Of course, I hated my fellow clerks one and all, and I despised them all, yet at the same time I was, as it were, afraid of them. In fact, it happened at times that I thought more highly of them than of myself. It somehow happened quite suddenly that I alternated between despising them and thinking them superior to myself. A cultivated and decent man cannot be vain without setting a fearfully high standard for himself, and without despising and almost hating himself at certain moments. But whether I despised them or thought them superior I dropped my eyes almost every time I met anyone. I even made experiments whether I could face so and so’s looking at me, and I was always the first to drop my eyes. This worried me to distraction14. I had a sickly dread15, too, of being ridiculous, and so had a slavish passion for the conventional in everything external. I loved to fall into the common rut, and had a whole-hearted terror of any kind of eccentricity16 in myself. But how could I live up to it? I was morbidly17 sensitive as a man of our age should be. They were all stupid, and as like one another as so many sheep. Perhaps I was the only one in the office who fancied that I was a coward and a slave, and I fancied it just because I was more highly developed. But it was not only that I fancied it, it really was so. I was a coward and a slave. I say this without the slightest embarrassment18. Every decent man of our age must be a coward and a slave. That is his normal condition. Of that I am firmly persuaded. He is made and constructed to that very end. And not only at the present time owing to some casual circumstances, but always, at all times, a decent man is bound to be a coward and a slave. It is the law of nature for all decent people all over the earth. If anyone of them happens to be valiant19 about something, he need not be comforted nor carried away by that; he would show the white feather just the same before something else. That is how it invariably and inevitably20 ends. Only donkeys and mules21 are valiant, and they only till they are pushed up to the wall. It is not worth while to pay attention to them for they really are of no consequence.
Another circumstance, too, worried me in those days: that there was no one like me and I was unlike anyone else. “I am alone and they are EVERYONE,” I thought — and pondered.
From that it is evident that I was still a youngster.
The very opposite sometimes happened. It was loathsome22 sometimes to go to the office; things reached such a point that I often came home ill. But all at once, A PROPOS of nothing, there would come a phase of scepticism and indifference23 (everything happened in phases to me), and I would laugh myself at my intolerance and fastidiousness, I would reproach myself with being ROMANTIC. At one time I was unwilling24 to speak to anyone, while at other times I would not only talk, but go to the length of contemplating25 making friends with them. All my fastidiousness would suddenly, for no rhyme or reason, vanish. Who knows, perhaps I never had really had it, and it had simply been affected26, and got out of books. I have not decided27 that question even now. Once I quite made friends with them, visited their homes, played preference, drank vodka, talked of promotions28 . . . . But here let me make a digression.
We Russians, speaking generally, have never had those foolish transcendental “romantics”— German, and still more French — on whom nothing produces any effect; if there were an earthquake, if all France perished at the barricades30, they would still be the same, they would not even have the decency31 to affect a change, but would still go on singing their transcendental songs to the hour of their death, because they are fools. We, in Russia, have no fools; that is well known. That is what distinguishes us from foreign lands. Consequently these transcendental natures are not found amongst us in their pure form. The idea that they are is due to our “realistic” journalists and critics of that day, always on the look out for Kostanzhoglos and Uncle Pyotr Ivanitchs and foolishly accepting them as our ideal; they have slandered32 our romantics, taking them for the same transcendental sort as in Germany or France. On the contrary, the characteristics of our “romantics” are absolutely and directly opposed to the transcendental European type, and no European standard can be applied33 to them. (Allow me to make use of this word “romantic”— an old-fashioned and much respected word which has done good service and is familiar to all.) The characteristics of our romantic are to understand everything, TO SEE EVERYTHING AND TO SEE IT OFTEN INCOMPARABLY MORE CLEARLY THAN OUR MOST REALISTIC MINDS SEE IT; to refuse to accept anyone or anything, but at the same time not to despise anything; to give way, to yield, from policy; never to lose sight of a useful practical object (such as rent-free quarters at the government expense, pensions, decorations), to keep their eye on that object through all the enthusiasms and volumes of lyrical poems, and at the same time to preserve “the sublime35 and the beautiful” inviolate36 within them to the hour of their death, and to preserve themselves also, incidentally, like some precious jewel wrapped in cotton wool if only for the benefit of “the sublime and the beautiful.” Our “romantic” is a man of great breadth and the greatest rogue37 of all our rogues38, I assure you . . . . I can assure you from experience, indeed. Of course, that is, if he is intelligent. But what am I saying! The romantic is always intelligent, and I only meant to observe that although we have had foolish romantics they don’t count, and they were only so because in the flower of their youth they degenerated39 into Germans, and to preserve their precious jewel more comfortably, settled somewhere out there — by preference in Weimar or the Black Forest.
