“This is Razumov,” she announced in a clear voice.
The lean new-comer made an eager half-turn. “He will want to embrace me,” thought our young man with a deep recoil9 of all his being, while his limbs seemed too heavy to move. But it was a groundless alarm. He had to do now with a generation of conspirators10 who did not kiss each other on both cheeks; and raising an arm that felt like lead he dropped his hand into a largely-outstretched palm, fleshless and hot as if dried up by fever, giving a bony pressure, expressive11, seeming to say, “Between us there’s no need of words.” The man had big, wide-open eyes. Razumov fancied he could see a smile behind their sadness.
“This is Razumov,” Sophia Antonovna repeated loudly for the benefit of the fat man, who at some distance displayed the profile of his stomach.
No one moved. Everything, sounds, attitudes, movements, and immobility seemed to be part of an experiment, the result of which was a thin voice piping with comic peevishness12 —
“Oh yes! Razumov. We have been hearing of nothing but Mr. Razumov for months. For my part, I confess I would rather have seen Haldin on this spot instead of Mr. Razumov.”
The squeaky stress put on the name “Razumov — Mr. Razumov” pierced the ear ridiculously, like the falsetto of a circus clown beginning an elaborate joke. Astonishment15 was Razumov’s first response, followed by sudden indignation.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he asked in a stern tone.
“Tut! Silliness. He’s always like that.” Sophia Antonovna was obviously vexed16. But she dropped the information, “Necator,” from her lips just loud enough to be heard by Razumov. The abrupt17 squeaks18 of the fat man seemed to proceed from that thing like a balloon he carried under his overcoat. The stolidity19 of his attitude, the big feet, the lifeless, hanging hands, the enormous bloodless cheek, the thin wisps of hair straggling down the fat nape of the neck, fascinated Razumov into a stare on the verge20 of horror and laughter.
Nikita, surnamed Necator, with a sinister21 aptness of alliteration22! Razumov had heard of him. He had heard so much since crossing the frontier of these celebrities23 of the militant24 revolution; the legends, the stories, the authentic25 chronicle, which now and then peeps out before a half-incredulous world. Razumov had heard of him. He was supposed to have killed more, gendarmes26 and police agents than any revolutionist living. He had been entrusted27 with executions.
The paper with the letters N.N., the very pseudonym28 of murder, found pinned on the stabbed breast of a certain notorious spy (this picturesque29 detail of a sensational30 murder case had got into the newspapers), was the mark of his handiwork. “By order of the Committee. — N.N.” A corner of the curtain lifted to strike the imagination of the gaping31 world. He was said to have been innumerable times in and out of Russia, the Necator of bureaucrats32, of provincial33 governors, of obscure informers. He lived between whiles, Razumov had heard, on the shores of the Lake of Como, with a charming wife, devoted34 to the cause, and two young children. But how could that creature, so grotesque35 as to set town dogs barking at its mere36 sight, go about on those deadly errands and slip through the meshes37 of the police?”
“What now? what now?” the voice squeaked38. “I am only sincere. It’s not denied that the other was the leading spirit. Well, it would have been better if he had been the one spared to us. More useful. I am not a sentimentalist. Say what I think . . . only natural.”
Squeak13, squeak, squeak, without a gesture, without a stir — the horrible squeaky burlesque39 of professional jealousy40 — this man of a sinister alliterative nickname, this executioner of revolutionary verdicts, the terrifying N.N. exasperated41 like a fashionable tenor42 by the attention attracted to the performance of an obscure amateur. Sophia Antonovna shrugged43 her shoulders. The comrade with the martial45 red moustache hurried towards Razumov full of conciliatory intentions in his strong buzzing voice.
“Devil take it! And in this place, too, in the public street, so to speak. But you can see yourself how it is. One of his fantastic sallies. Absolutely of no consequence.”
“Pray don’t concern yourself,” cried Razumov, going off into a long fit of laughter. “Don’t mention it.”
The other, his hectic46 flush like a pair of burns on his cheek-bones, stared for a moment and burst out laughing too. Razumov, whose hilarity47 died out all at once, made a step forward.
“Enough of this,” he began in a clear, incisive48 voice, though he could hardly control the trembling of his legs. “I will have no more of it. I shall not permit anyone. . . . I can see very well what you are at with those allusions49 . . . . Inquire, investigate! I defy you, but I will not be played with.”
He had spoken such words before. He had been driven to cry them out in the face of other suspicions. It was an infernal cycle bringing round that protest like a fatal necessity of his existence. But it was no use. He would be always played with. Luckily life does not last for ever.
