She could not avoid a profound feeling of rancour toward her husband for having left heralone in the middle of the ocean. Everything of his made her cry: his pyjamas3 under the pillow, hisslippers that had always looked to her like an invalid's, the memory of his image in the back of themirror as he undressed while she combed her hair before bed, the odour of his skin, which was tolinger on hers for a long time after his death. She would stop in the middle of whatever she wasdoing and slap herself on the forehead because she suddenly remembered something she hadforgotten to tell him. At every moment countless4 ordinary questions would come to mind that healone could answer for her. Once he had told her something that she could not imagine: thatamputees suffer pains, cramps5, itches6, in the leg that is no longer there. That is how she feltwithout him, feeling his presence where he no longer was.
When she awoke on her first morning as a widow, she turned over in bed without opening hereyes, searching for a more comfortable position so that she could continue sleeping, and that wasthe moment when he died for her. For only then did it become clear that he had spent the nightaway from home for the first time in years. The other place where this struck her was at the table,not because she felt alone, which in fact she was, but because of her strange belief that she waseating with someone who no longer existed. It was not until her daughter Ofelia came from NewOrleans with her husband and the three girls that she sat at a table again to eat, but instead of theusual one, she ordered a smaller, improvised7 table set up in the corridor. Until then she did nottake a regular meal. She would walk through the kitchen at any hour, whenever she was hungry,and put her fork in the pots and eat a little of everything without placing anything on a plate,standing8 in front of the stove, talking to the serving women, who were the only ones with whomshe felt comfortable, the ones she got along with best. Still, no matter how hard she tried, shecould not elude9 the presence of her dead husband: wherever she went, wherever she turned, nomatter what she was doing, she would come across something of his that would remind her ofhim. For even though it seemed only decent and right to grieve for him, she also wanted to doeverything possible not to wallow in her grief. And so she made the drastic decision to empty thehouse of everything that would remind her of her dead husband, which was the only way shecould think of to go on living without him.
It was a ritual of eradication10. Her son agreed to take his library so that she could replace hisoffice with the sewing room she had never had when she was married. And her daughter wouldtake some furniture and countless objects that she thought were just right for the antique auctionsin New Orleans. All of this was a relief for Fermina Daza, although she was not at all amused tolearn that the things she had bought on her honeymoon11 were now relics12 for antiquarians. To thesilent stupefaction of the servants, the neighbours, the women friends who came to visit her duringthat time, she had a bonfire built in a vacant lot behind the house, and there she burned everythingthat reminded her of her husband: the most expensive and elegant clothes seen in the city since thelast century, the finest shoes, the hats that resembled him more than his portraits, the siesta13 rockingchair from which he had arisen for the last time to die, innumerable objects so tied to her life thatby now they formed part of her identity. She did it without the shadow of a doubt, in the fullcertainty that her husband would have approved, and not only for reasons of hygiene14. For he hadoften expressed his desire to be cremated15 and not shut away in the seamless dark of a cedar16 box.
His religion would not permit it, of course: he had dared to broach17 the subject with theArchbishop, just in case, and his answer had been a categorical no. It was pure illusion, becausethe Church did not permit the existence of crematoriums in our cemeteries18, not even for the use ofreligions other than Catholic, and the advantage of building them would not have occurred toanyone but Juvenal Urbino. Fermina Daza did not forget her husband's terror, and even in theconfusion of the first hours she remembered to order the carpenter to leave a chink where lightcould come into the coffin19 as a consolation20 to him.
In any event, the holocaust21 was in vain. In a very short while Fermina Daza realised that thememory of her dead husband was as resistant22 to the fire as it seemed to be to the passage of time.
Even worse: after the incineration of his clothing, she continued to miss not only the many thingsshe had loved in him but also what had most annoyed her: the noises he made on arising. Thatmemory helped her to escape the mangrove23 swamps of grief. Above all else, she made the firmdecision to go on with her life, remembering her husband as if he had not died. She knew thatwaking each morning would continue to be difficult, but it would become less and less so.
At the end of the third week, in fact, she began to see the first light. But as it grew larger andbrighter, she became aware that there was an evil phantom25 in her life who did not give her amoment's peace. He was not the pitiable phantom who had haunted her in the Park of the Evangelsand whom she had evoked26 with a certain tenderness after she had grown old, but the hatefulphantom with his executioner's frock coat and his hat held against his chest, whose thoughtlessimpertinence had disturbed her so much that she found it impossible not to think about him. Eversince her rejection27 of him at the age of eighteen, she had been convinced that she had left behind aseed of hatred28 in him that could only grow larger with time. She had always counted on thathatred, she had felt it in the air when the phantom was near, and the mere29 sight of him had upsetand frightened her so that she never found a natural way to behave with him. On the night when hereiterated his love for her, while the flowers for her dead husband were still perfuming the house,she could not believe that his insolence31 was not the first step in God knows what sinister32 plan forrevenge.
Her persistent33 memory of him increased her rage. When she awoke thinking about him on theday after the funeral, she succeeded in removing him from her thoughts by a simple act of will.
But the rage always returned, and she realised very soon that the desire to forget him was thestrongest inducement for remembering him. Then, overcome by nostalgia34, she dared to recall forthe first time the illusory days of that unreal love. She tried to remember just how the little parkwas then, and the shabby almond trees, and the bench where he had loved her, because none of itstill existed as it had been then. They had changed everything, they had removed the trees withtheir carpet of yellow leaves and replaced the statue of the decapitated hero with that of another,who wore his dress uniform but had no name or dates or reasons to justify35 him, and who stood onan ostentatious pedestal in which they had installed the electrical controls for the district. Herhouse, sold many years before, had fallen into total ruin at the hands of the ProvincialGovernment. It was not easy for her to imagine Florentino Ariza as he had been then, much less tobelieve that the taciturn boy, so vulnerable in the rain, was the moth-eaten old wreck36 who hadstood in front of her with no consideration for her situation, or the slightest respect for her grief,and had seared her soul with a flaming insult that still made it difficult for her to breathe.
Cousin Hildebranda S醤 chez had come to visit a short while after Fermina Daza returnedfrom the ranch37 in Flores de Mar韆, where she had gone to recuperate38 from the misfortune of MissLynch. Old, fat, and contented39, she had arrived in the company of her oldest son who, like hisfather, had been a colonel in the army but had been repudiated40 by him because of his contemptiblebehaviour during the massacre41 of the banana workers in San Juan de la Ci閚aga. The two cousinssaw each other often and spent endless hours feeling nostalgia for the time when they first met. Onher last visit, Hildebranda was more nostalgic than ever, and very affected42 by the burden of oldage. In order to add even greater poignancy43 to their memories, she had brought her copy of theportrait of them dressed as old-fashioned ladies, taken by the Belgian photographer on theafternoon that a young Juvenal Urbino had delivered the coup44 de grace to a willful Fermina Daza.
Her copy of the photograph had been lost, and Hildebranda's was almost invisible, but they couldboth recognise themselves through the mists of disenchantment: young and beautiful as theywould never be again.
