Stepping in view from beyond the lodge1 appeared the expected visitors of Peter Ivanovitch: a small party composed of two men and a woman. They noticed him too, immediately, and stopped short as if to consult. But in a moment the woman, moving aside, motioned with her arm to the two men, who, leaving the drive at once, struck across the large neglected lawn, or rather grass-plot, and made directly for the house. The woman remained on the path waiting for Razumov’s approach. She had recognized him. He, too, had recognized her at the first glance. He had been made known to her at Zurich, where he had broken his journey while on his way from Dresden. They had been much together for the three days of his stay.
She was wearing the very same costume in which he had seen her first. A blouse of crimson2 silk made her noticeable at a distance. With that she wore a short brown skirt and a leather belt. Her complexion3 was the colour of coffee and milk, but very clear; her eyes black and glittering, her figure erect4. A lot of thick hair, nearly white, was done up loosely under a dusty Tyrolese hat of dark cloth, which seemed to have lost some of its trimmings.
The expression of her face was grave, intent; so grave that Razumov, after approaching her close, felt obliged to smile. She greeted him with a manly5 hand-grasp.
“What! Are you going away?” she exclaimed. “How is that, Razumov?”
“I am going away because I haven’t been asked to stay,” Razumov answered, returning the pressure of her hand with much less force than she had put into it.
She jerked her head sideways like one who understands. Meantime Razumov’s eyes had strayed after the two men. They were crossing the grass-plot obliquely6, without haste. The shorter of the two was buttoned up in a narrow overcoat of some thin grey material, which came nearly to his heels. His companion, much taller and broader, wore a short, close-fitting jacket and tight trousers tucked into shabby top-boots.
The woman, who had sent them out of Razumov’s way apparently7, spoke8 in a businesslike voice.
“I had to come rushing from Zurich on purpose to meet the train and take these two along here to see Peter Ivanovitch. I’ve just managed it.”
“Ah! indeed,” Razumov said perfunctorily, and very vexed9 at her staying behind to talk to him “From Zurich — yes, of course. And these two, they come from . . . .”
She interrupted, without emphasis —
“From quite another direction. From a distance, too. A considerable distance.”
Razumov shrugged10 his shoulders. The two men from a distance, after having reached the wall of the terrace, disappeared suddenly at its foot as if the earth had opened to swallow them up.
“Oh, well, they have just come from America.” The woman in the crimson blouse shrugged her shoulders too a little before making that statement. “The time is drawing near,” she interjected, as if speaking to herself. “I did not tell them who you were. Yakovlitch would have wanted to embrace you.”
“Is that he with the wisp of hair hanging from his chin, in the long coat?”
“You’ve guessed aright. That’s Yakovlitch.”
“And they could not find their way here from the station without you coming on purpose from Zurich to show it to them? Verily, without women we can do nothing. So it stands written, and apparently so it is.”
He was conscious of an immense lassitude under his effort to be sarcastic11. And he could see that she had detected it with those steady, brilliant black eyes.
“What is the matter with you?”
“I don’t know. Nothing. I’ve had a devil of a day.”
She waited, with her black eyes fixed12 on his face. Then —
“What of that? You men are so impressionable and self-conscious. One day is like another, hard, hard — and there’s an end of it, till the great day comes. I came over for a very good reason. They wrote to warn Peter Ivanovitch of their arrival. But where from? Only from Cherbourg on a bit of ship’s notepaper. Anybody could have done that. Yakovlitch has lived for years and years in America. I am the only one at hand who had known him well in the old days. I knew him very well indeed. So Peter Ivanovitch telegraphed, asking me to come. It’s natural enough, is it not?”
“You came to vouch13 for his identity?” inquired Razumov.
“Yes. Something of the kind. Fifteen years of a life like his make changes in a man. Lonely, like a crow in a strange country. When I think of Yakovlitch before he went to America —”
The softness of the low tone caused Razumov to glance at her sideways. She sighed; her black eyes were looking away; she had plunged14 the fingers of her right hand deep into the mass of nearly white hair, and stirred them there absently. When she withdrew her hand the little hat perched on the top of her head remained slightly tilted15, with a queer inquisitive16 effect, contrasting strongly with the reminiscent murmur17 that escaped her.
“We were not in our first youth even then. But a man is a child always.”
Razumov thought suddenly, “They have been living together.” Then aloud —
“Why didn’t you follow him to America?” he asked point-blank.
She looked up at him with a perturbed18 air.
“Don’t you remember what was going on fifteen years ago? It was a time of activity. The Revolution has its history by this time. You are in it and yet you don’t seem to know it. Yakovlitch went away then on a mission; I went back to Russia. It had to be so. Afterwards there was nothing for him to come back to.”
“Ah! indeed,” muttered Razumov, with affected19 surprise. “ Nothing!”
“What are you trying to insinuate20 “ she exclaimed quickly. “ Well, and what then if he did get discouraged a little . . . .”
“He looks like a Yankee, with that goatee hanging from his chin. A regular Uncle Sam,” growled21 Razumov. “Well, and you? You who went to Russia? You did not get discouraged.”
“Never mind. Yakovlitch is a man who cannot be doubted. He, at any rate, is the right sort.”