“I won’t have it!” he shouted, striking his fist into the palm of his other hand.
“Kirylo Sidorovitch — what has come to you?” The woman revolutionist interfered52 with authority. They were all looking at Razumov now; the slayer53 of spies and gendarmes had turned about, presenting his enormous stomach in full, like a shield.
“Don’t shout. There are people passing.” Sophia Antonovna was apprehensive54 of another outburst. A steam-launch from Monrepos had come to the landing-stage opposite the gate, its hoarse55 whistle and the churning noise alongside all unnoticed, had landed a small bunch of local passengers who were dispersing56 their several ways. Only a specimen57 of early tourist in knickerbockers, conspicuous58 by a brand-new yellow leather glass-case, hung about for a moment, scenting59 something unusual about these four people within the rusty60 iron gates of what looked the grounds run wild of an unoccupied private house. Ah! If he had only known what the chance of commonplace travelling had suddenly put in his way! But he was a well-bred person; he averted his gaze and moved off with short steps along the avenue, on the watch for a tramcar.
A gesture from Sophia Antonovna, “Leave him to me,” had sent the two men away — the buzzing of the inarticulate voice growing fainter and fainter, and the thin pipe of “What now? what’s the matter?” reduced to the proportions of a squeaking61 toy by the distance. They had left him to her. So many things could be left safely to the experience of Sophia Antonovna. And at once, her black eyes turned to Razumov, her mind tried to get at the heart of that outburst. It had some meaning. No one is born an active revolutionist. The change comes disturbingly, with the force of a sudden vocation62, bringing in its train agonizing63 doubts, assertive64 violences, an unstable65 state of the soul, till the final appeasement66 of the convert in the perfect fierceness of conviction. She had seen — often had only divined — scores of these young men and young women going through an emotional crisis. This young man looked like a moody67 egotist. And besides, it was a special — a unique case. She had never met an individuality which interested and puzzled her so much.
“Take care, Razumov, my good friend. If you carry on like this you will go mad. You are angry with everybody and bitter with yourself, and on the look out for something to torment68 yourself with.”
“It’s intolerable!” Razumov could only speak in gasps69. “ You must admit that I can have no illusions on the attitude which . . . it isn’t clear . . . or rather only too clear.”
He made a gesture of despair. It was not his courage that failed him. The choking fumes70 of falsehood had taken him by the throat — the thought of being condemned72 to struggle on and on in that tainted73 atmosphere without the hope of ever renewing his strength by a breath of fresh air.
“A glass of cold water is what you want.” Sophia Antonovna glanced up the grounds at the house and shook her head, then out of the gate at the brimful placidity74 of the lake. With a half-comical shrug44 of the shoulders, she gave the remedy up in the face of that abundance.
“It is you, my dear soul, who are flinging yourself at something which does not exist. What is it? Self-reproach, or what? It’s absurd. You couldn’t have gone and given yourself up because your comrade was taken.”
She remonstrated75 with him reasonably, at some length too. He had nothing to complain of in his reception. Every new-comer was discussed more or less. Everybody had to be thoroughly76 understood before being accepted. No one that she could remember had been shown from the first so much confidence. Soon, very soon, perhaps sooner than he expected, he would be given an opportunity of showing his devotion to the sacred task of crushing the Infamy77.
Razumov, listening quietly, thought: “It may be that she is trying to lull78 my suspicions to sleep. On the other hand, it is obvious that most of them are fools.” He moved aside a couple of paces and, folding his arms on his breast, leaned back against the stone pillar of the gate.
“As to what remains79 obscure in the fate of that poor Haldin,” Sophia Antonovna dropped into a slowness of utterance80 which was to Razumov like the falling of molten lead drop by drop; “as to that — though no one ever hinted that either from fear or neglect your conduct has not been what it should have been — well, I have a bit of intelligence . . . .”
Razumov could not prevent himself from raising his head, and Sophia Antonovna nodded slightly.
“I have. You remember that letter from St. Petersburg I mentioned to you a moment ago?”
“The letter? Perfectly81. Some busybody has been reporting my conduct on a certain day. It’s rather sickening. I suppose our police are greatly edified82 when they open these interesting and — and — superfluous83 letters.”
“Oh dear no! The police do not get hold of our letters as easily as you imagine. The letter in question did not leave St. Petersburg till the ice broke up. It went by the first English steamer which left the Neva this spring. They have a fireman on board — one of us, in fact. It has reached me from Hull84 . . . .”
She paused as if she were surprised at the sullen85 fixity of Razumov’s gaze, but went on at once, and much faster.