For Hildebranda it was impossible not to speak of Florentino Ariza, because she alwaysidentified his fate with her own. She evoked him as she evoked the day she had sent her firsttelegram, and she could never erase45 from her heart the memory of the sad little bird condemned46 tooblivion. For her part, Fermina had often seen him without speaking to him, of course, and shecould not imagine that he had been her first love. She always heard news about him, as sooner orlater she heard news about anyone of any significance in the city. It was said that he had notmarried because of his unusual habits, but she paid no attention to this, in part because she neverpaid attention to rumours47, and in part because such things were said in any event about men whowere above suspicion. On the other hand, it seemed strange to her that Florentino Ariza wouldpersist in his mystic attire48 and his rare lotions49, and that he would continue to be so enigmatic aftermaking his way in life in so spectacular and honourable50 a manner. It was impossible for her tobelieve he was the same person, and she was always surprised when Hildebranda would sigh:
"Poor man, how he must have suffered!" For she had seen him without grief for a long time: ashadow that had been obliterated51.
Nevertheless, on the night she met him in the movie theatre just after her return from Floresde Mar韆, something strange occurred in her heart. She was not surprised that he was with awoman, and a black woman at that. What did surprise her was that he was so well preserved, thathe behaved with the greatest self-assurance, and it did not occur to her that perhaps it was she, nothe, who had changed after the troubling explosion of Miss Lynch in her private life. From then on,and for more than twenty years, she saw him with more compassionate53 eyes. On the night of thevigil for her husband, it not only seemed reasonable for him to be there, but she even understood itas the natural end of rancour: an act of forgiving and forgetting. That was why she was so takenaback by his dramatic reiteration55 of a love that for her had never existed, at an age whenFlorentino Ariza and she could expect nothing more from life.
The mortal rage of the first shock remained intact after the symbolic57 cremation58 of herhusband, and it grew and spread as she felt herself less capable of controlling it. Even worse: thespaces in her mind where she managed to appease60 her memories of the dead man were slowly butinexorably being taken over by the field of poppies where she had buried her memories ofFlorentino Ariza. And so she thought about him without wanting to, and the more she thoughtabout him the angrier she became, and the angrier she became the more she thought about him,until it was something so unbearable61 that her mind could no longer contain it. Then she sat downat her dead husband's desk and wrote Florentino Ariza a letter consisting of three irrational62 pagesso full of insults and base provocations63 that it brought her the consolation of consciouslycommitting the vilest64 act of her long life.
Those weeks had been agonising for Florentino Ariza as well. The night he reiterated30 his loveto Fermina Daza he had wandered aimlessly through streets that had been devastated65 by theafternoon flood, asking himself in terror what he was going to do with the skin of the tiger he hadjust killed after having resisted its attacks for more than half a century. The city was in a state ofemergency because of the violent rains. In some houses, half-naked men and women were tryingto salvage66 whatever God willed from the flood, and Florentino Ariza had the impression thateveryone's calamity67 had something to do with his own. But the wind was calm and the stars of theCaribbean were quiet in their places. In the sudden silence of other voices, Florentino Arizarecognised the voice of the man whom Leona Cassiani and he had heard singing many yearsbefore, at the same hour and on the same corner: I came back from the bridge bathed in tears. Asong that in some way, on that night, for him alone, had something to do with death.
He needed Tr醤 sito Ariza then as he never had before, he needed her wise words, her headof a mock queen adorned68 with paper flowers. He could not avoid it: whenever he found himself onthe edge of catastrophe69, he needed the help of a woman. So that he passed by the Normal School,seeking out those who were within reach, and he saw a light in the long row of windows in Am閞ica Vicu帽 a's dormitory. He had to make a great effort not to fall into the grandfather's madnessof carrying her off at two o'clock in the morning, warm with sleep in her swaddling clothes andstill smelling of the cradle's tantrums.
At the other end of the city was Leona Cassiani, alone and free and doubtless ready toprovide him with the compassion52 he needed at two o'clock in the morning, at three o'clock, at anyhour and under any circumstances. It would not be the first time he had knocked at her door in thewasteland of his sleepless70 nights, but he knew that she was too intelligent, and that they lovedeach other too much, for him to come crying to her lap and not tell her the reason. After a gooddeal of thought as he sleepwalked through the deserted71 city, it occurred to him that he could do nobetter than Prudencia Pitre, the Widow of Two, who was younger than he. They had first met inthe last century, and if they stopped meeting it was because she refused to allow anyone to see heras she was, half blind and verging72 on decrepitude73. As soon as he thought of her, Florentino Arizareturned to the Street of the Windows, put two bottles of port and a jar of pickles74 in a shoppingbag, and went to visit her, not even knowing if she was still in her old house, if she was alone, or ifshe was alive.
Prudencia Pitre had not forgotten his scratching signal at the door, the one he had used toidentify himself when they thought they were still young although they no longer were, and sheopened the door without any questions. The street was dark, he was barely visible in his black suit,his stiff hat, and his bat's umbrella hanging over his arm, and her eyes were too weak to see himexcept in full light, but she recognised him by the gleam of the streetlamp on the metal frame ofhis eyeglasses. He looked like a murderer with blood still on his hands.
"Sanctuary75 for a poor orphan," he said.
It was the only thing he could think of to say, just to say something. He was surprised at howmuch she had aged59 since the last time he saw her, and he was aware that she saw him the sameway. But he consoled himself by thinking that in a moment, when they had both recovered fromthe initial shock, they would notice fewer and fewer of the blows that life had dealt the other, andthey would again seem as young as they had been when they first met.
"You look as if you are going to a funeral," she said.
It was true. She, along with almost the entire city, had been at the window since eleveno'clock, watching the largest and most sumptuous76 funeral procession that had been seen here sincethe death of Archbishop De Luna. She had been awakened77 from her siesta by the thunderingartillery that made the earth tremble, by the dissonances of the marching bands, the confusion offuneral hymns78 over the clamouring bells in all the churches, which had been ringing without pausesince the previous day. From her balcony she had seen the cavalry79 in dress uniform, the religiouscommunities, the schools, the long black limousines80 of an invisible officialdom, the carriagedrawn by horses in feathered headdresses and gold trappings, the flag-draped yellow coffin on thegun carriage of a historic cannon81, and at the very end a line of old open Victorias that keptthemselves alive in order to carry funeral wreaths. As soon as they had passed by Prudencia Pitre'sbalcony, a little after midday, the deluge82 came and the funeral procession dispersed83 in a wildstampede.
"What an absurd way to die," she said.
"Death has no sense of the ridiculous," he said, and added in sorrow: "above all at our age."They were seated on the terrace, facing the open sea, looking at the ringed moon that took uphalf the sky, looking at the coloured lights of the boats along the horizon, enjoying the mild,perfumed breeze after the storm. They drank port and ate pickles on slices of country bread thatPrudencia Pitre cut from a loaf in the kitchen. They had spent many nights like this after she hadbeen left a widow without children. Florentino Ariza had met her at a time when she would havereceived any man who wanted to be with her, even if he were hired by the hour, and they hadestablished a relationship that was more serious and longer-lived than would have seemedpossible.
Although she never even hinted at it, she would have sold her soul to the devil to marry him.