Her black, penetrating22 gaze remained fixed upon Razumov while she spoke, and for a moment afterwards.
“Pardon me, “Razumov inquired coldly, “but does it mean that you, for instance, think that I am not the right sort?”
She made no protest, gave no sign of having heard the question; she continued looking at him in a manner which he judged not to be absolutely unfriendly. In Zurich when he passed through she had taken him under her charge, in a way, and was with him from morning till night during his stay of two days. She took him round to see several people. At first she talked to him a great deal and rather unreservedly, but always avoiding all reference to herself; towards the middle of the second day she fell silent, attending him zealously23 as before, and even seeing him off at the railway station, where she pressed his hand firmly through the lowered carriage window, and, stepping back without a word, waited till the train moved. He had noticed that she was treated with quiet regard. He knew nothing of her parentage, nothing of her private history or political record; he judged her from his own private point of view, as being a distinct danger in his path. “Judged “ is not perhaps the right word. It was more of a feeling, the summing up of slight impressions aided by the discovery that he could not despise her as he despised all the others. He had not expected to see her again so soon.
No, decidedly; her expression was not unfriendly. Yet he perceived an acceleration25 in the beat of his heart. The conversation could not be abandoned at that point. He went on in accents of scrupulous26 inquiry27 —
“Is it perhaps because I don’t seem to accept blindly every development of the general doctrine28 — such for instance as the feminism of our great Peter Ivanovitch? If that is what makes me suspect, then I can only say I would scorn to be a slave even to an idea.”
She had been looking at him all the time, not as a listener looks at one, but as if the words he chose to say were only of secondary interest. When he finished she slipped her hand, by a sudden and decided24 movement, under his arm and impelled29 him gently towards the gate of the grounds. He felt her firmness and obeyed the impulsion at once, just as the other two men had, a moment before, obeyed unquestioningly the wave of her hand.
They made a few steps like this.
“No, Razumov, your ideas are probably all right,” she said. “You may be valuable — very valuable. What’s the matter with you is that you don’t like us.”
She released him. He met her with a frosty smile.
“Am I expected then to have love as well as convictions?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“You know very well what I mean. People have been thinking you not quite whole-hearted. I have heard that opinion from one side and another. But I have understood you at the end of the first day . . . .”
Razumov interrupted her, speaking steadily30.
“I assure you that your perspicacity31 is at fault here.”
“What phrases he uses!” she exclaimed parenthetically. “Ah! Kirylo Sidorovitch, you like other men are fastidious, full of self-love and afraid of trifles. Moreover, you had no training. What you want is to be taken in hand by some woman. I am sorry I am not staying here a few days. I am going back to Zurich to- morrow, and shall take Yakovlitch with me most likely.”
This information relieved Razumov.
“I am sorry too,” he said. “But, all the same, I don’t think you understand me.”
He breathed more freely; she did not protest, but asked, “And how did you get on with Peter Ivanovitch? You have seen a good deal of each other. How is it between you two?”
Not knowing what answer to make, the young man inclined his head slowly.
Her lips had been parted in expectation. She pressed them together, and seemed to reflect.
“That’s all right.”
This had a sound of finality, but she did not leave him. It was impossible to guess what she had in her mind. Razumov muttered —
“It is not of me that you should have asked that question. In a moment you shall see Peter Ivanovitch himself, and the subject will come up naturally. He will be curious to know what has delayed you so long in this garden.”
“No doubt Peter Ivanovitch will have something to say to me. Several things. He may even speak of you — question me. Peter Ivanovitch is inclined to trust me generally.”
“Question you? That’s very likely.”
She smiled, half serious.
“Well — and what shall I say to him?”
“I don’t know. You may tell him of your discovery.”
“What’s that?”
“Why — my lack of love for . . . .”
“Oh! That’s between ourselves,” she interrupted, it was hard to say whether in jest or earnest.
“I see that you want to tell Peter Ivanovitch something in my favour,” said Razumov, with grim playfulness. “Well, then, you can tell him that I am very much in earnest about my mission. I mean to succeed.”
“You have been given a mission!” she exclaimed quickly.
“It amounts to that. I have been told to bring about a certain event.”
She looked at him searchingly.
“A mission,” she repeated, very grave and interested all at once. “What sort of mission?”
“Something in the nature of propaganda work.”
“Ah! Far away from here?”
“No. Not very far,” said Razumov, restraining a sudden desire to laugh, although he did not feel joyous32 in the least.
“So!” she said thoughtfully. “Well, I am not asking questions. It’s sufficient that Peter Ivanovitch should know what each of us is doing. Everything is bound to come right in the end.”
“You think so?”
“I don’t think, young man. I just simply believe it.”
“And is it to Peter Ivanovitch that you owe that faith?”
She did not answer the question, and they stood idle, silent, as if reluctant to part with each other.
“That’s just like a man,” she murmured at last. “As if it were possible to tell how a belief comes to one.” Her thin Mephistophelian eyebrows33 moved a little. “Truly there are millions of people in Russia who would envy the life of dogs in this country. It is a horror and a shame to confess this even between ourselves. One must believe for very pity. This can’t go on. No! It can’t go on. For twenty years I have been coming and going, looking neither to the left nor to the right. . . . What are you smiling to yourself for? You are only at the beginning. You have begun well, but you just wait till you have trodden every particle of yourself under your feet in your comings and goings. For that is what it comes to. You’ve got to trample34 down every particle of your own feelings; for stop you cannot, you must not. I have been young, too — but perhaps you think that I am complaining-eh?”