“We have some of our people there who . . . but never mind. The writer of the letter relates an incident which he thinks may possibly be connected with Haldin’s arrest. I was just going to tell you when those two men came along.”
“That also was an incident,” muttered Razumov, “of a very charming kind — for me.”
“Leave off that!” cried Sophia Antonovna.” Nobody cares for Nikita’s barking. There’s no malice86 in him. Listen to what I have to say. You may be able to throw a light. There was in St. Petersburg a sort of town peasant — a man who owned horses. He came to town years ago to work for some relation as a driver and ended by owning a cab or two.”
She might well have spared herself the slight effort of the gesture: “Wait!” Razumov did not mean to speak; he could not have interrupted her now, not to save his life. The contraction87 of his facial muscles had been involuntary, a mere surface stir, leaving him sullenly88 attentive89 as before.
“He was not a quite ordinary man of his class — it seems,” she went on. “ The people of the house — my informant talked with many of them — you know, one of those enormous houses of shame and misery90 . . . .”
Sophia Antonovna need not have enlarged on the character of the house. Razumov saw clearly, towering at her back, a dark mass of masonry91 veiled in snowflakes, with the long row of windows of the eating-shop shining greasily92 very near the ground. The ghost of that night pursued him. He stood up to it with rage and with weariness.
“Did the late Haldin ever by chance speak to you of that house?” Sophia Antonovna was anxious to know.
“Yes.” Razumov, making that answer, wondered whether he were falling into a trap. It was so humiliating to lie to these people that he probably could not have said no. “He mentioned to me once,” he added, as if making an effort of memory, “ a house of that sort. He used to visit some workmen there.”
“Exactly.”
Sophia Antonovna triumphed. Her correspondent had discovered that fact quite accidentally from the talk of the people of the house, having made friends with a workman who occupied a room there. They described Haldin’s appearance perfectly. He brought comforting words of hope into their misery. He came irregularly, but he came very often, and — her correspondent wrote — sometimes he spent a night in the house, sleeping, they thought, in a stable which opened upon the inner yard.
“Note that, Razumov! In a stable.”
Razumov had listened with a sort of ferocious93 but amused acquiescence94.
“Yes. In the straw. It was probably the cleanest spot in the whole house.”
“No doubt,” assented96 the woman with that deep frown which seemed to draw closer together her black eyes in a sinister fashion. No four-footed beast could stand the filth97 and wretchedness so many human beings were condemned to suffer from in Russia. The point of this discovery was that it proved Haldin to have been familiar with that horse-owning peasant — a reckless, independent, free-living fellow not much liked by the other inhabitants of the house. He was believed to have been the associate of a band of housebreakers. Some of these got captured. Not while he was driving them, however; but still there was a suspicion against the fellow of having given a hint to the police and . . . .
The woman revolutionist checked herself suddenly.
“And you? Have you ever heard your friend refer to a certain Ziemianitch?”
Razumov was ready for the name. He had been looking out for the question. “When it comes I shall own up,” he had said to himself. But he took his time.
“To be sure!” he began slowly. “Ziemianitch, a peasant owning a team of horses. Yes. On one occasion. Ziemianitch! Certainly! Ziemianitch of the horses. . . . How could it have slipped my memory like this? One of the last conversations we had together.”
“That means,”— Sophia Antonovna looked very grave — “that means, Razumov, it was very shortly before — eh?”
“Before what?” shouted Razumov, advancing at the woman, who looked astonished but stood her ground. “Before. . . . Oh! Of course, it was before! How could it have been after? Only a few hours before.”
“And he spoke51 of him favourably98?”
“With enthusiasm! The horses of Ziemianitch! The free soul of Ziemianitch!”
Razumov took a savage99 delight in the loud utterance of that name, which had never before crossed his lips audibly. He fixed100 his blazing eyes on the woman till at last her fascinated expression recalled him to himself.
“The late Haldin,” he said, holding himself in, with downcast eyes, “was inclined to take sudden fancies to people, on — on — what shall I say — insufficient101 grounds.”
“There!” Sophia Antonovna clapped her hands. “That, to my mind, settles it. The suspicions of my correspondent were aroused . . . .”
“Aha! Your correspondent,” Razumov said in an almost openly mocking tone. ” What suspicions? How aroused? By this Ziemianitch? Probably some drunken, gabbling, plausible102 . . . .”
“You talk as if you had known him.”
Razumov looked up.
“No. But I knew Haldin.”
Sophia Antonovna nodded gravely.