She knew that it would not be easy to submit to his miserliness, or the foolishness of his prematureappearance of age, or his maniacal84 sense of order, or his eagerness to ask for everything and givenothing at all in return, but despite all this, no man was better company because no other man inthe world was so in need of love. But no other man was as elusive85 either, so that their love neverwent beyond the point it always reached for him: the point where it would not interfere86 with hisdetermination to remain free for Fermina Daza. Nevertheless, it lasted many years, even after hehad arranged for Prudencia Pitre to marry a salesman who was home for three months andtravelled for the next three and with whom she had a daughter and four sons, one of whom, sheswore, was Florentino Ariza's.
They talked, not concerned about the hour, because both were accustomed to sharing thesleepless nights of their youth, and they had much less to lose in the sleeplessness87 of old age.
Although he almost never had more than two glasses of wine, Florentino Ariza still had not caughthis breath after the third. He was dripping with perspiration88, and the Widow of Two told him totake off his jacket, his vest, his trousers, to take off everything if he liked, what the hell: after all,they knew each other better naked than dressed. He said he would if she did the same, but sherefused: some time ago she had looked at herself in the wardrobe mirror and suddenly realised thatshe would no longer have the courage to allow anyone--not him, not anyone--to see her undressed.
Florentino Ariza, in a state of agitation89 that he could not calm with four glasses of port, talkedat length about the same subject: the past, the good memories from the past, for he was desperateto find the hidden road in the past that would bring him relief. For that was what he needed: to lethis soul escape through his mouth. When he saw the first light of dawn on the horizon, heattempted an indirect approach. He asked, in a way that seemed casual: "What would you do ifsomeone proposed marriage to you, just as you are, a widow of your age?" She laughed with awrinkled old woman's laugh, and asked in turn: "Are you speaking of the Widow Urbino?"Florentino Ariza always forgot when he should not have that women, and Prudencia Pitremore than any other, always think about the hidden meanings of questions more than about thequestions themselves. Filled with sudden terror because of her chilling marksmanship, he slippedthrough the back door: "I am speaking of you." She laughed again: "Go make fun of your bitch ofa mother, may she rest in peace." Then she urged him to say what he meant to say, because sheknew that he, or any other man, would not have awakened her at three o'clock in the morning afterso many years of not seeing her just to drink port and eat country bread with pickles. She said:
"You do that only "when you are looking for someone to cry with." Florentino Ariza withdrew indefeat.
"For once you are wrong," he said. "My reasons tonight have more to do with singing.""Let's sing, then," she said.
And she began to sing, in a very good voice, the song that was popular then: Ramona, Icannot live without you. The night was over, for he did not dare to play forbidden games with awoman who had proven too many times that she knew the dark side of the moon. He walked outinto a different city, one that was perfumed by the last dahlias of June, and onto a street out of hisyouth, where the shadowy widows from five o'clock Mass were filing by. But now it was he, notthey, who crossed the street, so they would not see the tears he could no longer hold back, not hismidnight tears, as he thought, but other tears: the ones he had been swallowing for fifty-one years,nine months and four days.
He had lost all track of time, and did not know where he was when he awoke facing a large,dazzling window. The voice of Am閞 ica Vicu帽 a playing ball in the garden with the servantgirls brought him back to reality: he was in his mother's bed. He had kept her bedroom intact, andhe would sleep there to feel less alone on the few occasions when he was troubled by his solitude90.
Across from the bed hung the large mirror from Don Sancho's Inn, and he had only to see it whenhe awoke to see Fermina Daza reflected in its depths. He knew that it was Saturday, because thatwas the day the chauffeur91 picked up Am閞 ica Vicu帽 a at her boarding school and brought herback to his house. He realised that he had slept without knowing it, dreaming that he could notsleep, in a dream that had been disturbed by the wrathful face of Fermina Daza. He bathed,wondering what his next step should be, he dressed very slowly in his best clothing, he dabbed92 oncologne and waxed the ends of his white moustache, he left the bedroom, and from the second-floor hallway he saw the beautiful child in her uniform catching93 the ball with the grace that hadmade him tremble on so many Saturdays but this morning did not disquiet94 him in the least. Heindicated that she should come with him, and before he climbed into the automobile95 he said,although it was not necessary: "Today we are not going to do our things." He took her to theAmerican Ice Cream Shop, filled at this hour with parents eating ice cream with their childrenunder the long blades of the fans that hung from the smooth ceiling. Am閞 ica Vicu帽 a orderedan enormous glass filled with layers of ice cream, each a different colour, her favourite dish andthe one that was the most popular because it gave off an aura of magic. Florentino Ariza drankblack coffee and looked at the girl without speaking, while she ate the ice cream with a spoon thathad a very long handle so that one could reach the bottom of the glass. Still looking at her, he saidwithout warning: "I am going to marry."She looked into his eyes with a flash of uncertainty96, her spoon suspended in midair, but thenshe recovered and smiled.
"That's a lie," she said. "Old men don't marry."That afternoon he left her at her school under a steady downpour just as the Angelus wasringing, after the two of them had watched the puppet show in the park, had lunch at the fried-fishstands on the jetties, seen the caged animals in the circus that had just come to town, bought allkinds of candies at the outdoor stalls to take back to school, and driven around the city severaltimes with the top down, so that she could become accustomed to the idea that he was herguardian and no longer her lover. On Sunday he sent the automobile for her in the event shewanted to take a drive with her friends, but he did not want to see her, because since the previousweek he had come to full consciousness of both their ages. That night he decided97 to write a letterof apology to Fermina Daza, its only purpose to show that he had not given up, but he put it offuntil the next day. On Monday, after exactly three weeks of agony, he walked into his house,soaked by the rain, and found her letter.
It was eight o'clock at night. The two servant girls were in bed, and they had left on the lightin the hallway that lit Florentino Ariza's way to his bedroom. He knew that his Spartan98, blandsupper was on the table in the dining room, but the slight hunger he felt after so many days ofhaphazard eating vanished with the emotional upheaval99 of the letter. His hands were shaking somuch that it was difficult for him to turn on the overhead light in the bedroom. He put the rain-soaked letter on the bed, lit the lamp on the night table, and with the feigned100 tranquillity101 that washis customary way of calming himself, he took off his wet jacket and hung it on the back of thechair, he took off his vest, folded it with care, and placed it on top of the jacket, he took off hisblack silk string tie and the celluloid collar that was no longer fashionable in the world, heunbuttoned his shirt down to his waist and loosened his belt so that he could breathe with greaterease, and at last he took off his hat and put it by the window to dry. Then he began to tremblebecause he did not know where the letter was, and his nervous excitement was so great that he wassurprised when he found it, for he did not remember placing it on the bed. Before opening it, hedried the envelope with his handkerchief, taking care not to smear102 the ink in which his name waswritten, and as he did so it occurred to him that the secret was no longer shared by two people butby three, at least, for whoever had delivered it must have noticed that only three weeks after thedeath of her husband, the Widow Urbino was writing to someone who did not belong to her world,and with so much urgency that she did not use the regular mails and so much secretiveness thatshe had ordered that it not be handed to anyone but slipped under the door instead, as if it were ananonymous letter. He did not have to tear open the envelope, for the water had dissolved the glue,but the letter was dry: three closely written pages with no salutation, and signed with the initials ofher married name.