“I don’t think anything of the sort,” protested Razumov indifferently.
“I dare say you don’t, you dear superior creature. You don’t care.”
She plunged her fingers into the bunch of hair on the left side, and that brusque movement had the effect of setting the Tyrolese hat straight on her head. She frowned under it without animosity, in the manner of an investigator35. Razumov averted36 his face carelessly.
“You men are all alike. You mistake luck for merit. You do it in good faith too! I would not be too hard on you. It’s masculine nature. You men are ridiculously pitiful in your aptitude37 to cherish childish illusions down to the very grave. There are a lot of us who have been at work for fifteen years — I mean constantly — trying one way after another, underground and above ground, looking neither to the right nor to the left! I can talk about it. I have been one of these that never rested. . . . There! What’s the use of talking. . . . Look at my grey hairs! And here two babies come along — I mean you and Haldin — you come along and manage to strike a blow at the very first try.”
At the name of Haldin falling from the rapid and energetic lips of the woman revolutionist, Razumov had the usual brusque consciousness of the irrevocable. But in all the months which had passed over his head he had become hardened to the experience. The consciousness was no longer accompanied by the blank dismay and the blind anger of the early days. He had argued himself into new beliefs; and he had made for himself a mental atmosphere of gloomy and sardonic38 reverie, a sort of murky39 medium through which the event appeared like a featureless shadow having vaguely40 the shape of a man; a shape extremely familiar, yet utterly41 inexpressive, except for its air of discreet42 waiting in the dusk. It was not alarming.
“What was he like?” the woman revolutionist asked unexpectedly.
“What was he like?” echoed Razumov, making a painful effort not to turn upon her savagely43. But he relieved himself by laughing a little while he stole a glance at her out of the corners of his eyes. This reception of her inquiry disturbed her.
“How like a woman,” he went on. “What is the good of concerning yourself with his appearance? Whatever it was, he is removed beyond all feminine influences now.”
A frown, making three folds at the root of her nose, accentuated44 the Mephistophelian slant45 of her eyebrows.
“You suffer, Razumov,” she suggested, in her low, confident voice.
“What nonsense!” Razumov faced the woman fairly. “But now I think of it, I am not sure that he is beyond the influence of one woman at least; the one over there — Madame de S— — you know. Formerly46 the dead were allowed to rest, but now it seems they are at the beck and call of a crazy old harridan47. We revolutionists make wonderful discoveries. It is true that they are not exactly our own. We have nothing of our own. But couldn’t the friend of Peter Ivanovitch satisfy your feminine curiosity? Couldn’t she conjure48 him up for you?”— he jested like a man in pain.
Her concentrated frowning expression relaxed, and she said, a little wearily, “Let us hope she will make an effort and conjure up some tea for us. But that is by no means certain. I am tired, Razumov.”
“You tired! What a confession49! Well, there has been tea up there. I had some. If you hurry on after Yakovlitch, instead of wasting your time with such an unsatisfactory sceptical person as myself, you may find the ghost of it — the cold ghost of it — still lingering in the temple. But as to you being tired I can hardly believe it. We are not supposed to be. We mustn’t, We can’t. The other day I read in some paper or other an alarmist article on the tireless activity of the revolutionary parties. It impresses the world. It’s our prestige.”
“He flings out continually these flouts50 and sneers;” the woman in the crimson blouse spoke as if appealing quietly to a third person, but her black eyes never left Razumov’s face. “And what for, pray? Simply because some of his conventional notions are shocked, some of his petty masculine standards. You might think he was one of these nervous sensitives that come to a bad end. And yet,” she went on, after a short, reflective pause and changing the mode of her address, “and yet I have just learned something which makes me think that you are a man of character, Kirylo Sidorovitch. Yes! indeed — you are.”
The mysterious positiveness of this assertion startled Razumov. Their eyes met. He looked away and, through the bars of the rusty51 gate, stared at the clean, wide road shaded by the leafy trees. An electric tramcar, quite empty, ran along the avenue with a metallic52 rustle53. It seemed to him he would have given anything to be sitting inside all alone. He was inexpressibly weary, weary in every fibre of his body, but he had a reason for not being the first to break off the conversation. At any instant, in the visionary and criminal babble54 of revolutionists, some momentous55 words might fall on his ear; from her lips, from anybody’s lips. As long as he managed to preserve a clear mind and to keep down his irritability56 there was nothing to fear. The only condition of success and safety was indomitable will-power, he reminded himself.
He longed to be on the other side of the bars, as though he were actually a prisoner within the grounds of this centre of revolutionary plots, of this house of folly57, of blindness, of villainy and crime. Silently he indulged his wounded spirit in a feeling of immense moral and mental remoteness. He did not even smile when he heard her repeat the words —
“Yes! A strong character.”
He continued to gaze through the bars like a moody58 prisoner, not thinking of escape, but merely pondering upon the faded memories of freedom.
“If you don’t look out,” he mumbled60, still looking away, “you shall certainly miss seeing as much as the mere59 ghost of that tea.”