“I see. Every word you say confirms to my mind the suspicion communicated to me in that very interesting letter. This Ziemianitch was found one morning hanging from a hook in the stable — dead.”
Razumov felt a profound trouble. It was visible, because Sophia Antonovna was moved to observe vivaciously104 —
“Aha! You begin to see.”
He saw it clearly enough — in the light of a lantern casting spokes105 of shadow in a cellar-like stable, the body in a sheepskin coat and long boots hanging against the wall. A pointed106 hood71, with the ends wound about up to the eyes, hid the face. “But that does not concern me,” he reflected. “It does not affect my position at all. He never knew who had thrashed him. He could not have known.” Razumov felt sorry for the old lover of the bottle and women.
“Yes. Some of them end like that,” he muttered. “What is your idea, Sophia Antonovna?”
It was really the idea of her correspondent, but Sophia Antonovna had adopted it fully107. She stated it in one word —“Remorse108.” Razumov opened his eyes very wide at that. Sophia Antonovna’s informant, by listening to the talk of the house, by putting this and that together, had managed to come very near to the truth of Haldin’s relation to Ziemianitch.
“It is I who can tell you what you were not certain of — that your friend had some plan for saving himself afterwards, for getting out of St. Petersburg, at any rate. Perhaps that and no more, trusting to luck for the rest. And that fellow’s horses were part of the plan.”
“They have actually got at the truth,” Razumov marvelled109 to himself, while he nodded judicially110. “Yes, that’s possible, very possible.” But the woman revolutionist was very positive that it was so. First of all, a conversation about horses between Haldin and Ziemianitch had been partly overheard. Then there were the suspicions of the people in the house when their “young gentleman” (they did not know Haldin by his name) ceased to call at the house. Some of them used to charge Ziemianitch with knowing something of this absence. He denied it with exasperation111; but the fact was that ever since Haldin’s disappearance112 he was not himself, growing moody and thin. Finally, during a quarrel with some woman (to whom he was making up), in which most of the inmates113 of the house took part apparently114, he was openly abused by his chief enemy, an athletic115 pedlar, for an informer, and for having driven ‘’ our young gentleman to Siberia, the same as you did those young fellows who broke into houses.” In consequence of this there was a fight, and Ziemianitch got flung down a flight of stairs. Thereupon he drank and moped for a week, and then hanged himself.
Sophia Antonovna drew her conclusions from the tale. She charged Ziemianitch either with drunken indiscretion as to a driving job on a certain date, overheard by some spy in some low grog-shop — perhaps in the very eating-shop on the ground floor of the house — or, maybe, a downright denunciation, followed by remorse. A man like that would be capable of anything. People said he was a flighty old chap. And if he had been once before mixed up with the police — as seemed certain, though he always denied it — in connexion with these thieves, he would be sure to be acquainted with some police underlings, always on the look out for something to report. Possibly at first his tale was not made anything of till the day that scoundrel de P—— got his deserts. Ah! But then every bit and scrap116 of hint and information would be acted on, and fatally they were bound to get Haldin.
Sophia Antonovna spread out her hands —” Fatally.”
Fatality117 — chance! Razumov meditated118 in silent astonishment upon the queer verisimilitude of these inferences. They were obviously to his advantage.
“It is right now to make this conclusive119 evidence known generally.” Sophia Antonovna was very calm and deliberate again. She had received the letter three days ago, but did not write at once to Peter Ivanovitch. She knew then that she would have the opportunity presently of meeting several men of action assembled for an important purpose.
“I thought it would be more effective if I could show the letter itself at large. I have it in my pocket now. You understand how pleased I was to come upon you.”
Razumov was saying to himself,” She won’t offer to show the letter to me. Not likely. Has she told me everything that correspondent of hers has found out?” He longed to see the letter, but he felt he must not ask.
“Tell me, please, was this an investigation120 ordered, as it were?”
“No, no,” she protested. “There you are again with your sensitiveness. It makes you stupid. Don’t you see, there was no starting-point for an investigation even if any one had thought of it. A perfect blank! That’s exactly what some people were pointing out as the reason for receiving you cautiously. It was all perfectly accidental, arising from my informant striking an acquaintance with an intelligent skindresser lodging121 in that particular slum-house. A wonderful coincidence!”
“A pious122 person,” suggested Razumov, with a pale smile, “would say that the hand of God has done it all.”
“My poor father would have said that.” Sophia Antonovna did not smile. She dropped her eyes.” Not that his God ever helped him. It’s a long time since God has done anything for the people. Anyway, it’s done.”