He sat on the bed and read it through once as quickly as he could, more intrigued103 by the tonethan by the content, and before he reached the second page he knew that it was in fact the insultingletter he had expected to receive. He laid it, unfolded, in the light shed by the bed-lamp, he tookoff his shoes and his wet socks, he turned out the overhead light, using the switch next to the door,and at last he put on his chamois moustache cover and lay down without removing his trousersand shirt, his head supported by two large pillows that he used as a backrest for reading. Now heread it again, this time syllable104 by syllable, scrutinising each so that none of the letter's secretintentions would be hidden from him, and then he read it four more times, until he was so full ofthe written words that they began to lose all meaning. At last he placed it, without the envelope, inthe drawer of the night table, lay on his back with his hands behind his head, and for four hours hedid not blink, he hardly breathed, he was more dead than a dead man, as he stared into the space inthe mirror where she had been. Precisely105 at midnight he went to the kitchen and prepared athermos of coffee as thick as crude oil, then he took it to his room, put his false teeth into the glassof boric acid solution that he always found ready for him on the night table, and resumed theposture of a recumbent marble statue, with momentary107 shifts in position when he took a sip108 ofcoffee, until the maid came in at six o'clock with a fresh thermos106.
Florentino Ariza knew by then what one of his next steps was going to be. In truth, the insultscaused him no pain, and he was not concerned with rectifying109 the unjust accusations110 that couldhave been worse, considering Fermina Daza's character and the gravity of the cause. All thatinterested him was that the letter, in and of itself, gave him the opportunity, and even recognisedhis right, to respond. Even more: it demanded that he respond. So that life was now at the pointwhere he had wanted it to be. Everything else depended on him, and he was convinced that hisprivate hell of over half a century's duration would still present him with many mortal challenges,which he was prepared to confront with more ardour and more sorrow and more love than he hadbrought to any of them before now, because these would be the last.
When he went to his office five days after receiving the letter from Fermina Daza, he felt as ifhe were floating in an abrupt111 and unusual absence of the noise of the typewriters, whose sound,like rain, had become less noticeable than silence. It was a moment of calm. When the soundbegan again, Florentino Ariza went to Leona Cas-siani's office and watched her as she sat in frontof her own personal typewriter, which responded to her fingertips as if it were human. She knewshe was being observed, and she looked toward the door with her awesome112 solar smile, but shedid not stop typing until the end of the paragraph.
"Tell me something, lionlady of my soul," asked Florentino Ariza. "How would you feel ifyou received a love letter written on that thing?"Her expression--she who was no longer surprised at anything--was one of genuine surprise.
"My God, man!" she exclaimed. "It never occurred to me."For that very reason she could make no other reply. Florentino Ariza had not thought of iteither until that moment, and he decided to risk it with no reservations. He took one of the officetypewriters home, his subordinates joking good-naturedly: "You can't teach an old dog newtricks." Leona Cassiani, enthusiastic about anything new, offered to give him typing lessons athome. But he had been opposed to methodical learning ever since Lotario Thugut had wanted toteach him to play the violin by reading notes and warned him that he would need at least a year tobegin, five more to qualify for a professional orchestra, and six hours a day for the rest of his lifein order to play well. And yet he had convinced his mother to buy him a blind man's violin, andwith the five basic rules given him by Lotario Thugut, in less than a year he had dared to play inthe choir113 of the Cathedral and to serenade Fermina Daza from the paupers114' cemetery115 according tothe direction of the winds. If that had been the case at the age of twenty, with something asdifficult as the violin, he did not see why it could not also be the case at the age of seventy-six,with a one-finger instrument like the typewriter.
He was right. He needed three days to learn the position of the letters on the keyboard,another six to learn to think while he typed, and three more to complete the first letter withouterrors after tearing up half a ream of paper. He gave it a solemn salutation--Se帽 ora--and signedit with his initial, as he had done in the perfumed love letters of his youth. He mailed it in anenvelope with the mourning vignettes that were de rigueur for a letter to a recent widow, and withno return address on the back.
It was a six-page letter, unlike any he had ever written before. It did not have the tone, or thestyle, or the rhetorical air of his early years of love, and his argument was so rational andmeasured that the scent116 of a gardenia117 would have been out of place. In a certain sense it was hisclosest approximation to the business letters he had never been able to write. Years later, a typedpersonal letter would be considered almost an insult, but at that time the typewriter was still anoffice animal without its own code of ethics118, and its domestication119 for personal use was notforeseen in the books on etiquette120. It seemed more like bold modernity, which was how FerminaDaza must have understood it, for in her second letter to Florentino Ariza, she began by begginghis pardon for any difficulties in reading her handwriting, since she did not have at her disposalany means more advanced than her steel pen.
Florentino Ariza did not even refer to the terrible letter that she had sent him, but from thevery beginning he attempted a new method of seduction, without any reference to past loves oreven to the past itself: a clean slate121. Instead, he wrote an extensive meditation122 on life based on hisideas about, and experience of, relations between men and women, which at one time he hadintended to write as a complement123 to the Lovers' Companion. Only now he disguised it in thepatriarchal style of an old man's memories so that it would not be too obvious that it was really adocument of love. First he wrote many draughts124 in his old style, which took longer to read with acool head than to throw into the fire. But he knew that any conventional slip, the slightestnostalgic indiscretion, could revive the unpleasant taste of the past in her heart, and although heforesaw her returning a hundred letters to him before she dared open the first, he preferred that itnot happen even once. And so he planned everything down to the last detail, as if it were the finalbattle: new intrigues125, new hopes in a woman who had already lived a full and complete life. It hadto be a mad dream, one that would give her the courage she would need to discard the prejudicesof a class that had not always been hers but had become hers more than anyone's. It had to teachher to think of love as a state of grace: not the means to anything but the alpha and omega, an endin itself.
He had the good sense not to expect an immediate126 reply, to be satisfied if the letter was notreturned to him. It was not, nor were any of the ones that followed, and as the days passed, hisexcitement grew, for the more days that passed without her letters being returned, the greater hishope of a reply. In the beginning, the frequency of his letters was conditioned by the dexterity127 ofhis fingers: first one a week, then two, and at last one a day. He was happy about the progressmade in the mail service since his days as a standard-bearer, for he would not have risked beingseen every day in the post office mailing a letter to the same person, or sending it with someonewho might talk. On the other hand, it was very easy to send an employee to buy enough stamps fora month, and then slip the letter into one of the three mailboxes located in the old city. He soonmade that ritual a part of his routine: he took advantage of his insomnia128 to write, and the next day,on his way to the office, he -would ask the driver to stop for a moment at a corner box, and hewould get out to mail the letter. He never allowed the chauffeur to do it for him, as he attempted todo one rainy morning, and at times he took the precaution of carrying several letters rather thanjust one, so that it would seem more natural. The chauffeur did not know, of course, that theadditional letters were blank pages that Florentino Ariza addressed to himself, for he had nevercarried on a private correspondence with anyone, with the exception of the guardian's report thathe sent at the end of each month to the parents of Am閞 ica Vicu帽 a, with his personalimpressions of the girl's conduct, her state of mind and health, and the progress she was making inher studies.