She was not to be shaken off in such a way. As a matter of fact he had not expected to succeed.
“Never mind, it will be no great loss. I mean the missing of her tea and only the ghost of it at that. As to the lady, you must understand that she has her positive uses. See that, Razumov.”
He turned his head at this imperative61 appeal and saw the woman revolutionist making the motions of counting money into the palm of her hand.
“That’s what it is. You see?”
Razumov uttered a slow “I see,” and returned to his prisoner-like gazing upon the neat and shady road.
“Material means must be obtained in some way, and this is easier than breaking into banks. More certain too. There! I am joking. . . . What is he muttering to himself now?” she cried under her breath.
“My admiration62 of Peter Ivanovitch’s devoted63 self-sacrifice, that’s all. It’s enough to make one sick.”
“Oh, you squeamish, masculine creature. Sick! Makes him sick! And what do you know of the truth of it? There’s no looking into the secrets of the heart. Peter Ivanovitch knew her years ago, in his worldly days, when he was a young officer in the Guards. It is not for us to judge an inspired person. That’s where you men have an advantage. You are inspired sometimes both in thought and action. I have always admitted that when you are inspired, when you manage to throw off your masculine cowardice64 and prudishness you are not to be equalled by us. Only, how seldom. . . . Whereas the silliest woman can always be made of use. And why? Because we have passion, unappeasable passion. . . . I should like to know what he is smiling at?”
“I am not smiling,” protested Razumov gloomily.
“Well! How is one to call it? You made some sort of face. Yes, I know! You men can love here and hate there and desire something or other — and you make a great to-do about it, and you call it passion! Yes! While it lasts. But we women are in love with love, and with hate, with these very things I tell you, and with desire itself. That’s why we can’t be bribed65 off so easily as you men. In life, you see, there is not much choice. You have either to rot or to burn. And there is not one of us, painted or unpainted, that would not rather burn than rot.”
She spoke with energy, but in a matter-of-fact tone. Razumov’s attention had wandered away on a track of its own — outside the bars of the gate- -but not out of earshot. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his coat.
“Rot or burn! Powerfully stated. Painted or unpainted. Very vigorous. Painted or. . . . Do tell me — she would be infernally jealous of him, wouldn’t she?”
“Who? What? The Baroness66? Eleanor Maximovna? Jealous of Peter Ivanovitch? Heavens! Are these the questions the man’s mind is running on? Such a thing is not to be thought of.”
“Why? Can’t a wealthy old woman be jealous? Or, are they all pure spirits together?”
“But what put it into your head to ask such a question?” she wondered.
“Nothing. I just asked. Masculine frivolity67, if you like.”
“I don’t like,” she retorted at once. “It is not the time to be frivolous68. What are you flinging your very heart against? Or, perhaps, you are only playing a part.”
Razumov had felt that woman’s observation of him like a physical contact, like a hand resting lightly on his shoulder. At that moment he received the mysterious impression of her having made up her mind for a closer grip. He stiffened69 himself inwardly to bear it without betraying himself.
“Playing a Part,” he repeated, presenting to her an unmoved profile. “It must be done very badly since you see through the assumption.”
She watched him, her forehead drawn70 into perpendicular71 folds, the thin black eyebrows diverging72 upwards73 like tile antennae74 of an insect. He added hardly audibly —
“You are mistaken. I am doing it no more than the rest of us.”
“Who is doing it?” she snapped out.
“Who? Everybody,” he said impatiently. “You are a materialist75, aren’t you?”
“Eh! My dear soul, I have outlived all that nonsense.”
“But you must remember the definition of Cabanis: ‘Man is a digestive tube.’ I imagine now . . . .”
“I spit on him.”
“What? On Cabanis? All right. But you can’t ignore the importance of a good digestion76. The joy of life — you know the joy of life? — depends on a sound stomach, whereas a bad digestion inclines one to scepticism, breeds black fancies and thoughts of death. These are facts ascertained77 by physiologists78. Well, I assure you that ever since I came over from Russia I have been stuffed with indigestible foreign concoctions79 of the most nauseating80 kind — pah!”
“You are joking,” she murmured incredulously. He assented82 in a detached way.
“Yes. It is all a joke. It’s hardly worth while talking to a man like me. Yet for that very reason men have been known to take their own life.”
“On the contrary, I think it is worth while talking to you.”
He kept her in the corner of his eye. She seemed to be thinking out some scathing83 retort, but ended by only shrugging her shoulders slightly.
“Shallow talk! I suppose one must pardon this weakness in you,” she said, putting a special accent on the last word. There was something anxious in her indulgent conclusion.
Razumov noted84 the slightest shades in this conversation, which he had not expected, for which he was not prepared. That was it. “I was not prepared,” he said to himself. “It has taken me unawares.” It seemed to him that if he only could allow himself to pant openly like a dog for a time this oppression would pass away. “I shall never be found prepared,” he thought, with despair. He laughed a little, saying as lightly as he could —
“Thanks. I don’t ask for mercy.” Then affecting a playful uneasiness, “But aren’t you afraid Peter Ivanovitch might suspect us of plotting something unauthorized together by the gate here?”