“All this would be quite final,” said Razumov, with every appearance of reflective impartiality123, “if there was any certitude that the ‘our young gentleman’ of these people was Victor Haldin. Have we got that?”
“Yes. There’s no mistake. My correspondent was as familiar with Haldin’s personal appearance as with your own,” the woman affirmed decisively.
“It’s the red-nosed fellow beyond a doubt,” Razumov said to himself, with reawakened uneasiness. Had his own visit to that accursed house passed unnoticed? It was barely possible. Yet it was hardly probable. It was just the right sort of food for the popular gossip that gaunt busybody had been picking up. But the letter did not seem to contain any allusion50 to that. Unless she had suppressed it. And, if so, why? If it had really escaped the prying124 of that hunger-stricken democrat125 with a confounded genius for recognizing people from description, it could only be for a time. He would come upon it presently and hasten to write another letter — and then!
For all the envenomed recklessness of his temper, fed on hate and disdain126, Razumov shuddered127 inwardly. It guarded him from common fear, but it could not defend him from disgust at being dealt with in any way by these people. It was a sort of superstitious129 dread130. Now, since his position had been made more secure by their own folly131 at the cost of Ziemianitch, he felt the need of perfect safety, with its freedom from direct lying, with its power of moving amongst them silent, unquestioning, listening, impenetrable, like the very fate of their crimes and their folly. Was this advantage his already? Or not yet? Or never would be?
“Well, Sophia Antonovna,” his air of reluctant concession132 was genuine in so far that he was really loath133 to part with her without testing her sincerity134 by a question it was impossible to bring about in any way; “well, Sophia Antonovna, if that is so, then —”
“The creature has done justice to himself,” the woman observed, as if thinking aloud.
“What? Ah yes! Remorse,” Razumov muttered, with equivocal contempt.
“Don’t be harsh, Kirylo Sidorovitch, if you have lost a friend.” There was no hint of softness in her tone, only the black glitter of her eyes seemed detached for an instant from vengeful visions. “He was a man of the people. The simple Russian soul is never wholly impenitent135. It’s something to know that.”
“Consoling?” insinuated136 Razumov, in a tone of inquiry137.
“Leave off railing,” she checked him explosively. “Remember, Razumov, that women, children, and revolutionists hate irony138, which is the negation139 of all saving instincts, of all faith, of all devotion, of all action. Don’t rail! Leave off. . . . I don’t know how it is, but there are moments when you are abhorrent140 to me . . . .”
She averted her face. A languid silence, as if all the electricity of the situation had been discharged in this flash of passion, lasted for some time. Razumov had not flinched141. Suddenly she laid the tips of her fingers on his sleeve.
“Don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind,” he said very quietly.
He was proud to feel that she could read nothing on his face. He was really mollified, relieved, if only for a moment, from an obscure oppression. And suddenly he asked himself, “Why the devil did I go to that house? It was an imbecile thing to do.”
A profound disgust came over him. Sophia Antonovna lingered, talking in a friendly manner with an evident conciliatory intention. And it was still about the famous letter, referring to various minute details given by her informant, who had never seen Ziemianitch. The “victim of remorse” had been buried several weeks before her correspondent began frequenting the house. It — the house — contained very good revolutionary material. The spirit of the heroic Haldin had passed through these dens142 of black wretchedness with a promise of universal redemption from all the miseries143 that oppress mankind. Razumov listened without hearing, gnawed144 by the newborn desire of safety with its independence from that degrading method of direct lying which at times he found it almost impossible to practice.
No. The point he wanted to hear about could never come into this conversation. There was no way of bringing it forward. He regretted not having composed a perfect story for use abroad, in which his fatal connexion with the house might have been owned up to. But when he left Russia he did not know that Ziemianitch had hanged himself. And, anyway, who could have foreseen this woman’s “informant” stumbling upon that particular slum, of all the slums awaiting destruction in the purifying flame of social revolution? Who could have foreseen? Nobody! “It’s a perfect, diabolic surprise,” thought Razumov, calm-faced in his attitude of inscrutable superiority, nodding assent95 to Sophia Antonovna’s remarks upon the psychology145 of “the people,” “Oh yes — certainly,” rather coldly, but with a nervous longing146 in his fingers to tear some sort of confession147 out of her throat.
Then, at the very last, on the point of separating, the feeling of relaxed tension already upon him, he heard Sophia Antonovna allude148 to the subject of his uneasiness. How it came about he could only guess, his mind being absent at the moment, but it must have sprung from Sophia Antonovna’s complaints of the illogical absurdity149 of the people. For instance — that Ziemianitch was notoriously irreligious, and yet, in the last weeks of his life, he suffered from the notion that he had been beaten by the devil.
