双语：My Oedipus Complex （我的俄底蒲斯情节）

英语自学网

　　My Oedipus Complex
        　　By Frank O'Connor
        　　Brief Introduction
        　　Frank O’Connor (1903-1966) was born into grinding poverty in the slums of
the Irish City of Cork. He left school at 14 and was largely self-educated. He
is generally regarded as one of the 20th century’s great short storywriters. His
first collection, Guests of the Nation, appeared in 1931, to be followed by
Bones of Contention in 1936, The Stories of Frank O’Connor, and some others.
        　　As one of O’Connor’s themes, the problems of youth and adolescence are
explored in some of his stories where he expertly describes what can trouble
young lives, the early jealousies, fears and complexes.
        　　“My Oedipus Complex” is a unique title for the story. Oedipus is a
character in the Greek mythology. He was the son of Laius, King of Thebes, and
Jocasta his wife. To avoid the fulfillment of the prophecy that he would murder
his father and marry his mother, Oedipus was abandoned on the mountains soon
after birth and later adopted by the shepherd. Grown up, he unknowingly killed
his father. Having solved the riddle of the Sphinx, he accordingly became the
King of Thebes, and thus married Jocasta without the knowledge that she was his
mother. When the facts came to light, Jocasta hanged herself and Oedipus tore
out his eyes.
        　　“My Oedipus Complex” is a clever story about a young boy, Larry, who grows
up in his own safe world with just himself and his mother. However, when his
father returns from WWI, a man whom Larry hardly knows, it is a constant battle
between the two for the mother's love and attention. With great gentleness,
O’Connor depicts the important business of a small boy – growing up and leaving
the self-centered childhood world behind.
        　　Father was in the army all through the war--the first war, I mean --so, up
to the age of five, I never saw much of him, and what I saw did not worry me.
Sometimes I woke and there was a big figure in khaki[1] peering down at me in
the candlelight. Sometimes in the early morning I heard the slamming of the
front door and the clatter of nailed boots down the cobbles of the lane. These
were Father's entrances and exits. Like Santa Claus he came and went
mysteriously.
        　　In fact, I rather liked his visits, though it was an uncomfortable squeeze
between Mother and him when I got into the big bed in the early morning: He
smoked, which gave him a pleasant musty smell, and shaved, an operation of
astounding interest. Each time he left a trail of souvenirs --model tanks and
Gurkha knives[2] with handles made of bullet cases, and German helmets and cap
badges and button-sticks[3], and all sorts of military equipment--carefully
stowed away in a long box on top of the wardrobe, in case they ever came in
handy. There was a bit of the magpie about Father; he expected everything to
come in handy[4]. When his back was turned, Mother let me get a chair and
rummage through his treasures. She didn't seem to think so highly of them as he
did.
        　　The war was the most peaceful' period of my life. The window of my attic
faced southeast. My mother had curtained it, but that had small effect. I always
woke with the first light and, with all the responsibilities of the previous day
melted, feeling myself rather like the sun, ready to illumine and rejoice. Life
never seemed so simple and clear and full of possibilities as then. I put my
feet out from under the clothes--I called them Mrs. Left and Mrs. Right--and
invented dramatic situations for them in which they discussed the problems of
the day. At least Mrs. Right did; she was very demonstrative, but I hadn't the
same control of Mrs. Left, so she mostly contented herself with nodding
agreement.
        　　They discussed what Mother and I should do during the day, what Santa Claus
should give a fellow for Christmas, and what steps should be taken to brighten
the home. There was that little matter of the baby, for instance. Mother and I
could never agree about that. Ours was the only house in the terrace[5] without
a new baby, and Mother said we couldn't afford one till Father came back from
the war because they cost seventeen and six. That showed how simple she was. The
Geneys up the road had a baby, and everyone knew they couldn't afford seventeen
and six. It was probably a cheap baby, and Mother wanted something really good,
but I felt she was too exclusive. The Geney’s baby would have done just
fine.
        　　Having settled my plans for the day, I got up, put a chair under the attic
window, and lifted the frame high enough to stick out my head. The window
overlooked the front gardens of the terrace behind ours, and beyond these it
looked over a deep valley to the tall, red-brick houses terraced up the opposite
hillside, which were all still in shadow, while those at our side of the valley
were all lit up, though with long strange shadows that made them seem
unfamiliar; rigid and painted.