“No, I am not afraid. You are quite safe from suspicions while you are with me, my dear young man.” The humorous gleam in her black eyes went out. “Peter Ivanovitch trusts me,” she went on, quite austerely85. “He takes my advice. I am his right hand, as it were, in certain most important things. . . . That amuses you what? Do you think I am boasting?”
“God forbid. I was just only saying to myself that Peter Ivanovitch seems to have solved the woman question pretty completely.”
Even as he spoke he reproached himself for his words, for his tone. All day long he had been saying the wrong things. It was folly, worse than folly. It was weakness; it was this disease of perversity86 overcoming his will. Was this the way to meet speeches which certainly contained the promise of future confidences from that woman who apparently had a great store of secret knowledge and so much influence? Why give her this puzzling impression? But she did not seem inimical. There was no anger in her voice. It was strangely speculative87.
“One does not know what to think, Razumov. You must have bitten something bitter in your cradle.” Razumov gave her a sidelong glance.
“H’m! Something bitter? That’s an explanation,” he muttered. “Only it was much later. And don’t you think, Sophia Antonovna, that you and I come from the same cradle?”
The woman, whose name he had forced himself at last to pronounce (he had experienced a strong repugnance88 in letting it pass his lips), the woman revolutionist murmured, after a pause —
“You mean — Russia?”
He disdained89 even to nod. She seemed softened90, her black eyes very still, as though she were pursuing the simile91 in her thoughts to all its tender associations. But suddenly she knitted her brows in a Mephistophelian frown.
“Yes. Perhaps no wonder, then. Yes. One lies there lapped up in evils, watched over by beings that are worse than ogres, ghouls, and vampires92. They must be driven away, destroyed utterly. In regard of that task nothing else matters if men and women are determined93 and faithful. That’s how I came to feel in the end. The great thing is not to quarrel amongst ourselves about all sorts of conventional trifles. Remember that, Razumov.”
Razumov was not listening. He had even lost the sense of being watched in a sort of heavy tranquillity94. His uneasiness, his exasperation95, his scorn were blunted at last by all these trying hours. It seemed to him that now they were blunted for ever. “I am a match for them all,” he thought, with a conviction too firm to be exulting96. The woman revolutionist had ceased speaking; he was not looking at her; there was no one passing along the road. He almost forgot that he was not alone. He heard her voice again, curt97, businesslike, and yet betraying the hesitation98 which had been the real reason of her prolonged silence.
“I say, Razumov!”
Razumov, whose face was turned away from her, made a grimace99 like a man who hears a false note.
“Tell me: is it true that on the very morning of the deed you actually attended the lectures at the University?”
An appreciable100 fraction of a second elapsed before the real import of the question reached him, like a bullet which strikes some time after the flash of the fired shot. Luckily his disengaged hand was ready to grip a bar of the gate. He held it with a terrible force, but his presence of mind was gone. He could make only a sort of gurgling, grumpy sound.
“Come, Kirylo Sidorovitch!” she urged him. “I know you are not a boastful man. That one must say for you. You are a silent man. Too silent, perhaps. You are feeding on some bitterness of your own. You are not an enthusiast101. You are, perhaps, all the stronger for that. But you might tell me. One would like to understand you a little more. I was so immensely struck. . . . Have you really done it?”
He got his voice back. The shot had missed him. It had been fired at random102, altogether, more like a signal for coming to close quarters. It was to be a plain struggle for self- preservation103. And she was a dangerous adversary104 too. But he was ready for battle; he was so ready that when he turned towards her not a muscle of his face moved.
“Certainly,” he said, without animation105, secretly strung up but perfectly106 sure of himself. “Lectures — certainly, But what makes you ask?”
It was she who was animated107.
“I had it in a letter, written by a young man in Petersburg; one of us, of course. You were seen- -you were observed with your notebook, impassible, taking notes . . . .”
He enveloped108 her with his fixed stare.
“What of that?”
“I call such coolness superb — that’s all. It is a proof of uncommon109 strength of character. The young man writes that nobody could have guessed from your face and manner the part you had played only some two hours before — the great, momentous, glorious part . . . .”
“Oh no. Nobody could have guessed,” assented Razumov gravely, “because, don’t you see, nobody at that time . . . .”
“Yes, yes. But all the same you are a man of exceptional fortitude110, it seems. You looked exactly as usual. It was remembered afterwards with wonder . . . .”
“It cost me no effort,” Razumov declared, with the same staring gravity.
“Then it’s almost more wonderful still!” she exclaimed, and fell silent while Razumov asked himself whether he had not said there something utterly unnecessary — or even worse.
She raised her head eagerly.
“Your intention was to stay in Russia? You had planned . . . .”
“No,” interrupted Razumov without haste. “I had made no plans of any sort.”
“You just simply walked away?” she struck in.
He bowed his head in slow assent81. “Simply — yes.” He had gradually released his hold on the bar of the gate, as though he had acquired the conviction that no random shot could knock him over now. And suddenly he was inspired to add, “The snow was coming down very thick, you know.”
She had a slight appreciative111 movement of the head, like an expert in such enterprises, very interested, capable of taking every point professionally. Razumov remembered something he had heard.
“I turned into a narrow side street, you understand,” he went on negligently112, and paused as if it were not worth talking about. Then he remembered another detail and dropped it before her, like a disdainful dole113 to her curiosity.