“The devil,” repeated Razumov, as though he had not heard aright.
“The actual devil. The devil in person. You may well look astonished, Kirylo Sidorovitch. Early on the very night poor Haldin was taken, a complete stranger turned up and gave Ziemianitch a most fearful thrashing while he was lying dead-drunk in the stable. The wretched creature’s body was one mass of bruises150. He showed them to the people in the house.”
“But you, Sophia Antonovna, you don’t believe in the actual devil?”
“Do you?” retorted the woman curtly151. “Not but that there are plenty of men worse than devils to make a hell of this earth,” she muttered to herself.
Razumov watched her, vigorous and white-haired, with the deep fold between her thin eyebrows152, and her black glance turned idly away. It was obvious that she did not make much of the story — unless, indeed, this was the perfection of duplicity. “A dark young man,” she explained further. “Never seen there before, never seen afterwards. Why are you smiling, Razumov?”
“At the devil being still young after all these ages,” he answered composedly. “But who was able to describe him, since the victim, you say, was dead-drunk at the time?”
“Oh! The eating-house keeper has described him. An overbearing, swarthy young man in a student’s cloak, who came rushing in, demanded Ziemianitch, beat him furiously, and rushed away without a word, leaving the eating-house keeper paralysed with astonishment.”
“Does he, too, believe it was the devil?”
“That I can’t say. I am told he’s very reserved on the matter. Those sellers of spirits are great scoundrels generally. I should think he knows more of it than anybody.”
“Well, and you, Sophia Antonovna, what’s your theory?” asked Razumov in a tone of great interest. “Yours and your informant’s, who is on the spot.”
“I agree with him. Some police-hound in disguise. Who else could beat a helpless man so unmercifully? As for the rest, if they were out that day on every trail, old and new, it is probable enough that they might have thought it just as well to have Ziemianitch at hand for more information, or for identification, or what not. Some scoundrelly detective was sent to fetch him along, and being vexed at finding him so drunk broke a stable fork over his ribs153. Later on, after they had the big game safe in the net, they troubled their heads no more about that peasant.”
Such were the last words of the woman revolutionist in this conversation, keeping so close to the truth, departing from it so far in the verisimilitude of thoughts and conclusions as to give one the notion of the invincible154 nature of human error, a glimpse into the utmost depths of self-deception. Razumov, after shaking hands with Sophia Antonovna, left the grounds, crossed the road, and walking out on the little steamboat pier14 leaned over the rail.
His mind was at ease; ease such as he had not known for many days, ever since that night . . . the night. The conversation with the woman revolutionist had given him the view of his danger at the very moment this danger vanished, characteristically enough. “I ought to have foreseen the doubts that would arise in those people’s minds,” he thought. Then his attention being attracted by a stone of peculiar155 shape, which he could see clearly lying at the bottom, he began to speculate as to the depth of water in that spot. But very soon, with a start of wonder at this extraordinary instance of ill-timed detachment, he returned to his train of thought. “I ought to have told very circumstantial lies from the first,” he said to himself, with a mortal distaste of the mere idea which silenced his mental utterance for quite a perceptible interval156. “Luckily, that’s all right now,” he reflected, and after a time spoke to himself, half aloud, “Thanks to the devil,” and laughed a little.
The end of Ziemianitch then arrested his wandering thoughts. He was not exactly amused at the interpretation157, but he could not help detecting — in it a certain piquancy158. He owned to himself that, had he known of that suicide before leaving Russia, he would have been incapable159 of making such excellent use of it for his own purposes. He ought to be infinitely160 obliged to the fellow with the red nose for his patience and ingenuity161, “A wonderful psychologist apparently,” he said to himself sarcastically162. Remorse, indeed! It was a striking example of your true conspirator’s blindness, of the stupid subtlety163 of people with one idea. This was a drama of love, not of conscience, Razumov continued to himself mockingly. A woman the old fellow was making up to! A robust164 pedlar, clearly a rival, throwing him down a flight of stairs. . . . And at sixty, for a lifelong lover, it was not an easy matter to get over. That was a feminist165 of a different stamp from Peter Ivanovitch. Even the comfort of the bottle might conceivably fail him in this supreme166 crisis. At such an age nothing but a halter could cure the pangs167 of an unquenchable passion. And, besides, there was the wild exasperation aroused by the unjust aspersions and the contumely of the house, with the maddening impossibility to account for that mysterious thrashing, added to these simple and bitter sorrows. “Devil, eh?” Razumov exclaimed, with mental excitement, as if he had made an interesting discovery. “Ziemianitch ended by falling into mysticism. So many of our true Russian souls end in that way! Very characteristic.” He felt pity for Ziemianitch, a large neutral pity, such as one may feel for an unconscious multitude, a great people seen from above — like a community of crawling ants working out its destiny. It was as if this Ziemianitch could not possibly have done anything else. And Sophia Antonovna’s cocksure and contemptuous “some police-hound” was characteristically Russian in another way. But there was no tragedy there. This was a comedy of errors. It was as if the devil himself were playing a game with all of them in turn. First with him, then with Ziemianitch, then with those revolutionists. The devil’s own game this. . . . He interrupted his earnest mental soliloquy with a jocular thought at his own expense. “Hallo! I am falling into mysticism too.”
