to drink—somewhere before.... He wabbled in the memory, and mumbled something wide to the point of what he had meant to say, and jerked out.... That buttoning of his coat about his throat (on a brilliant summer morning); that walking out swiftly with set jaw178 and unseeing eyes, was but one of many landmarks179 to Dengler—landmarks on the down-grade. He had seen them all in his twenty years; seen the whole neighborhood change; seen clean boys redden, fatten, and thrive for a time; watched the abyss widen between young married pairs, his own liquors running in the bottom; seen men leave their best with him and take home their beast.... Dengler, yes, had seen many things worth telling and remembering. They all owed him at the last.... In some ways, this man, Charter, was different. He tried to remember who it was who first brought Charter in, and who that party of swell180 chaps were who, finding Charter there one day, had made a sort of hero out of him and tarried for hours.... The beer-man, in his leather apron181, entered to spoil this musing182. He put up the old square-face bottle, and served for a "chaser" a tall shell of beer.... Even beer-men could not last. Dengler had seen many who for a year or two "chased" gin with beer at every call. There was Schultz, a year ago about this time. He'd been driving a wagon183 for a couple of years. Schultz had made too many stops before he reached Dengler's that day. A full half-barrel had crushed him to the pavement just outside the door.
"Put two halves in the basement, and leave me a dozen cases of pints," Dengler ordered.
Charter was met at the door by his mother. She had expected to find him suffering from nerves, but clean. He had always kept his word, and she had waited for this day. She did not need to look at him twice, but put on her bonnet184 and left the house. She returned within an hour with three of Charter's men friends. Bob, whom she had left to take care of her son, reported that he had a terrible time. Charter, unable to find his six-shooter, had overturned the house and talked of conspiracy185 and robbery. He had fallen asleep within the last few minutes. Strange that the mother had thought to hide the six-shooter....
The men lifted him to a closed carriage. Charter was driven to a sanatorium. One of the friends undertook to stay with him for a day or two. Charter did not rightly realize where he was until evening. He appeared to take the news very quietly. Whiskey was allowed him when it was needed. Other patients in various states of convalescence186 offered assistance in many ways. That night, when the friend finally fell asleep in the chair at the bedside, Charter arose softly, went into a hall, where a light was burning, and plunged187 down into the dark—twenty-two brass-covered steps. His head broke the panel of the front door at the foot. His idea was the same which had made him hunt for his six-shooter the morning before. Besides the door, he broke his nose, his arm, and covered himself with bruises188, but fell short, years yet unnumbered, from his intent. Under the care of experts after that, he was watched constantly, and given stimulus at gradually lengthening189 intervals—until he refused it himself on the seventh day. Three weeks later, still, he left the place, a man again, with one hundred and twenty needle punctures190 in the flesh of his unbroken arm.
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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gorges
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| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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14
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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16
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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17
stenographer
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| n.速记员 | |
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18
fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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19
buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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20
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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21
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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22
domains
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| n.范围( domain的名词复数 )；领域；版图；地产 | |
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23
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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24
subconscious
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| n./adj.潜意识(的)，下意识(的) | |
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25
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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26
arteries
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| n.动脉( artery的名词复数 )；干线，要道 | |
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27
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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28
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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29
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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30
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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31
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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32
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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33
prospecting
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| n.探矿 | |
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34
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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35
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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36
obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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37
perversion
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| n.曲解；堕落；反常 | |
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38
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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39
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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40
permeated
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| 弥漫( permeate的过去式和过去分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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41
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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42
foulest
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| adj.恶劣的( foul的最高级 )；邪恶的；难闻的；下流的 | |
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43
writhe
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|
| vt.挣扎，痛苦地扭曲；vi.扭曲，翻腾，受苦；n.翻腾，苦恼 | |
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44
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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45
despoil
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| v.夺取，抢夺 | |
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46
abdomen
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| n.腹，下腹(胸部到腿部的部分) | |
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47
abdomens
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| n.腹（部）( abdomen的名词复数 ) | |
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48
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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49
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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50
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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51
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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52
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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53
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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54
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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55
cleanse
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| vt.使清洁，使纯洁，清洗 | |
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56
cleansing
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| n. 净化(垃圾) adj. 清洁用的 动词cleanse的现在分词 | |
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57
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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58
charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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59
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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60
cratered
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| adj.有坑洞的，多坑的v.火山口( crater的过去分词 )；弹坑等 | |
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61
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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62
buffets
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| （火车站的）饮食柜台( buffet的名词复数 )； （火车的）餐车； 自助餐 | |
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63
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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64
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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65
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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66
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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67
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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68
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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69
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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70
cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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72
psychic
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| n.对超自然力敏感的人；adj.有超自然力的 | |
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73
gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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74
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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75
incited
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| 刺激，激励，煽动( incite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
scurried
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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78
horrifies
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| v.使震惊，使感到恐怖( horrify的第三人称单数 ) | |
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79
crutch
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| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
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80
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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81
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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82
rigid
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|
| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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83
drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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84
vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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85
fins
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| [医]散热片；鱼鳍；飞边；鸭掌 | |
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86