“I felt inclined to lie down and go to sleep there.”
She clicked her tongue at that symptom, very struck indeed. Then —
“But the notebook! The amazing notebook, man. You don’t mean to say you had put it in your pocket beforehand!” she cried.
Razumov gave a start. It might have been a sign of impatience114.
“I went home. Straight home to my rooms,” he said distinctly.
“The coolness of the man! You dared?”
“Why not? I assure you I was perfectly calm. Ha! Calmer than I am now perhaps.”
“I like you much better as you are now than when you indulge that bitter vein115 of yours, Razumov. And nobody in the house saw you return — eh? That might have appeared queer.”
“No one,” Razumov said firmly. “Dvornik, landlady116, girl, all out of the way. I went up like a shadow. It was a murky morning. The stairs were dark. I glided117 up like a phantom118. Fate? Luck? What do you think?”
“I just see it!” The eyes of the woman revolutionist snapped darkly. “Well — and then you considered . . . .”
Razumov had it all ready in his head.
“No. I looked at my watch, since you want to know. There was just time. I took that notebook, and ran down the stairs on tiptoe. Have you ever listened to the pit-pat of a man running round and round the shaft119 of a deep staircase? They have a gaslight at the bottom burning night and day. I suppose it’s gleaming down there now. . . . The sound dies out — the flame winks120 . . . .”
He noticed the vacillation121 of surprise passing over the steady curiosity of the black eyes fastened on his face as if the woman revolutionist received the sound of his voice into her pupils instead of her ears. He checked himself, passed his hand over his forehead, confused, like a man who has been dreaming aloud.
“Where could a student be running if not to his lectures in the morning? At night it’s another matter. I did not care if all the house had been there to look at me. But I don’t suppose there was anyone. It’s best not to be seen or heard. Aha! The people that are neither seen nor heard are the lucky ones — in Russia. Don’t you admire my luck?”
“Astonishing,” she said. “If you have luck as well as determination, then indeed you are likely to turn out an invaluable122 acquisition for the work in hand.”
Her tone was earnest; and it seemed to Razumov that it was speculative, even as though she were already apportioning123 him, in her mind, his share of the work. Her eyes were cast down. He waited, not very alert now, but with the grip of the ever-present danger giving him an air of attentive124 gravity. Who could have written about him in that letter from Petersburg? A fellow student, surely — some imbecile victim of revolutionary propaganda, some foolish slave of foreign, subversive125 ideals. A long, famine- stricken, red-nosed figure presented itself to his mental search. That must have been the fellow!
He smiled inwardly at the absolute wrong- headedness of the whole thing, the self- deception126 of a criminal idealist shattering his existence like a thunder-clap out of a clear sky, and re-echoing amongst the wreckage127 in the false assumptions of those other fools. Fancy that hungry and piteous imbecile furnishing to the curiosity of the revolutionist refugees this utterly fantastic detail! He appreciated it as by no means constituting a danger. On the contrary. As things stood it was for his advantage rather, a piece of sinister128 luck which had only to be accepted with proper caution.
“And yet, Razumov,” he heard the musing129 voice of the woman, “you have not the face of a lucky man.” She raised her eyes with renewed interest. “And so that was the way of it. After doing your work you simply walked off and made for your rooms. That sort of thing succeeds sometimes. I suppose it was agreed beforehand that, once the business over, each of you would go his own way?”
Razumov preserved the seriousness of his expression and the deliberate, if cautious, manner of speaking.
“Was not that the best thing to do?” he asked, in a dispassionate tone. “And anyway,” he added, after waiting a moment, “ we did not give much thought to what would come after. We never discussed formally any line of conduct. It was understood, I think.”
She approved his statement with slight nods.
“You, of course, wished to remain in Russia?”
“In St. Petersburg itself,” emphasized Razumov. “It was the only safe course for me. And, moreover, I had nowhere else to go.”
“Yes! Yes! I know. Clearly. And the other — this wonderful Haldin appearing only to be regretted — you don’t know what he intended?”
Razumov had foreseen that such a question would certainly come to meet him sooner or later. He raised his hands a little and let them fall helplessly by his side — nothing more.
It was the white-haired woman conspirator130 who was the first to break the silence.
“Very curious,” she pronounced slowly. “And you did not think, Kirylo Sidorovitch, that he might perhaps wish to get in touch with you again?”
Razumov discovered that he could not suppress the trembling of his lips. But he thought that he owed it to himself to speak. A negative sign would not do again. Speak he must, if only to get at the bottom of what that St. Petersburg letter might have contained.
“I stayed at home next day,” he said, bending down a little and plunging131 his glance into the black eyes of the woman so that she should not observe the trembling of his lips. “Yes, I stayed at home. As my actions are remembered and written about, then perhaps you are aware that I was not seen at the lectures next day. Eh? You didn’t know? Well, I stopped at home-the live-long day.”
As if moved by his agitated132 tone, she murmured a sympathetic “I see! It must have been trying enough.”
“You seem to understand one’s feelings,” said Razumov steadily. “It was trying. It was horrible; it was an atrocious day. It was not the last.”