After the first month he began to number the letters and to head them with a synopsis129 of theprevious ones, as in the serialised novels in the newspapers, for fear that Fermina Daza would notrealise that they had a certain continuity. When they became daily letters, moreover, he replacedthe envelopes that had mourning vignettes with long white envelopes, and this gave them theadded impersonality130 of business letters. When he began, he was prepared to subject his patience toa crucial test, at least until he had proof that he was wasting his time with the only new approachhe could think of. He waited, in fact, not with the many kinds of suffering that waiting had causedhim in his youth, but with the stubbornness of an old man made of stone who had nothing else tothink about, nothing else to do in a riverboat company that by this time was sailing without hishelp before favourable131 winds, and who was also convinced that he would be alive and in perfectpossession of his male faculties132 the next day, or the day after that, or whenever Fermina Daza atlast was convinced that there was no other remedy for her solitary widow's yearnings than tolower the drawbridge for him.
Meanwhile, he continued with his normal life. In anticipation134 of a favourable reply, he begana second renovation136 of his house so that it would be worthy137 of the woman who could haveconsidered herself its lady and mistress from the day of its purchase. He visited Prudencia Pitreagain several times, as he had promised, in order to prove to her that he loved her despite thedevastation wrought138 by age, loved her in full sunlight and with the doors open, and not only on hisnights of desolation. He continued to pass by Andrea Var贸n's house until he found the bathroomlight turned off, and he tried to lose himself in the wildness of her bed even though it was only sohe would not lose the habit of love, in keeping with another of his superstitions139, not disproved sofar, that the body carries on for as long as you do.
His relations with Am閞 ica Vicu帽 a were the only difficulty. He had repeated the order tohis chauffeur to pick her up on Saturdays at ten o'clock in the morning at the school, but he did notknow what to do with her during the weekends. For the first time he did not concern himself withher, and she resented the change. He placed her in the care of the servant girls and had them takeher to the afternoon film, to the band concerts in the children's park, to the charity bazaars140, or hearranged Sunday activities for her and her classmates so that he would not have to take her to thehidden paradise behind his offices, to which she had always wanted to return after the first time hetook her there. In the fog of his new illusion, he did not realise that women can become adults inthree days, and that three years had gone by since he had met her boat from Puerto Padre. Nomatter how he tried to soften141 the blow, it was a brutal142 change for her, and she could not imaginethe reason for it. On the day in the ice cream parlour when he told her he was going to marry,when he revealed the truth to her, she had reeled with panic, but then the possibility seemed soabsurd that she forgot about it. In a very short while, however, she realised that he was behavingwith inexplicable143 evasiveness, as if it was true, as if he were not sixty years older than she, butsixty years younger.
One Saturday afternoon, Florentino Ariza found her trying to type in his bedroom, and shewas doing rather well, for she was studying typing at school. She had completed more than half apage of automatic writing, but it was not difficult to isolate144 an occasional phrase that revealed herstate of mind. Florentino Ariza leaned over her shoulder to read what she had written. She wasdisturbed by his man's heat, by his ragged145 breathing, by the scent on his clothes, which was thesame as the scent on his pillow. She was no longer the little girl, the newcomer, whom he hadundressed, one article of clothing at a time, with little baby games: first these little shoes for thelittle baby bear, then this little chemise for the little puppy dog, next these little flowered pantiesfor the little bunny rabbit, and a little kiss on her papa's delicious little dickey-bird. No: now shewas a full-fledged woman, who liked to take the initiative. She continued typing with just onefinger of her right hand, and with her left she felt for his leg, explored him, found him, felt himcome to life, grow, heard him sigh with excitement, and his old man's breathing became unevenand laboured. She knew him: from that point on he was going to lose control, his speech wouldbecome disjointed, he would be at her mercy, and he would not find his way back until he hadreached the end. She led him by the hand to the bed as if he were a blind beggar on the street, andshe cut him into pieces with malicious146 tenderness; she added salt to taste, pepper, a clove147 of garlic,chopped onion, lemon juice, bay leaf, until he was seasoned and on the platter, and the oven washeated to the right temperature. There was no one in the house. The servant girls had gone out, andthe masons and carpenters who were renovating148 the house did not work on Saturdays: they had thewhole world to themselves. But on the edge of the abyss he came out of his ecstasy149, moved herhand away, sat up, and said in a tremulous voice: "Be careful, we have no rubbers."She lay on her back in bed for a long time, thinking, and when she returned to school an hourearly she was beyond all desire to cry, and she had sharpened her sense of smell along with herclaws so that she could track down the miserable150 whore who had ruined her life. Florentino Ariza,on the other hand, made another masculine mis-judgment: he believed that she had beenconvinced of the futility151 of her desires and had resolved to forget him.
He was back in his element. At the end of six months he had heard nothing at all, and hefound himself tossing and turning in bed until dawn, lost in the wasteland of a new kind ofinsomnia. He thought that Fermina Daza had opened the first letter because of its appearance, hadseen the initial she knew from the letters of long ago, and had thrown it out to be burned with therest of the trash without even taking the trouble to tear it up. Just seeing the envelopes of those thatfollowed would be enough for her to do the same thing without even opening them, and tocontinue to do so until the end of time, while he came at last to his final written meditation. He didnot believe that the woman existed who could resist her curiosity about half a year of almost dailyletters when she did not even know the colour of ink they were written in, but if such a womanexisted, it had to be her.
Florentino Ariza felt that his old age was not a rushing torrent152 but a bottomless cistern153 wherehis memory drained away. His ingenuity154 was wearing thin. After patrolling the villa155 in La Mangafor several days, he realised that this strategy from his youth would never break down the doorssealed by mourning. One morning, as he was looking for a number in the telephone directory, hehappened to come across hers. He called. It rang many times, and at last he recognised her grave,husky voice: "Hello?" He hung up without speaking, but the infinite distance of thatunapproachable voice weakened his morale156.
It was at this time that Leona Cassiani celebrated157 her birthday and invited a small group offriends to her house. He was distracted and spilled chicken gravy158 on himself. She cleaned his lapelwith the corner of his napkin dampened in a glass of water, and then she tied it around his necklike a bib to avoid a more serious accident: he looked like an old baby. She noticed that severaltimes during dinner he took off his eyeglasses and dried them with his handkerchief because hiseyes were watering. During coffee he fell asleep holding his cup in his hand, and she tried to takeit away without waking him, but his embarrassed response was: "I was just resting my eyes."Leona Cassiani went to bed astounded159 at how his age was beginning to show.
On the first anniversary of the death of Juvenal Urbino, the family sent out invitations to amemorial Mass at the Cathedral. Florentino Ariza had still received no reply, and this was thedriving force behind his bold decision to attend the Mass although he had not been invited. It wasa social event more ostentatious than emotional. The first few rows of pews were reserved fortheir lifetime owners, whose names were engraved160 on copper161 nameplates on the backs of theirseats. Florentino Ariza was among the first to arrive so that he might sit where Fermina Dazacould not pass by without seeing him. He thought that the best seats would be in the central nave162,behind the reserved pews, but there were so many people he could not find a seat there either, andhe had to sit in the nave for poor relations. From there he saw Fermina Daza walk in on her son'sarm, dressed in an unadorned long-sleeved black velvet163 dress buttoned all the way from her neckto the tips of her shoes, like a bishop's cassock, and a narrow scarf of Castilian lace instead of theveiled hat worn by other widows, and even by many other ladies who longed for that condition.