        　　After that I went into Mother's room and climbed into the bed. She woke and
I began to tell her of my schemes. By this time, though I never seem to have
noticed it, I was petrified in my nightshirt, and I thawed[6] as I talked until,
the last frost melted, I fell asleep beside her and woke again only when I heard
her below in the kitchen, making the breakfast.
        　　After breakfast we went into town; heard Mass at St. Augustine's and said a
prayer for Father, and did the shopping. If the afternoon was fine we either
went for a walk in the country or a visit to Mother's great friend in the
convent, Mother St. Dominic. Mother had them all praying for Father, and every
night, going to bed, I asked God to send him back safe from the war to us.
Little, indeed, did I know what I was praying for!
        　　One morning, I got into the big bed, and there, sure enough, was Father in
his usual Santa Claus manner, but later, instead of a uniform, he put on his
best blue suit, and Mother was as pleased as anything. I saw nothing to be
pleased about, because, out of uniform, Father was altogether less interesting,
but she only beamed, and explained that our prayers had been answered, and off
we went to Mass to thank God for having brought Father safely home.
        　　The irony of it[7]! That very day when he came in to dinner he took off his
boots and put on his slippers, donned[8] the dirty old cap he wore about the
house to save him from colds, crossed his legs, and began to talk gravely to
Mother, who looked anxious. Naturally, I disliked her looking anxious, because
it destroyed her good looks, so I interrupted him..
        　　“Just a moment, Larry !” she said gently.
        　　This was only what she said when we had boring visitors, so I attached no
importance to it and went on talking.
        　　“Do be quiet, Larry!” she said impatiently. “Don't you hear me talking to
Daddy?”
        　　This was the first time I had heard those ominous words, “talking to
Daddy,” and I couldn't help feeling that if this was how God answered prayers,
he couldn't listen to them very attentively.
        　　“Why are you talking to Daddy?' I asked with as great a show of
indifference as I could muster.
        　　“Because Daddy and I have business to discuss. Now, don't interrupt again
!”
        　　In the afternoon, at Mother's request, Father took me for a walk. This time
we went into town instead of out to the country, and I thought at first, in my
usual optimistic way, that it might be an improvement. It was nothing of the
sort. Father and I had quite different notions of a walk in town. He had no
proper interest in trams, ships, and horses, and the only thing that seemed to
divert[9] him was talking to fellows as old as himself. When I wanted to stop he
simply went on, dragging me behind him by the hand; when he wanted to stop I had
no alternative but to do the same. I noticed that it seemed to be a sign that he
wanted to stop for a long time whenever he leaned against a wall. The second
time I saw him do it I got wild. He seemed to be settling himself for ever. I
pulled him by the coat and trousers, but, unlike Mother who, if you were too
persistent, got into a wax[10] and said: "Larry, if you don't behave yourself,
I'll give you a good slap." Father had an extraordinary capacity for amiable
inattention. I sized him up and wondered would I cry, but he seemed to be too
remote to be annoyed even by that. Really, it was like going for a walk with a
mountain! He either ignored the wrenching and pummeling entirely, or else
glanced down with a grin of amusement from his peak. I had never met anyone so
absorbed in himself as he seemed.
        　　At teatime, “talking to Daddy" began again, complicated this time by the
fact that he had an evening paper, and every few minutes he put it down and told
Mother something new out of it. I felt this was foul play. Man for man, I was
prepared to compete with him any time for Mother's attention, but when he had it
all made up for him by other people it left me no chance. Several times I tried
to change the subject without success.
        　　“You must be quiet while Daddy is reading, Larry,” Mother said
impatiently.
        　　It was clear that she either genuinely liked talking to Father better than
talking to me, or else that he had some terrible hold on her which made her
afraid to admit the truth.
        　　“Mummy,” I said that night when she was tucking me up[11], “do you think if
I prayed hard God would send Daddy back to the war?”
        　　She seemed to think about that for a moment.
        　　“No, dear,” she said with a smile. “l don't think he would.”
        　　“Why wouldn't he, Mummy?”
        　　“Because there isn’t a war any longer, dear.”
        　　“But, Mummy, couldn't God make another war, if he liked?”
        　　“He wouldn't like to, dear. It's not God who makes wars, but bad
people.”
        　　“Oh !” I said.