I, for instance, genuinely despised my official work and did not openly abuse it simply because I was in it myself and got a salary for it. Anyway, take note, I did not openly abuse it. Our romantic would rather go out of his mind — a thing, however, which very rarely happens — than take to open abuse, unless he had some other career in view; and he is never kicked out. At most, they would take him to the lunatic asylum40 as “the King of Spain” if he should go very mad. But it is only the thin, fair people who go out of their minds in Russia. Innumerable “romantics” attain41 later in life to considerable rank in the service. Their many-sidedness is remarkable42! And what a faculty43 they have for the most contradictory44 sensations! I was comforted by this thought even in those days, and I am of the same opinion now. That is why there are so many “broad natures” among us who never lose their ideal even in the depths of degradation45; and though they never stir a finger for their ideal, though they are arrant46 thieves and knaves47, yet they tearfully cherish their first ideal and are extraordinarily48 honest at heart. Yes, it is only among us that the most incorrigible49 rogue can be absolutely and loftily honest at heart without in the least ceasing to be a rogue. I repeat, our romantics, frequently, become such accomplished50 rascals51 (I use the term “rascals” affectionately), suddenly display such a sense of reality and practical knowledge that their bewildered superiors and the public generally can only ejaculate in amazement52.
Their many-sidedness is really amazing, and goodness knows what it may develop into later on, and what the future has in store for us. It is not a poor material! I do not say this from any foolish or boastful patriotism53. But I feel sure that you are again imagining that I am joking. Or perhaps it’s just the contrary and you are convinced that I really think so. Anyway, gentlemen, I shall welcome both views as an honour and a special favour. And do forgive my digression.
I did not, of course, maintain friendly relations with my comrades and soon was at loggerheads with them, and in my youth and inexperience I even gave up bowing to them, as though I had cut off all relations. That, however, only happened to me once. As a rule, I was always alone.
In the first place I spent most of my time at home, reading. I tried to stifle54 all that was continually seething55 within me by means of external impressions. And the only external means I had was reading. Reading, of course, was a great help — exciting me, giving me pleasure and pain. But at times it bored me fearfully. One longed for movement in spite of everything, and I plunged56 all at once into dark, underground, loathsome vice34 of the pettiest kind. My wretched passions were acute, smarting, from my continual, sickly irritability57 I had hysterical58 impulses, with tears and convulsions. I had no resource except reading, that is, there was nothing in my surroundings which I could respect and which attracted me. I was overwhelmed with depression, too; I had an hysterical craving59 for incongruity60 and for contrast, and so I took to vice. I have not said all this to justify61 myself . . . . But, no! I am lying. I did want to justify myself. I make that little observation for my own benefit, gentlemen. I don’t want to lie. I vowed62 to myself I would not.
And so, furtively63, timidly, in solitude64, at night, I indulged in filthy65 vice, with a feeling of shame which never deserted66 me, even at the most loathsome moments, and which at such moments nearly made me curse. Already even then I had my underground world in my soul. I was fearfully afraid of being seen, of being met, of being recognised. I visited various obscure haunts.
One night as I was passing a tavern67 I saw through a lighted window some gentlemen fighting with billiard cues, and saw one of them thrown out of the window. At other times I should have felt very much disgusted, but I was in such a mood at the time, that I actually envied the gentleman thrown out of the window — and I envied him so much that I even went into the tavern and into the billiard-room. “Perhaps,” I thought, “I’ll have a fight, too, and they’ll throw me out of the window.”
I was not drunk — but what is one to do — depression will drive a man to such a pitch of hysteria? But nothing happened. It seemed that I was not even equal to being thrown out of the window and I went away without having my fight.
An officer put me in my place from the first moment.
I was standing68 by the billiard-table and in my ignorance blocking up the way, and he wanted to pass; he took me by the shoulders and without a word — without a warning or explanation — moved me from where I was standing to another spot and passed by as though he had not noticed me. I could have forgiven blows, but I could not forgive his having moved me without noticing me.