“Yes, I understand. Afterwards, when you heard they had got him. Don’t I know how one feels after losing a comrade in the good fight? One’s ashamed of being left. And I can remember so many. Never mind. They shall be avenged133 before long. And what is death? At any rate, it is not a shameful134 thing like some kinds of life.”
Razumov felt something stir in his breast, a sort of feeble and unpleasant tremor135.
“Some kinds of life?” he repeated, looking at her searchingly.
“The subservient136, submissive life. Life? No! Vegetation on the filthy137 heap of iniquity138 which the world is. Life, Razumov, not to be vile139 must be a revolt — a pitiless protest — all the time.”
She calmed down, the gleam of suffused140 tears in her eyes dried out instantly by the heat of her passion, and it was in her capable, businesslike manner that she went on —
“You understand me, Razumov. You are not an enthusiast, but there is an immense force of revolt in you. I felt it from the first, directly I set my eyes on you — you remember — in Zurich. Oh! You are full of bitter revolt. That is good. Indignation flags sometimes, revenge itself may become a weariness, but that uncompromising sense of necessity and justice which armed your and Haldin’s hands to strike down that fanatical brute141 . . . for it was that — nothing but that! I have been thinking it out. It could have been nothing else but that.”
Razumov made a slight bow, the irony142 of which was concealed143 by an almost sinister immobility of feature.
“I can’t speak for the dead. As for myself, I can assure you that my conduct was dictated144 by necessity and by the sense of — well — retributive justice.”
“Good, that,” he said to himself, while her eyes rested upon him, black and impenetrable like the mental caverns145 where revolutionary thought should sit plotting the violent way of its dream of changes. As if anything could be changed! In this world of men nothing can be changed — neither happiness nor misery146. They can only be displaced at the cost of corrupted147 consciences and broken lives — a futile148 game for arrogant149 philosophers and sanguinary triflers. Those thoughts darted150 through Razumov’s head while he stood facing the old revolutionary hand, the respected, trusted, and influential151 Sophia Antonovna, whose word had such a weight in the “active” section of every party. She was much more representative than the great Peter Ivanovitch. Stripped of rhetoric152, mysticism, and theories, she was the true spirit of destructive revolution. And she was the personal adversary he had to meet. It gave him a feeling of triumphant153 pleasure to deceive her out of her own mouth. The epigrammatic saying that speech has been given to us for the purpose of concealing154 our thoughts came into his mind. Of that cynical155 theory this was a very subtle and a very scornful application, flouting156 in its own words the very spirit of ruthless revolution, embodied157 in that woman with her white hair and black eyebrows, like slightly sinuous158 lines of Indian ink, drawn together by the perpendicular folds of a thoughtful frown.
“That’s it. Retributive. No pity!” was the conclusion of her silence. And this once broken, she went on impulsively159 in short, vibrating sentences —
“Listen to my story, Razumov! . . .” Her father was a clever but unlucky artisan. No joy had lighted up his laborious160 days. He died at fifty; all the years of his life he had panted under the thumb of masters whose rapacity161 exacted from him the price of the water, of the salt, of the very air he breathed; taxed the sweat of his brow and claimed the blood of his sons. No protection, no guidance! What had society to say to him? Be submissive and be honest. If you rebel I shall kill you. If you steal I shall imprison162 you. But if you suffer I have nothing for you — nothing except perhaps a beggarly dole of bread — but no consolation163 for your trouble, no respect for your manhood, no pity for the sorrows of your miserable164 life.
And so he laboured, he suffered, and he died. He died in the hospital. Standing165 by the common grave she thought of his tormented166 existence — she saw it whole. She reckoned the simple joys of life, the birthright of the humblest, of which his gentle heart had been robbed by the crime of a society which nothing can absolve167.
“Yes, Razumov,” she continued, in an impressive, lowered voice, “it was like a lurid168 light in which I stood, still almost a child, and cursed not the toil169, not the misery which had been his lot, but the great social iniquity of the system resting on unrequited toil and unpitied sufferings. From that moment I was a revolutionist.”
Razumov, trying to raise himself above the dangerous weaknesses of contempt or compassion170, had preserved an impassive countenance171. She, with an unaffected touch of mere bitterness, the first he could notice since he had come in contact with the woman, went on —
“As I could not go to the Church where the priests of the system exhorted172 such unconsidered vermin as I to resignation, I went to the secret societies as soon as I knew how to find my way. I was sixteen years old — no more, Razumov! And — look at my white hair.”
In these last words there was neither pride nor sadness. The bitterness too was gone.
“There is a lot of it. I had always magnificent hair, even as a chit of a girl. Only, at that time we were cutting it short and thinking that there was the first step towards crushing the social infamy173. Crush the Infamy! A fine watchword! I would placard it on the walls of prisons and palaces, carve it on hard rocks, hang it out in letters of fire on that empty sky for a sign of hope and terror — a portent174 of the end . . . .”
“You are eloquent175, Sophia Antonovna,” Razumov interrupted suddenly. “Only, so far you seem to have been writing it in water . . . .”
She was checked but not offended. “Who knows? Very soon it may become a fact written all over that great land of ours,” she hinted meaningly. “And then one would have lived long enough. White hair won’t matter.”