        　　I was disappointed about that. I began to think that God wasn’t quite what
he was cracked up to be[12].
        　　Next morning I woke at my usual hour, feeling like a bottle of champagne. I
put out my feet and invented a long conversation in which Mrs. Right talked of
the trouble she had with her own father till she put him in the Home[13]. I
didn't quite know what the Home was but it sounded the right place for Father.
Then I got my chair and stuck my head out of the attic window. Dawn was just
breaking, with a guilty air that made me feel I had caught it[14] in the act. My
head bursting with stories and schemes, I stumbled in next door, and in the
half-darkness scrambled into the big bed. There was no room at Mother's side so
I had to get between her and Father. For the time being I had forgotten about
him, and for several minutes I sat bolt upright, racking my brains to know[15]
what I could do with him. He was taking up more than his fair share of the bed,
and I couldn't get comfortable, so I gave him several kicks that made him grunt
and stretch. He made room all right, though. Mother waked and felt for me. I
settled back comfortably in the warmth of the bed with my thumb in my mouth.
            
            

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        　　“Mummy !” I hummed, loudly and contentedly.
        　　“Sssh! dear,” she whispered. “Don't wake Daddy!”
        　　This was a new development, which threatened to be even more serious than
“talking to Daddy." Life without my early-morning conferences was
unthinkable.
        　　“Why?” I asked severely.
        　　“Because poor Daddy is tired.”
        　　This seemed to me a quite inadequate reason, and I was sickened by the
sentimentality of her “poor Daddy.” I never liked that sort of gush[16]; it
always struck me as insincere.
        　　“Oh!” I said lightly. Then in my most winning tone: “Do you know where I
want to go with you today, Mummy?”
        　　“No, dear,” she sighed.
        　　“l want to go down the Glen and fish for thornybacks with my new net, and
then I want to go out to the Fox and Hounds, and—“
        　　“Don't-wake-Daddy!” she hissed angrily, clapping her hand across my
mouth.
        　　But it was too late. He was awake, or nearly so. He grunted and reached for
the matches. Then he stared incredulously at his watch.
        　　“Like a cup of tea, dear?” asked Mother in a meek, hushed voice I had never
heard her use before. It sounded almost as though she were afraid.
        　　“Tea?” he exclaimed indignantly. “Do you know what the time is?”
        　　“And after that I want to go up the Rathcooney Road,” I said loudly, afraid
I’d forget something in all these interruptions.
        　　“Go to sleep at once, Larry!” she said sharply.
        　　I began to snivel. I couldn’t concentrate, the way that pair went on, and
smothering my early-morning schemes was like burying a family from the
cradle[17].
        　　Father said nothing, but lit his pipe and sucked it, looking out into the
shadows without minding Mother or me. I knew he was mad. Every time I made a
remark Mother hushed me irritably. I was mortified. I felt it wasn't fair; there
was even something sinister in it. Every time I had pointed out to her the waste
of making two beds when we could both sleep in one, she had told me it was
healthier like that, and now here was this man, this stranger, sleeping with her
without the least regard for her health!
        　　He got up early and made tea, but though he brought Mother a cup he brought
none for me.
        　　“Mummy,” I shouted, “I want a cup of tea, too.”
        　　“Yes, dear,” she said patiently. “You can drink from Mummy’s saucer.”
        　　That settled it. Either Father or I would have to leave the house. I didn't
want to drink from Mother's saucer; I wanted to be treated as an equal in my own
home, so, just to spite[18] her, I drank it all and left none for her. She took
that quietly, too.
        　　But that night when she was putting me to bed she said gently:
        　　“Larry, I want you to promise me something.”
        　　“What is it?” I asked.
        　　“Not to come in and disturb poor Daddy in the morning. Promise?”
        　　“Poor Daddy” again! I was becoming suspicious of everything involving that
quite impossible[19] man
        　　“Why?” I asked.
        　　“Because poor Daddy is worried and tired and he doesn't sleep well."
        　　“Why doesn't he, Mummy?”
        　　“Well, you know, don't you, that while he was at war Mummy got the pennies
from the Post Office?”
        　　“From Miss MacCarthy[20]?'”
        　　“That's right. But now, you see, Miss MacCarthy hasn't any more pennies, so
Daddy must go out and find us some. You know what would happen if he
couldn't?”
        　　“No,” I said, “tell us.”