Her uncovered face shone like alabaster164, her lanceolate eyes had a life of their own under theenormous chandeliers of the central nave, and as she walked she was so erect165, so haughty166, so selfpossessed, that she seemed no older than her son. As he stood, Florentino Ariza leaned the tips ofhis fingers against the back of the pew until his dizziness passed, for he felt that he and she werenot separated by seven paces, but existed in two different times.
Through almost the entire ceremony, Fermina Daza stood in the family pew in front of themain altar, as elegant as when she attended the opera. But when it was over, she broke withconvention and did not stay in her seat, according to the custom of the day, to receive the spiritualrenewal of condolences, but made her way instead through the crowd to thank each one of theguests: an innovative168 gesture that was very much in harmony with her style and character.
Greeting one guest after another, she at last reached the pews of the poor relations, and then shelooked around to make certain she had not missed anyone she knew. At that moment FlorentinoAriza felt a supernatural wind lifting him out of himself: she had seen him. Fermina Daza movedaway from her companions with the same assurance she brought to everything in society, held outher hand, and with a very sweet smile, said to him: "Thank you for coming."For she had not only received his letters, she had read them with great interest and had foundin them serious and thoughtful reasons to go on living. She had been at the table, having breakfastwith her daughter, when she received the first one. She opened it because of the novelty of itsbeing typewritten, and a sudden blush burned her face when she recognised the initial of thesignature. But she immediately regained169 her self-possession and put the letter in her apron170 pocket.
She said: "It is a condolence letter from the government." Her daughter was surprised: "All ofthem came already." She was imperturbable171: "This is another one." Her intention was to burn theletter later, when she was away from her daughter's questions, but she could not resist thetemptation of looking it over first. She expected the reply that her insulting letter deserved, a letterthat she began to regret the very moment she sent it, but from the majestic172 salutation and thesubject of the first paragraph, she realised that something had changed in the world. She was sointrigued that she locked herself in her bedroom to read it at her ease before she burned it, and sheread it three times without pausing.
It was a meditation on life, love, old age, death: ideas that had often fluttered around her headlike nocturnal birds but dissolved into a trickle173 of feathers when she tried to catch hold of them.
There they were, precise, simple, just as she would have liked to say them, and once again shegrieved that her husband was not alive to discuss them with her as they used to discuss certainevents of the day before going to sleep. In this way an unknown Florentino Ariza was revealed toher, one possessed167 of a clear-sightedness that in no way corresponded to the feverish174 love lettersof his youth or to the sombre conduct of his entire life. They were, rather, the words of a man who,in the opinion of Aunt Escol醩 tica, was inspired by the Holy Spirit, and this thought astoundedher now as much as it had the first time. In any case, what most calmed her spirit was the certaintythat this letter from a wise old man was not an attempt to repeat the impertinence of the night ofthe vigil over the body but a very noble way of erasing175 the past.
The letters that followed brought her complete calm. Still, she burned them after readingthem with a growing interest, although burning them left her with a sense of guilt176 that she couldnot dissipate. So that when they began to be numbered, she found the moral justification177 she hadbeen seeking for not destroying them. At any rate, her initial intention was not to keep them forherself but to wait for an opportunity to return them to Florentino Ariza so that something thatseemed of such great human value would not be lost. The difficulty was that time passed and theletters continued to arrive, one every three or four days throughout the year, and she did not knowhow to return them without that appearing to be the rebuff she no longer wanted to give, andwithout having to explain everything in a letter that her pride would not permit her to write.
That first year had been enough time for her to adjust to her widowhood. The purifiedmemory of her husband, no longer an obstacle in her daily actions, in her private thoughts, in hersimplest intentions, became a watchful178 presence that guided but did not hinder her. On theoccasions when she truly needed him she would see him, not as an apparition179 but as flesh andblood. She was encouraged by the certainty that he was there, still alive but without his masculinewhims, his patriarchal demands, his consuming need for her to love him in the same ritual ofinopportune kisses and tender words with which he loved her. For now she understood him betterthan when he was alive, she understood the yearning133 of his love, the urgent need he felt to find inher the security that seemed to be the mainstay of his public life and that in reality he neverpossessed. One day, at the height of desperation, she had shouted at him: "You don't understandhow unhappy I am." Unperturbed, he took off his eyeglasses with a characteristic gesture, heflooded her with the transparent180 waters of his childlike eyes, and in a single phrase he burdenedher with the weight of his unbearable wisdom: "Always remember that the most important thing ina good marriage is not happiness, but stability." With the first loneliness of her widowhood shehad understood that the phrase did not conceal181 the miserable threat that she had attributed to it atthe time, but was the lodestone that had given them both so many happy hours.
On her many journeys through the world, Fermina Daza had bought every object thatattracted her attention because of its novelty. She desired these things with a primitive182 impulse thather husband was happy to rationalise, and they were beautiful, useful objects as long as theyremained in their original environment, in the show windows of Rome, Paris, London, or in theNew York, vibrating to the Charleston, where skyscrapers183 were beginning to grow, but they couldnot withstand the test of Strauss waltzes with pork cracklings or Poetic184 Festivals when it wasninety degrees in the shade. And so she would return with half a dozen enormous standing trunksmade of polished metal, with copper locks and corners like decorated coffins185, lady and mistress ofthe world's latest marvels186, which were worth their price not in gold but in the fleeting187 momentwhen someone from her local world would see them for the first time. For that is why they hadbeen bought: so that others could see them. She became aware of her frivolous188 public image longbefore she began to grow old, and in the house she was often heard to say: "We have to get rid ofall these trinkets; there's no room to turn around." Dr. Urbino would laugh at her fruitless efforts,for he knew that the emptied spaces were only going to be filled again. But she persisted, becauseit was true that there was no room for anything else and nothing anywhere served any purpose, notthe shirts hanging on the doorknobs or the overcoats for European winters squeezed into thekitchen cupboards. So that on a morning when she awoke in high spirits she would raze189 theclothes closets, empty the trunks, tear apart the attics190, and wage a war of separation against thepiles of clothing that had been seen once too often, the hats she had never worn because there hadbeen no occasion to wear them while they were still in fashion, the shoes copied by Europeanartists from those used by empresses for their coronations, and which were scorned here byhighborn ladies because they were identical to the ones that black women bought at the market towear in the house. For the entire morning the interior terrace would be in a state of crisis, and inthe house it would be difficult to breathe because of bitter gusts191 from the mothballs. But in a fewhours order would be reestablished because she at last took pity on so much silk strewn on thefloor, so many leftover192 brocades and useless pieces of passementerie, so many silver fox tails, allcondemned to the fire.
"It is a sin to burn this," she would say, "when so many people do not even have enough toeat."And so the burning was postponed193, it was always postponed, and things were only shiftedfrom their places of privilege to the stables that had been transformed into storage bins194 forremnants, while the spaces that had been cleared, just as he predicted, began to fill up again, tooverflow with things that lived for a moment and then went to die in the closets: until the nexttime. She would say: "Someone should invent something to do with things you cannot useanymore but that you still cannot throw out." That was true: she was dismayed by the voracitywith which objects kept invading living spaces, displacing the humans, forcing them back into thecorners, until Fermina Daza pushed the objects out of sight. For she was not as ordered as peoplethought, but she did have her own desperate method for appearing to be so: she hid the disorder195.