Razumov looked at her white hair: and this mark of so many uneasy years seemed nothing but a testimony176 to the invincible177 vigour178 of revolt. It threw out into an astonishing relief the unwrinkled face, the brilliant black glance, the upright compact figure, the simple, brisk self-possession of the mature personality — as though in her revolutionary pilgrimage she had discovered the secret, not of everlasting179 youth, but of everlasting endurance.
How un-Russian she looked, thought Razumov. Her mother might have been a Jewess or an Armenian or devil knew what. He reflected that a revolutionist is seldom true to the settled type. All revolt is the expression of strong individualism — ran his thought vaguely. One can tell them a mile off in any society, in any surroundings. It was astonishing that the police . . . .
“We shall not meet again very soon, I think,” she was saying. “I am leaving to-morrow.”
“For Zurich?” Razumov asked casually180, but feeling relieved, not from any distinct apprehension181, but from a feeling of stress as if after a wrestling match.
“Yes, Zurich — and farther on, perhaps, much farther. Another journey. When I think of all my journeys! The last must come some day. Never mind, Razumov. We had to have a good long talk. I would have certainly tried to see you if we had not met. Peter Ivanovitch knows where you live? Yes. I meant to have asked him — but it’s better like this. You see, we expect two more men; and I had much rather wait here talking with you than up there at the house with . . . .”
Having cast a glance beyond the gate, she interrupted herself. “Here they are,” she said rapidly. “Well, Kirylo Sidorovitch, we shall have to say good-bye, presently.”
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收听单词发音
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1
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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2
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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3
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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4
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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5
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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6
obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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7
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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8
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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9
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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10
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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11
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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12
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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13
vouch
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| v.担保；断定；n.被担保者 | |
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14
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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15
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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16
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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17
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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18
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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20
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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21
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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22
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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23
zealously
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| adv.热心地；热情地；积极地；狂热地 | |
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24
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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25
acceleration
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| n.加速，加速度 | |
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26
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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27
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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28
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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29
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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31
perspicacity
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| n. 敏锐, 聪明, 洞察力 | |
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32
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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33
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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34
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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35
investigator
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| n.研究者，调查者，审查者 | |
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36
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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37
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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38
sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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39
murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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40
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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41
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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42
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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43
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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44
accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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45
slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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46
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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47
harridan
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| n.恶妇；丑老大婆 | |
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48
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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49
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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50
flouts
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的第三人称单数 ) | |
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51
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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52
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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53
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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54
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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55
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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56
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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57
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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58
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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59
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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60
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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62
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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63
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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64
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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65
bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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66
baroness
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| n.男爵夫人，女男爵 | |
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67
frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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68
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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69
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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70
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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71
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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72
diverging
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| 分开( diverge的现在分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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73
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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74
antennae
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| n.天线；触角 | |
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75
materialist
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| n. 唯物主义者 | |
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76
digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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77
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
physiologists
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| n.生理学者( physiologist的名词复数 )；生理学( physiology的名词复数 )；生理机能 | |
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79
concoctions
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| n.编造，捏造，混合物( concoction的名词复数 ) | |
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80
nauseating
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| adj.令人恶心的，使人厌恶的v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的现在分词 ) | |
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81
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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82
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
scathing
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| adj.（言词、文章）严厉的，尖刻的；不留情的adv.严厉地，尖刻地v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的现在分词) | |
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84
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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85
austerely
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| adv.严格地，朴质地 | |
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86
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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87
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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88
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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89
disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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90
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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91
simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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92
vampires
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| n.吸血鬼( vampire的名词复数 )；吸血蝠；高利贷者；（舞台上的）活板门 | |
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93
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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94
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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95
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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96
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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97
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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98
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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99
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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100
appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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101
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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102
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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103
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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104
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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105
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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106
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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107
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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108
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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110
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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111
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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112
negligently
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113
dole
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| n.救济，（失业）救济金；vt.（out）发放，发给 | |
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114
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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115
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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116
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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117
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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118
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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119
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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120
winks
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| v.使眼色( wink的第三人称单数 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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121
vacillation
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| n.动摇；忧柔寡断 | |
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122
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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123
apportioning
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| vt.分摊，分配（apportion的现在分词形式） | |
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124
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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125
subversive
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| adj.颠覆性的，破坏性的；n.破坏份子，危险份子 | |
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126
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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127
wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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128
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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129
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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130
conspirator
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| n.阴谋者，谋叛者 | |
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131
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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132
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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133
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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134
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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135
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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136
subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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137
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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138
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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139
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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140
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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141
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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142
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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143
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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144
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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145
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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146
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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147
corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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148
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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149
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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150
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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151
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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152
rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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153
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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154
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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155
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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156
flouting
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的现在分词 ) | |
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157
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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158
sinuous
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| adj.蜿蜒的，迂回的 | |
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159
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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160
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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161
rapacity
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| n.贪婪，贪心，劫掠的欲望 | |
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162
imprison
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| vt.监禁，关押，限制，束缚 | |
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163
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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164
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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165
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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166
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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167
absolve
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| v.赦免，解除（责任等） | |
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168
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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169
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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170
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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171
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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172
exhorted
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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173
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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174
portent
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| n.预兆；恶兆；怪事 | |
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175
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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176
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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177
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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178
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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179
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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180
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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181
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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