        　　“Well, I think we might have to go out and beg for them like the old woman
on Fridays. We wouldn't like that, would we?”
        　　“No,” I agreed. “We wouldn't.”
        　　“So you'll promise not to come in and wake him?”
        　　“Promise.”
        　　Mind you, I meant that. I knew pennies were a serious matter, and I was all
against having to go out and beg like the old woman on Fridays. Mother laid out
all my toys in a complete ring round the bed so that, whatever way I got out, I
was bound to fall over one of them.
        　　When I woke I remembered my promise all right. I got up and sat on the
floor and played-for hours, it seemed to me. Then I got my chair and looked out
the attic window for more hours. I wished it was time for Father to wake; I
wished someone would make me a cup of tea. I didn't feel in the least like the
sun; instead, I was bored and so very, very cold! I simply longed for the warmth
and depth of the big feather- bed.
        　　At last I could stand it no longer. I went into the next room. As there was
still no room at Mother's side I climbed over her and she woke with a start.
        　　“Larry,” she whispered, gripping my arm very tightly, “what did you
promise?”
        　　“But I did, Mummy,” I wailed. caught in the very act. “I was quiet for ever
so long.”
        　　“Oh, dear, and you're perished!” she said sadly, feeling me all over. “Now,
if I let you stay will you promise not to talk?”
        　　“But I want to talk, Mummy,” I wailed.
        　　“That has nothing to do with it,” she said with a firmness that was new to
me. “Daddy wants to sleep. Now, do you understand that?”
        　　I understood it only too well. I wanted to talk, he wanted to sleep --whose
house was it, anyway?
        　　“Mummy,” I said with equal firmness, “I think it would be healthy for Daddy
to sleep in his own bed.”
        　　That seemed to stagger her, because she said nothing for a while.
        　　“Now, once for all,” she went on, “you're to be perfectly quiet go or back
to your own bed. Which is it to be?”
        　　The injustice of it got me down[21]. I had convicted her out of her own
mouth of inconsistency and unreasonableness[22], and she hadn’t even attempted
to reply. Full do spite, I gave Father a kick, which she didn’t notice but which
made him grunt and open his eyes in alarm.
        　　“What time is it?” he asked in a panic-stricken voice, not looking Mother
but the door, as if he saw someone there.
        　　“It’s early yet,” she replied soothingly. “It’s only the child. Go to sleep
again....Now, Larry,” she added, getting out of bed, “you’ve wakened Daddy and
you must go back.”
        　　This time, for all her quiet air, I knew she meant it, and knew that my
principal rights and privileges were as good as[23] lost unless I asserted them
at once. As she lifted me, I gave a screech, enough to wake the dead, not to
mind Father. He groaned.
        　　“Well, it's time he got out of it,” shouted Father, beginning to heave in
bed. He suddenly gathered all the bedclothes about him, turned to the wall, and
then looked back over his shoulder with nothing showing only two small, spiteful
dark eyes. The man looked very wicked.
        　　To open the bedroom door, Mother had to let me down, and I broke free and
dashed for the farthest corner, screeching. Father sat bolt upright in bed.
        　　“Shut up, you little puppy!” he said in a choking voice.
        　　I was so astonished that I stopped screeching. Never, never had anyone
spoken to me in that tone before. I looked at him incredulously and saw his face
convulsed with rage. It was only then that I fully realized how God had codded
me[24], listening to my prayers for the safe return of this monster
        　　“Shut up, you!” I bawled, beside myself[25].
        　　“What’s that you said?” shouted Father, making a wild leap out of bed.
        　　“Mick, Mick!” cried Mother. “Don’t you see the child isn’t used to
you?”
        　　“I see he's better fed than taught,” snarled Father, waving his arms
wildly. “He wants his bottom smacked.”
        　　All his previous shouting was as nothing to these obscene words referring
to my person. They really made my blood boil.
        　　“Smack your own!” I screamed hysterically. “Smack your won! Shut up! Shut
up!”