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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87
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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88
rapacity
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| n.贪婪，贪心，劫掠的欲望 | |
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89
gorged
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的过去式和过去分词 )；作呕 | |
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90
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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91
aquariums
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| n.养鱼缸，水族馆( aquarium的名词复数 ) | |
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92
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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93
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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94
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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95
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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96
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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97
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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98
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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99
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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100
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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101
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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102
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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104
sentient
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| adj.有知觉的，知悉的；adv.有感觉能力地 | |
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105
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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106
blithely
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| adv.欢乐地，快活地，无挂虑地 | |
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107
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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108
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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109
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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110
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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111
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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112
groove
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| n.沟，槽；凹线，（刻出的）线条，习惯 | |
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113
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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114
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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115
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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116
hoof
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| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
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117
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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118
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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119
noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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120
lusts
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| 贪求（lust的第三人称单数形式） | |
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121
foulness
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| n. 纠缠, 卑鄙 | |
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122
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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123
cocaine
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| n.可卡因，古柯碱（用作局部麻醉剂） | |
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124
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
aorta
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| n.主动脉 | |
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126
collapsing
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| 压扁[平]，毁坏，断裂 | |
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127
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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129
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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130
idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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131
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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132
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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133
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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134
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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135
pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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136
teaspoonful
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| n.一茶匙的量；一茶匙容量 | |
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137
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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138
concoctions
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| n.编造，捏造，混合物( concoction的名词复数 ) | |
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139
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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140
nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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141
fatten
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| v.使肥，变肥 | |
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142
distended
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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143
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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144
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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145
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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146
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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147
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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148
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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149
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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151
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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152
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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153
preened
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| v.（鸟）用嘴整理（羽毛）( preen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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155
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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156
bovine
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| adj.牛的；n.牛 | |
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157
plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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158
travesty
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| n.歪曲，嘲弄，滑稽化 | |
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159
arraigned
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| v.告发( arraign的过去式和过去分词 )；控告；传讯；指责 | |
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160
bestial
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| adj.残忍的；野蛮的 | |
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161
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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162
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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163
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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164
effusively
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| adv.变溢地，热情洋溢地 | |
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165
corrupting
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的现在分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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166
taints
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| n.变质( taint的名词复数 )；污染；玷污；丑陋或腐败的迹象v.使变质( taint的第三人称单数 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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167
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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168
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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169
worthier
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| 应得某事物( worthy的比较级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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170
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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171
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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172
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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173
alignment
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| n.队列；结盟，联合 | |
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174
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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175
plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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176
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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177
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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178
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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179
landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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180
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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181
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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182
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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183
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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184
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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185
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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186
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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187
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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188
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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189
lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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190
punctures
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| n.（尖物刺成的）小孔( puncture的名词复数 )；（尤指）轮胎穿孔；（尤指皮肤上被刺破的）扎孔；刺伤v.在（某物）上穿孔( puncture的第三人称单数 )；刺穿（某物）；削弱（某人的傲气、信心等）；泄某人的气 | |
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