Devil knows what I would have given for a real regular quarrel — a more decent, a more LITERARY one, so to speak. I had been treated like a fly. This officer was over six foot, while I was a spindly little fellow. But the quarrel was in my hands. I had only to protest and I certainly would have been thrown out of the window. But I changed my mind and preferred to beat a resentful retreat.
I went out of the tavern straight home, confused and troubled, and the next night I went out again with the same lewd69 intentions, still more furtively, abjectly70 and miserably71 than before, as it were, with tears in my eyes — but still I did go out again. Don’t imagine, though, it was coward- ice made me slink away from the officer; I never have been a coward at heart, though I have always been a coward in action. Don’t be in a hurry to laugh — I assure you I can explain it all.
Oh, if only that officer had been one of the sort who would consent to fight a duel72! But no, he was one of those gentlemen (alas, long extinct!) who preferred fighting with cues or, like Gogol’s Lieutenant73 Pirogov, appealing to the police. They did not fight duels74 and would have thought a duel with a civilian75 like me an utterly76 unseemly procedure in any case — and they looked upon the duel altogether as something impossible, something free-thinking and French. But they were quite ready to bully77, especially when they were over six foot.
I did not slink away through cowardice79, but through an unbounded vanity. I was afraid not of his six foot, not of getting a sound thrashing and being thrown out of the window; I should have had physical courage enough, I assure you; but I had not the moral courage. What I was afraid of was that everyone present, from the insolent80 marker down to the lowest little stinking81, pimply82 clerk in a greasy83 collar, would jeer84 at me and fail to understand when I began to protest and to address them in literary language. For of the point of honour — not of honour, but of the point of honour (POINT D’HONNEUR)— one cannot speak among us except in literary language. You can’t allude85 to the “point of honour” in ordinary language. I was fully13 convinced (the sense of reality, in spite of all my romanticism!) that they would all simply split their sides with laughter, and that the officer would not simply beat me, that is, without insulting me, but would certainly prod29 me in the back with his knee, kick me round the billiard- table, and only then perhaps have pity and drop me out of the window.
Of course, this trivial incident could not with me end in that. I often met that officer afterwards in the street and noticed him very carefully. I am not quite sure whether he recognised me, I imagine not; I judge from certain signs. But I— I stared at him with spite and hatred86 and so it went on . . . for several years! My resentment87 grew even deeper with years. At first I began making stealthy inquiries88 about this officer. It was difficult for me to do so, for I knew no one. But one day I heard someone shout his surname in the street as I was following him at a distance, as though I were tied to him — and so I learnt his surname. Another time I followed him to his flat, and for ten kopecks learned from the porter where he lived, on which storey, whether he lived alone or with others, and so on — in fact, everything one could learn from a porter. One morning, though I had never tried my hand with the pen, it suddenly occurred to me to write a satire89 on this officer in the form of a novel which would unmask his villainy. I wrote the novel with relish90. I did unmask his villainy, I even exaggerated it; at first I so altered his surname that it could easily be recognised, but on second thoughts I changed it, and sent the story to the OTETCHESTVENNIYA ZAPISKI. But at that time such attacks were not the fashion and my story was not printed. That was a great vexation to me.
Sometimes I was positively choked with resentment. At last I determined91 to challenge my enemy to a duel. I composed a splendid, charming letter to him, imploring92 him to apologise to me, and hinting rather plainly at a duel in case of refusal. The letter was so composed that if the officer had had the least understanding of the sublime and the beautiful he would certainly have flung himself on my neck and have offered me his friendship. And how fine that would have been! How we should have got on together! “He could have shielded me with his higher rank, while I could have improved his mind with my culture, and, well . . . my ideas, and all sorts of things might have happened.” Only fancy, this was two years after his insult to me, and my challenge would have been a ridiculous anachronism, in spite of all the ingenuity93 of my letter in disguising and explaining away the anachronism. But, thank God (to this day I thank the Almighty94 with tears in my eyes) I did not send the letter to him. Cold shivers run down my back when I think of what might have happened if I had sent it.