His mind was more at ease than ever. Turning about he put his back against the rail comfortably. “All this fits with marvellous aptness,” he continued to think. “The brilliance168 of my reputed exploit is no longer darkened by the fate of my supposed colleague. The mystic Ziemianitch accounts for that. An incredible chance has served me. No more need of lies. I shall have only to listen and to keep my scorn from getting the upper hand of my caution.”
He sighed, folded his arms, his chin dropped on his breast, and it was a long time before he started forward from that pose, with the recollection that he had made up his mind to do something important that day. What it was he could not immediately recall, yet he made no effort of memory, for he was uneasily certain that he would remember presently.
He had not gone more than a hundred yards towards the town when he slowed down, almost faltered169 in his walk, at the sight of a figure walking in the contrary direction, draped in a cloak, under a soft, broad-brimmed hat, picturesque but diminutive170, as if seen through the big end of an opera-glass. It was impossible to avoid that tiny man, for there was no issue for retreat.
“Another one going to that mysterious meeting,” thought Razumov. He was right in his surmise171, only this one, unlike the others who came from a distance, was known to him personally. Still, he hoped to pass on with a mere bow, but it was impossible to ignore the little thin hand with hairy wrist and knuckles172 protruded173 in a friendly wave from under the folds of the cloak, worn Spanish-wise, in disregard of a fairly warm day, a corner flung over the shoulder.
“And how is Herr Razumov?” sounded the greeting in German, by that alone made more odious174 to the object of the affable recognition. At closer quarters the diminutive personage looked like a reduction of an ordinary-sized man, with a lofty brow bared for a moment by the raising of the hat, the great pepper-and salt full beard spread over the proportionally broad chest. A fine bold nose jutted175 over a thin mouth hidden in the mass of fine hair. All this, accented features, strong limbs in their relative smallness, appeared delicate without the slightest sign of debility. The eyes alone, almond-shaped and brown, were too big, with the whites slightly bloodshot by much pen labour under a lamp. The obscure celebrity176 of the tiny man was well known to Razumov. Polyglot177, of unknown parentage, of indefinite nationality, anarchist178, with a pedantic179 and ferocious temperament180, and an amazingly inflammatory capacity for invective181, he was a power in the background, this violent pamphleteer clamouring for revolutionary justice, this Julius Laspara, editor of the Living Word, confidant of conspirators, inditer of sanguinary menaces and manifestos, suspected of being in the secret of every plot. Laspara lived in the old town in a sombre, narrow house presented to him by a naive182 middle-class admirer of his humanitarian183 eloquence184. With him lived his two daughters, who overtopped him head and shoulders, and a pasty-faced, lean boy of six, languishing185 in the dark rooms in blue cotton overalls186 and clumsy boots, who might have belonged to either one of them or to neither. No stranger could tell. Julius Laspara no doubt knew which of his girls it was who, after casually187 vanishing for a few years, had as casually returned to him possessed188 of that child; but, with admirable pedantry189, he had refrained from asking her for details — no, not so much as the name of the father, because maternity190 should be an anarchist function. Razumov had been admitted twice to that suite191 of several small dark rooms on the top floor: dusty window-panes, litter of all sorts of sweepings192 all over the place, half-full glasses of tea forgotten on every table, the two Laspara daughters prowling about enigmatically silent, sleepy-eyed, corsetless, and generally, in their want of shape and the disorder193 of their rumpled194 attire195, resembling old dolls; the great but obscure Julius, his feet twisted round his three-legged stool, always ready to receive the visitors, the pen instantly dropped, the body screwed round with a striking display of the lofty brow and of the great austere196 beard. When he got down from his stool it was as though he had descended197 from the heights of Olympus. He was dwarfed198 by his daughters, by the furniture, by any caller of ordinary stature199. But he very seldom left it, and still more rarely was seen walking in broad daylight.