        　　At this he lost his patience and let fly at me[26]. He did it with the lack
of conviction you'd expect of a man under Mother's horrified eyes, and it ended
up as a mere tap, but the sheer indignity of being struck at all by a stranger,
a total stranger who had cajoled his way back from the war into our big bed as a
result of my innocent intercession[27], made me completely dotty. I shrieked and
shrieked, and danced in my bare feet, and Father, looking awkward and hairy in
nothing but a short grey army shirt, glared down at me like a mountain out for
murder. l think it must have been then that I realized he was jealous too. And
there stood Mother in her nightdress, looking as if her heart was broken between
us. I hoped she felt as she looked. It seemed to me that she deserved it all
        　　From that morning out my life was a hell. Father and I were enemies, open
and avowed. We conducted a series of skirmishes against one another, he trying
to steal my time with Mother and I his. When she was sitting on my bed, telling
me a story, he took to looking for some pair of old boots which he alleged he
had left behind him at the beginning of the war. While he talked to Mother I
played loudly with my toys to show my total lack of concern. He created a
terrible scene one evening when he came in from work and found me at his box,
playing with his regimental badges, Gurkha knives and button-sticks. Mother got
up and took the box from me.
            
            

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        　　“You mustn't play with Daddy's toys unless he lets you, Larry,” she said
severely. “Daddy doesn't play with yours.”
        　　For some reason Father looked at her as if she had struck him and then
turned away with a scowl[28].
        　　“Those are not toys,” he growled, taking down the box again to see had I
lifted anything. “Some of those curios are very rare and valuable.”
        　　But as time went on I saw more and more how he managed to alienate Mother
and me. What made it worse was that I couldn't grasp his method or see what
attraction he had for Mother. In every possible way he was less winning than I.
He had a common accent and made noises at his tea. I thought for a while that it
might be the newspapers she was interested in, so I made up bits of news of my
own to read to her. Then I thought it might be the smoking, which I personally
thought attractive, and took his pipes and went round the house dribbling into
them till he caught me. I even made noises at my tea, but Mother only told me I
was disgusting, It all seemed to hinge round that unhealthy habit of sleeping
together, so I made a point of dropping into their bedroom and nosing around,
talking to myself, so that they wouldn’t know I was watching them, but they were
never up to anything that I could see. In the end it beat me. It seemed to
depend on being grown-up and giving people rings, and I realized I'd have to
wait.
        　　But at the same time I wanted him to see that I was only waiting, not
giving up the fight. One evening when he was being particularly obnoxious[29],
chatting away well above my head, I let him have it.
        　　“Mummy,” I said, “do you know what I'm going to do when I grow up?”
        　　“No, dear,” she replied. “What?”
        　　“I'm going to marry you,” I said quietly. Father gave a great guffaw out of
him, but he didn't take me in. I knew it must only be pretense. And Mother, in
spite of everything, was pleased. I felt she was probably relieved to know that
one day Father's hold on her would be broken.
        　　“Won't that be nice?” she said with a smile.
        　　“It'll be very nice,” I said confidently. “Because we're going to have lots
and lots of babies.”
        　　“That's right, dear,” she said placidly. “I think we'll have one soon, and
then you'll have plenty of company.”
        　　I was no end pleased about that because it showed that in spite of the way
she gave in to Father she still considered my wishes. Besides, it would put the
Geneys in their place[30].
        　　It didn't turn out like that, though. To begin with, she was very
preoccupied--I supposed about where she would get the seventeen and six-and
though Father took to staying out late in the evenings it did me no particular
good. She stopped taking me for walks, became as touchy as blazes, and smacked
me for nothing at all. Sometimes I wished I'd never mentioned the confounded
baby --I seemed to have a genius for bringing calamity on myself.
        　　And calamity it was! Sonny arrived in the most appalling
hullabaloo[31]--even that much he couldn't do without a fuss--and from the first
moment I disliked him. He was a difficult child-- so far as I was concerned he
was always difficult--and demanded far too much attention. Mother was simply
silly about him, and couldn't see when he was only showing off. As company he
was worse than useless. He slept all day, and I had to go round the house on
tiptoe to avoid waking him. It wasn't any longer a question of not waking
Father. The slogan now was “Don't-wake-Sonny!” I couldn't understand why the
child wouldn't sleep at the proper time, so whenever Mother's back was turned I
woke him. Sometimes to keep him awake I pinched him as well. Mother caught me at
it one day and gave me a most unmerciful flaking[32]?
        　　One evening, when Father was coming in from work, I was playing trains in
the front garden. I let on[33] not to notice him; instead, I pretended to be
talking to myself, and said in a loud voice: “If another bloody baby comes into
this house, I'm going out.”
        　　Father stopped dead and looked at me over his shoulder.