The day that Juvenal Urbino died, they had to empty out half of his study and pile the things in thebedrooms so there would be space to lay out the body.
Death's passage through the house brought the solution. Once she had burned her husband'sclothes, Fermina Daza realised that her hand had not trembled, and on the same impulse shecontinued to light the fire at regular intervals196, throwing everything on it, old and new, not thinkingabout the envy of the rich or the vengeance197 of the poor who were dying of hunger. Finally, she hadthe mango tree cut back at the roots until there was nothing left of that misfortune, and she gavethe live parrot to the new Museum of the City. Only then did she draw a free breath in the kind ofhouse she had always dreamed of: large, easy, and all hers.
Her daughter Ofelia spent three months with her and then returned to New Orleans. Her sonbrought his family to lunch on Sundays and as often as he could during the week. Fermina Daza'sclosest friends began to visit her once she had overcome the crisis of her mourning, they playedcards facing the bare patio135, they tried out new recipes, they brought her up to date on the secretlife of the insatiable world that continued to exist without her. One of the most faithful wasLucrecia del Real del Obispo, an aristocrat198 of the old school who had always been a good friendand who drew even closer after the death of Juvenal Urbino. Stiff with arthritis199 and repenting200 herwayward life, in those days Lucrecia del Real not only provided her with the best company, shealso consulted with her regarding the civic201 and secular202 projects that were being arranged in thecity, and this made her feel useful for her own sake and not because of the protective shadow ofher husband. And yet she was never so closely identified with him as she was then, for she was nolonger called by her maiden203 name, and she became known as the Widow Urbino.
It seemed incredible, but as the first anniversary of her husband's death approached, FerminaDaza felt herself entering a place that was shady, cool, quiet: the grove24 of the irremediable. Shewas not yet aware, and would not be for several months, of how much the written meditations204 ofFlorentino Ariza had helped her to recover her peace of mind. Applied205 to her own experiences,they were what allowed her to understand her own life and to await the designs of old age withserenity. Their meeting at the memorial Mass was a providential opportunity for her to letFlorentino Ariza know that she, too, thanks to his letters of encouragement, was prepared to erasethe past.
Two days later she received a different kind of letter from him: handwritten on linen206 paperand his complete name inscribed207 with great clarity on the back of the envelope. It was the sameornate handwriting as in his earlier letters, the same will to lyricism, but applied to a simpleparagraph of gratitude208 for the courtesy of her greeting in the Cathedral. For several days after sheread the letter Fermina Daza continued to think about it with troubled memories, but with aconscience so clear that on the following Thursday she suddenly asked Lucrecia del Real delObispo if she happened to know Florentino Ariza, the, owner of the riverboats. Lucrecia repliedthat she did: "He seems to be a wandering succubus." She repeated the common gossip that he hadnever had a woman although he was such a good catch, and that he had a secret office where hetook the boys he pursued at night along the docks. Fermina Daza had heard that story for as longas she could remember, and she had never believed it or given it any importance. But when sheheard it repeated with so much conviction by Lucrecia del Real del Obispo, who had also beenrumoured at one time to have strange tastes, she could not resist the urge to clarify matters. Shesaid she had known Florentino Ariza since he was a boy. She reminded her that his mother hadowned a notions shop on the Street of Windows and also bought old shirts and sheets, which sheunravelled and sold as bandages during the civil wars. And she concluded with conviction: "He isan honourable man, and he is the soul of tact56." She was so vehement209 that Lucrecia took back whatshe had said: "When all is said and done, they also say the same sort of thing about me." FerminaDaza was not curious enough to ask herself why she was making so passionate54 a defence of a manwho had been no more than a shadow in her life. She continued to think about him, above allwhen the mail arrived without another letter from him. Two weeks of silence had gone by whenone of the servant girls woke her during her siesta with a warning whisper: "Se帽 ora," she said,"Don Florentino is here."He was there. Fermina Daza's first reaction was panic. She thought no, he should come backanother day at a more appropriate hour, she was in no condition to receive visitors, there wasnothing to talk about. But she recovered instantly and told her to show him into the drawing roomand bring him coffee, while she tidied herself before seeing him. Florentino Ariza had waited atthe street door, burning under the infernal three o'clock sun, but in full control of the situation. Hewas prepared not to be received, even with an amiable210 excuse, and that certainty kept him calm.
But the decisiveness of her message shook him to his very marrow211, and when he walked into thecool shadows of the drawing room he did not have time to think about the miracle he wasexperiencing because his intestines212 suddenly filled in an explosion of painful foam213. He sat down,holding his breath, hounded by the damnable memory of the bird droppings on his first love letter,and he remained motionless in the shadowy darkness until the first attack of shivering had passed,resolved to accept any mishap214 at that moment except this unjust misfortune.
He knew himself well: despite his congenital constipation, his belly215 had betrayed him inpublic three or four times in the course of his many years, and those three or four times he hadbeen obliged to give in. Only on those occasions, and on others of equal urgency, did he realise thetruth of the words that he liked to repeat in jest: "I do not believe in God, but I am afraid of Him."He did not have time for doubts: he tried to say any prayer he could remember, but he could notthink of a single one. When he was a boy, another boy had taught him magic words for hitting abird with a stone: "Aim, aim, got my aim--if I miss you I'm not to blame." He used it when hewent to the country for the first time with a new slingshot, and the bird fell down dead. In aconfused way he thought that one thing had something to do with the other, and he repeated theformula now with the fervour of a prayer, but it did not have the desired effect. A twisting in hisguts like the coil of a spring lifted him from his seat, the foaming216 in his belly grew thicker andmore painful, it grumbled217 a lament218 and left him covered with icy sweat. The maid who broughthim the coffee was frightened by his corpse's face. He sighed: "It's the heat." She opened thewindow, thinking she would make him more comfortable, but the afternoon sun hit him full in theface and she had to close it again. He knew he could not hold out another moment, and thenFermina Daza came in, almost invisible in the darkness, dismayed at seeing him in such a state.
"You can take off your jacket," she said to him.
He suffered less from the deadly griping of his bowels219 than from the thought that she mighthear them bubbling. But he managed to endure just an instant longer to say no, he had only passedby to ask her when he might visit. Still standing, she said to him in confusion: "Well, you are herenow." And she invited him to the terrace in the patio, where it was cooler. He refused in a voicethat seemed to her like a sigh of sorrow.
"I beg you, let it be tomorrow," he said.