And all at once I revenged myself in the simplest way, by a stroke of genius! A brilliant thought suddenly dawned upon me. Sometimes on holidays I used to stroll along the sunny side of the Nevsky about four o’clock in the afternoon. Though it was hardly a stroll so much as a series of innumerable miseries95, humiliations and resentments97; but no doubt that was just what I wanted. I used to wriggle98 along in a most unseemly fashion, like an eel10, continually moving aside to make way for generals, for officers of the guards and the hussars, or for ladies. At such minutes there used to be a convulsive twinge at my heart, and I used to feel hot all down my back at the mere99 thought of the wretchedness of my attire100, of the wretchedness and abjectness101 of my little scurrying102 figure. This was a regular martyrdom, a continual, intolerable humiliation96 at the thought, which passed into an incessant103 and direct sensation, that I was a mere fly in the eyes of all this world, a nasty, disgusting fly — more intelligent, more highly developed, more refined in feeling than any of them, of course — but a fly that was continually making way for everyone, insulted and injured by everyone. Why I inflicted104 this torture upon myself, why I went to the Nevsky, I don’t know. I felt simply drawn105 there at every possible opportunity.
Already then I began to experience a rush of the enjoyment106 of which I spoke107 in the first chapter. After my affair with the officer I felt even more drawn there than before: it was on the Nevsky that I met him most frequently, there I could admire him. He, too, went there chiefly on holidays, He, too, turned out of his path for generals and persons of high rank, and he too, wriggled108 between them like an eel; but people, like me, or even better dressed than me, he simply walked over; he made straight for them as though there was nothing but empty space before him, and never, under any circumstances, turned aside. I gloated over my resentment watching him and . . . always resentfully made way for him. It exasperated109 me that even in the street I could not be on an even footing with him.
“Why must you invariably be the first to move aside?” I kept asking myself in hysterical rage, waking up sometimes at three o’clock in the morning. “Why is it you and not he? There’s no regulation about it; there’s no written law. Let the making way be equal as it usually is when refined people meet; he moves half-way and you move half-way; you pass with mutual110 respect.”
But that never happened, and I always moved aside, while he did not even notice my making way for him. And lo and behold111 a bright idea dawned upon me! “What,” I thought, “if I meet him and don’t move on one side? What if I don’t move aside on purpose, even if I knock up against him? How would that be?” This audacious idea took such a hold on me that it gave me no peace. I was dreaming of it continually, horribly, and I purposely went more frequently to the Nevsky in order to picture more vividly112 how I should do it when I did do it. I was delighted. This intention seemed to me more and more practical and possible.
“Of course I shall not really push him,” I thought, already more good- natured in my joy. “I will simply not turn aside, will run up against him, not very violently, but just shouldering each other — just as much as decency permits. I will push against him just as much as he pushes against me.” At last I made up my mind completely. But my preparations took a great deal of time. To begin with, when I carried out my plan I should need to be looking rather more decent, and so I had to think of my get-up. “In case of emergency, if, for instance, there were any sort of public scandal (and the public there is of the most RECHERCHE113: the Countess walks there; Prince D. walks there; all the literary world is there), I must be well dressed; that inspires respect and of itself puts us on an equal footing in the eyes of the society.”
With this object I asked for some of my salary in advance, and bought at Tchurkin’s a pair of black gloves and a decent hat. Black gloves seemed to me both more dignified114 and BON TON than the lemon-coloured ones which I had contemplated115 at first. “The colour is too gaudy116, it looks as though one were trying to be conspicuous,” and I did not take the lemon-coloured ones. I had got ready long beforehand a good shirt, with white bone studs; my overcoat was the only thing that held me back. The coat in itself was a very good one, it kept me warm; but it was wadded and it had a raccoon collar which was the height of vulgarity. I had to change the collar at any sacrifice, and to have a beaver117 one like an officer’s. For this purpose I began visiting the Gostiny Dvor and after several attempts I pitched upon a piece of cheap German beaver. Though these German beavers118 soon grow shabby and look wretched, yet at first they look exceedingly well, and I only needed it for the occasion. I asked the price; even so, it was too expensive. After thinking it over thoroughly119 I decided to sell my raccoon collar. The rest of the money — a considerable sum for me, I decided to borrow from Anton Antonitch Syetotchkin, my immediate120 superior, an unassuming person, though grave and judicious121. He never lent money to anyone, but I had, on entering the service, been specially78 recommended to him by an important personage who had got me my berth122. I was horribly worried. To borrow from Anton Antonitch seemed to me monstrous123 and shameful124. I did not sleep for two or three nights. Indeed, I did not sleep well at that time, I was in a fever; I had a vague sinking at my heart or else a sudden throbbing125, throbbing, throbbing! Anton Antonitch was surprised at first, then he frowned, then he reflected, and did after all lend me the money, receiving from me a written authorisation to take from my salary a fortnight later the sum that he had lent me.