        　　“What's that you said?” he asked sternly.
        　　“I was only talking to myself,” I replied, trying to conceal my panic.
“It's private.”
        　　He turned and went in without a word. Mind you, I intended it as a solemn
warning, but its effect was quite different. Father started being quite nice to
me. I could understand that, of course. Mother was quite sickening about Sonny.
Even at mealtimes she'd get up and gawk at him[34] in the cradle, with an
idiotic smile, and tell Father to do the same. He was always polite about it,
but he looked so puzzled you could see he didn't know what she was talking
about. He complained of the way Sonny cried at night, but she only got cross and
said that Sonny never cried except when there was something up with him--which
was a flaming lie, because Sonny never had anything up with him, and only cried
for attention. It was really painful to see how simple-minded she was. Father
wasn't attractive, but he had a fine intelligence. He saw through Sonny, and now
he knew that I saw through him as well.
        　　One night I woke with a start. There was someone beside me in the bed. For
one wild moment I felt sure it must be Mother, having come to her senses and
left Father for good, but then I heard Sonny in convulsions in the next room,
and Mother saying: "There! There! There!" and I knew it wasn't she. It was
Father. He was lying beside me, wide awake, breathing hard and apparently as mad
as hell.
        　　After a while it came to me what he was mad about. It was his turn now.
After turning me out of the big bed, he had been turned out himself.
        　　Mother had no consideration now for anyone but that poisonous pup, Sonny. I
couldn't help feeling sorry for Father. I had been through it all myself, and
even at that age I was magnanimous. I began to stroke him down[35] and say:
“There! There !” He wasn't exactly responsive.
        　　“Aren't you asleep either?” he snarled.
        　　“Ah, come on and put your arm around us, can't you?” I said, and he did, in
a sort of way. Gingerly, I suppose, is how you'd describe it. He was very bony
but better than nothing.
        　　At Christmas he went out of his way to buy me a really nice model
railway.
        　　Discussion Topics
        　　1. Describe the life Larry had before Father came back from the war.
        　　2. What incident induced Larry to make the decision that either Father or
he would have to leave the house?
        　　3. In the whole story, Larry’s mother is not always kept in the foreground,
but she is indispensable in a sense. Discuss the functions of this
character.
        　　4. Find out the turning point in the change of the tense relationship
between Father and the son.
        　　Notes
        　　1. khaki: n. cloth of yellow-brown color, esp. as worn by soldiers. This
indicates that his father was in the army.
        　　2. Gurkha knives: short swords first used by a tribe (the Gurkha) in
India
        　　3. button-sticks: appliances to protect cloth in button-polishing
        　　4. came in handy: was useful from time to time
        　　5. terrace: n. a row of houses joined to each other
        　　6. I thawed: I gradually felt warm.
        　　7. The irony of it: The course of events had the opposite result from what
Larry had expected.
        　　8. donned: put on
        　　9. divert: v. amuse
        　　10. got into a wax: (slang) became very angry
        　　11. tucking me up: putting me to bed
        　　12. cracked up to be: believed to be
        　　13. the Home: a place for the care of a group of people who do not live
with a family
        　　14. caught it: infml. was in trouble for doing something wrong
        　　15. racking my brains to know: trying hard to think
        　　16. gush: n. a sudden show of strong feeling
        　　17. like burying a family from the cradle: not letting them live any
more
        　　18. spite: v. annoy intentionally
        　　19. impossible: adj. very unpleasant
        　　20. Miss MacCarthy: She might be the postmistress. Father was paid by the
government through the mail.
        　　21. got me down: depressed or annoyed me
        　　22. convicted her out of her mouth of inconsistency and unreasonableness:
had proved her guilty of being inconsistent and unfair
        　　23. as good as: almost
        　　24. codded me: made a fool of me
        　　25. beside myself: almost mad
        　　26. let fly at me: hit me
        　　27. intercession: n. a sort of prayer which asks for other people to be
helped, etc.
        　　28. scowl: n. angry frown
        　　29. obnoxious: adj. unpleasant , nasty
        　　30. put the Geneys in their place: show them that we have a low opinion of
them
        　　31. hullabaloo: n. a lot of noise
        　　32. flaking: (slang) spanking
        　　33. let on: pretended
        　　34. gawk at him: look at him in a foolish way
        　　35. stroke him down: appease his anger