She remembered that tomorrow was Thursday, the day when Lucrecia del Real del Obispomade her regular visit, but she had the perfect solution: "The day after tomorrow at five o'clock."Florentino Ariza thanked her, bid an urgent farewell with his hat, and left without tasting thecoffee. She stood in the middle of the drawing room, puzzled, not understanding what had justhappened, until the sound of his automobile's backfiring faded at the end of the street. ThenFlorentino Ariza shifted into a less painful position in the back seat, closed his eyes, relaxed hismuscles, and surrendered to the will of his body. It was like being reborn. The driver, who after somany years in his service was no longer surprised at anything, remained impassive. But when heopened the door for him in front of his house
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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pyjamas
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| n.（宽大的）睡衣裤 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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cramps
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| n. 抽筋, 腹部绞痛, 铁箍 adj. 狭窄的, 难解的 v. 使...抽筋, 以铁箍扣紧, 束缚 | |
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itches
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| n.痒( itch的名词复数 )；渴望，热望v.发痒( itch的第三人称单数 ) | |
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improvised
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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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elude
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eradication
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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siesta
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| n.午睡 | |
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hygiene
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| n.健康法，卫生学 （a.hygienic） | |
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cremated
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| v.火葬，火化（尸体）( cremate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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17
broach
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| v.开瓶，提出(题目) | |
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18
cemeteries
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| n.（非教堂的）墓地，公墓( cemetery的名词复数 ) | |
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19
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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20
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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21
holocaust
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| n.大破坏；大屠杀 | |
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22
resistant
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| adj.(to)抵抗的，有抵抗力的 | |
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23
mangrove
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| n.(植物)红树，红树林 | |
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24
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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25
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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26
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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27
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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28
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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29
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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30
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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31
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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32
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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33
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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34
nostalgia
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|
| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
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35
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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36
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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37
ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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38
recuperate
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| v.恢复 | |
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39
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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40
repudiated
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|
| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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41
massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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42
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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43
poignancy
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|
| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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44
coup
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|
| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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45
erase
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| v.擦掉；消除某事物的痕迹 | |
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46
condemned
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|
| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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47
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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48
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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49
lotions
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| n.洗液，洗剂，护肤液( lotion的名词复数 ) | |
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50
honourable
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|
| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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51
obliterated
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|
| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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52
compassion
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|
| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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53
compassionate
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|
| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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54
passionate
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|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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55
reiteration
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|
| n. 重覆, 反覆, 重说 | |
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56
tact
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|
| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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57
symbolic
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|
| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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58
cremation
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| n.火葬，火化 | |
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59
aged
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|
| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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60
appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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61
unbearable
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|
| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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62
irrational
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|
| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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63
provocations
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| n.挑衅( provocation的名词复数 )；激怒；刺激；愤怒的原因 | |
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64
vilest
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|
| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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65
devastated
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|
| v.彻底破坏( devastate的过去式和过去分词)；摧毁；毁灭；在感情上（精神上、财务上等）压垮adj.毁坏的；极为震惊的 | |
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66
salvage
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| v.救助，营救，援救；n.救助，营救 | |
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67
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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68
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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69
catastrophe
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|
| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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70
sleepless
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|
| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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71
deserted
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|
| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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72
verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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73
decrepitude
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|
| n.衰老；破旧 | |
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74
pickles
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|
| n.腌菜( pickle的名词复数 )；处于困境；遇到麻烦；菜酱 | |
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75
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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76
sumptuous
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|
| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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77
awakened
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|
| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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78
hymns
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|
| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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79
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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80
limousines
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|
| n.豪华轿车( limousine的名词复数 )；（往返机场接送旅客的）中型客车，小型公共汽车 | |
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81
cannon
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|
| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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82
deluge
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|
| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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83
dispersed
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|
| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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84
maniacal
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|
| adj.发疯的 | |
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85
elusive
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|
| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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86
interfere
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|
| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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87
sleeplessness
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|
| n.失眠，警觉 | |
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88
perspiration
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|
| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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89
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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90
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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91
chauffeur
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|
| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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92
dabbed
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|
| （用某物）轻触( dab的过去式和过去分词 )； 轻而快地擦掉（或抹掉）； 快速擦拭； （用某物）轻而快地涂上（或点上）… | |
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93
catching
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|
| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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94
disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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95
automobile
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|
| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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96
uncertainty
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|
| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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97
decided
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|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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98
spartan
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|
| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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99
upheaval
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|
| n.胀起，(地壳)的隆起；剧变，动乱 | |
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100
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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101
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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102
smear
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| v.涂抹；诽谤，玷污；n.污点；诽谤，污蔑 | |
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103
intrigued
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|
| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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104
syllable
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|
| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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105
precisely
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|
| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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106
thermos
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|
| n.保湿瓶，热水瓶 | |
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107
momentary
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|
| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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108
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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109
rectifying
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| 改正，矫正( rectify的现在分词 )； 精馏； 蒸流； 整流 | |
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110
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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111
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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112
awesome
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| adj.令人惊叹的，难得吓人的，很好的 | |
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113
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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114
paupers
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| n.穷人( pauper的名词复数 )；贫民；贫穷 | |
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115
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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116
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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117
gardenia
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| n.栀子花 | |
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118
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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119
domestication
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| n.驯养，驯化 | |
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120
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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121
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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122
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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123
complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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124
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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125
intrigues
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|
| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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126
immediate
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|
| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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127
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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128
insomnia
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| n.失眠，失眠症 | |
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129
synopsis
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| n.提要，梗概 | |
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130
impersonality
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| n.无人情味 | |
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131
favourable
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|
| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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132
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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133
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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134
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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135
patio
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| n.庭院，平台 | |
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136
renovation
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| n.革新，整修 | |
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137
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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138
wrought
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|
| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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139
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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140
bazaars
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| （东方国家的）市场( bazaar的名词复数 )； 义卖； 义卖市场； （出售花哨商品等的）小商品市场 | |
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141
soften
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|
| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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142
brutal
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|
| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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143
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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144
isolate
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| vt.使孤立，隔离 | |
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145
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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146
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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147
clove
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| n.丁香味 | |
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148
renovating
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| 翻新，修复，整修( renovate的现在分词 ) | |
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149
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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150
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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151
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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152
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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153
cistern
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| n.贮水池 | |
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154
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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155
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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156
morale
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| n.道德准则，士气，斗志 | |
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157
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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158
gravy
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| n.肉汁；轻易得来的钱，外快 | |
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159
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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160
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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161
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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162
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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163
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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164
alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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165
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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166
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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167
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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168
innovative
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| adj.革新的，新颖的，富有革新精神的 | |
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169
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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170
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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171
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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172
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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173
trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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174
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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175
erasing
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| v.擦掉( erase的现在分词 )；抹去；清除 | |
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176
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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177
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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178
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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179
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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180
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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181
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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182
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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183
skyscrapers
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| n.摩天大楼 | |
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184
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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185
coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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186
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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187
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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188
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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189
raze
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| vt.铲平，把(城市、房屋等)夷为平地，拆毁 | |
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190
attics
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| n. 阁楼 | |
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191
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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192
leftover
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| n.剩货，残留物，剩饭；adj.残余的 | |
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193
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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194
bins
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| n.大储藏箱( bin的名词复数 )；宽口箱（如面包箱，垃圾箱等）v.扔掉，丢弃( bin的第三人称单数 ) | |
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195
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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196
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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197
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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198
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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199
arthritis
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| n.关节炎 | |
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200
repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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201
civic
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| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
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202
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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203
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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204
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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205
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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206
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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207
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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208
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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209
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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210
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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211
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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212
intestines
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| n.肠( intestine的名词复数 ) | |
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213
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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214
mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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215
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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216
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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217
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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218
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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219
bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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