In this way everything was at last ready. The handsome beaver replaced the mean-looking raccoon, and I began by degrees to get to work. It would never have done to act offhand126, at random127; the plan had to be carried out skilfully128, by degrees. But I must confess that after many efforts I began to despair: we simply could not run into each other. I made every preparation, I was quite determined — it seemed as though we should run into one another directly — and before I knew what I was doing I had stepped aside for him again and he had passed without noticing me. I even prayed as I approached him that God would grant me determination. One time I had made up my mind thoroughly, but it ended in my stumbling and falling at his feet because at the very last instant when I was six inches from him my courage failed me. He very calmly stepped over me, while I flew on one side like a ball. That night I was ill again, feverish129 and delirious130.
And suddenly it ended most happily. The night before I had made up my mind not to carry out my fatal plan and to abandon it all, and with that object I went to the Nevsky for the last time, just to see how I would abandon it all. Suddenly, three paces from my enemy, I unexpectedly made up my mind — I closed my eyes, and we ran full tilt131, shoulder to shoulder, against one another! I did not budge132 an inch and passed him on a perfectly equal footing! He did not even look round and pretended not to notice it; but he was only pretending, I am convinced of that. I am convinced of that to this day! Of course, I got the worst of it — he was stronger, but that was not the point. The point was that I had attained133 my object, I had kept up my dignity, I had not yielded a step, and had put myself publicly on an equal social footing with him. I returned home feeling that I was fully avenged134 for everything. I was delighted. I was triumphant135 and sang Italian arias136. Of course, I will not describe to you what happened to me three days later; if you have read my first chapter you can guess for yourself. The officer was afterwards transferred; I have not seen him now for fourteen years. What is the dear fellow doing now? Whom is he walking over?
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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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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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verged
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| 接近，逼近（verge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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eel
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| n.鳗鲡 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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promotions
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| 促进( promotion的名词复数 )； 提升； 推广； 宣传 | |
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prod
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| vt.戳，刺；刺激，激励 | |
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barricades
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| 路障，障碍物( barricade的名词复数 ) | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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slandered
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| 造谣中伤( slander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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inviolate
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| adj.未亵渎的，未受侵犯的 | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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degenerated
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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41
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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42
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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43
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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44
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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45
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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46
arrant
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| adj.极端的；最大的 | |
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47
knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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48
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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49
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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50
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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51
rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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52
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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53
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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54
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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55
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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56
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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57
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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58
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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59
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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60
incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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61
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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62
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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63
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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64
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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65
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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66
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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67
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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68
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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69
lewd
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| adj.淫荡的 | |
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70
abjectly
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| 凄惨地； 绝望地； 糟透地； 悲惨地 | |
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71
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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72
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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73
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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74
duels
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| n.两男子的决斗( duel的名词复数 )；竞争，斗争 | |
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75
civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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76
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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77
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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78
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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79
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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80
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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81
stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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82
pimply
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| adj.肿泡的；有疙瘩的；多粉刺的；有丘疹的 | |
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83
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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84
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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85
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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86
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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87
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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88
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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89
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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90
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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91
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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92
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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93
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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94
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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95
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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96
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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97
resentments
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| （因受虐待而）愤恨，不满，怨恨( resentment的名词复数 ) | |
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98
wriggle
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| v./n.蠕动，扭动；蜿蜒 | |
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99
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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100
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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101
abjectness
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| 凄惨； 绝望； 卑鄙； 卑劣 | |
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102
scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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103
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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104
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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106
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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107
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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108
wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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109
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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110
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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111
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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112
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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113
recherche
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| adj.精选的；罕有的 | |
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114
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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115
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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116
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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117
beaver
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| n.海狸，河狸 | |
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118
beavers
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| 海狸( beaver的名词复数 )； 海狸皮毛； 棕灰色； 拼命工作的人 | |
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119
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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120
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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121
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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122
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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123
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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124
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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125
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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126
offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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127
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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128
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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129
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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130
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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131
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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132
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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133
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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134
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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135
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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136
arias
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| n.咏叹调( aria的名词复数 ) | |
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