It must have been some matter of serious importance which had driven him out in that direction that afternoon. Evidently he wished to be amiable200 to that young man whose arrival had made some sensation in the world of political refugees. In Russian now, which he spoke, as he spoke and wrote four or five other European languages, without distinction and without force (other than that of invective), he inquired if Razumov had taken his inscriptions201 at the University as yet. And the young man, shaking his head negatively —
“There’s plenty of time for that. But, meantime, are you not going to write something for us?”
He could not understand how any one could refrain from writing on anything, social, economic, historical — anything. Any subject could be treated in the right spirit, and for the ends of social revolution. And, as it happened, a friend of his in London had got in touch with a review of advanced ideas. “We must educate, educate everybody — develop the great thought of absolute liberty and of revolutionary justice.”
Razumov muttered rather surlily that he did not even know English.
“Write in Russian. We’ll have it translated There can be no difficulty. Why, without seeking further, there is Miss Haldin. My daughters go to see her sometimes.” He nodded significantly. “ She does nothing, has never done anything in her life. She would be quite competent, with a little assistance. Only write. You know you must. And so good-bye for the present.”
He raised his arm and went on. Razumov backed against the low wall, looked after him, spat202 violently, and went on his way with an angry mutter —
“Cursed Jew!”
He did not know anything about it. Julius Laspara might have been a Transylvanian, a Turk, an Andalusian, or a citizen of one of the Hanse towns for anything he could tell to the contrary. But this is not a story of the West, and this exclamation203 must be recorded, accompanied by the comment that it was merely an expression of hate and contempt, best adapted to the nature of the feelings Razumov suffered from at the time. He was boiling with rage, as though he had been grossly insulted. He walked as if blind, following instinctively204 the shore of the diminutive harbour along the quay205, through a pretty, dull garden, where dull people sat on chairs under the trees, till, his fury abandoning him, he discovered himself in the middle of a long, broad bridge. He slowed down at once. To his right, beyond the toy-like jetties, he saw the green slopes framing the Petit Lac in all the marvellous banality206 of the picturesque made of painted cardboard, with the more distant stretch of water inanimate and shining like a piece of tin.
He turned his head away from that view for the tourists, and walked on slowly, his eyes fixed on the ground. One or two persons had to get out of his way, and then turned round to give a surprised stare to his profound absorption. The insistence207 of the celebrated208 subversive209 journalist rankled210 in his mind strangely. Write. Must write! He! Write! A sudden light flashed upon him. To write was the very thing he had made up his mind to do that day. He had made up his mind irrevocably to that step and then had forgotten all about it. That incorrigible211 tendency to escape from the grip of the situation was fraught212 with serious danger. He was ready to despise himself for it. What was it? Levity213, or deep-seated weakness? Or an unconscious dread?”
“Is it that I am shrinking? It can’t be! It’s impossible. To shrink now would be worse than moral suicide; it would be nothing less than moral damnation,” he thought. “Is it possible that I have a conventional conscience? “
He rejected that hypothesis with scorn, and, checked on the edge of the pavement, made ready to cross the road and proceed up the wide street facing the head of the bridge; and that for no other reason except that it was there before him. But at the moment a couple of carriages and a slow-moving cart interposed, and suddenly he turned sharp to the left, following the quay again, but now away from the lake.
“It may be just my health,” he thought, allowing himself a very unusual doubt of his soundness; for, with the exception of a childish ailment214 or two, he had never been ill in his life. But that was a danger, too. Only, it seemed as though he were being looked after in a specially215 remarkable216 way. “If I believed in an active Providence,” Razumov said to himself, amused grimly, “I would see here the working of an ironical217 finger. To have a Julius Laspara put in my way as if expressly to remind me of my purpose is — Write, he had said. I must write — I must, indeed! I shall write — never fear. Certainly. That’s why I am here. And for the future I shall have something to write about.”
He was exciting himself by this mental soliloquy. But the idea of writing evoked218 the thought of a place to write in, of shelter, of privacy, and naturally of his lodgings219, mingled220 with a distaste for the necessary exertion221 of getting there, with a mistrust as of some hostile influence awaiting him within those odious four walls.
“Suppose one of these revolutionists,” he asked himself, “were to take a fancy to call on me while I am writing?” The mere prospect222 of such an interruption made him shudder128. One could lock one’s door, or ask the tobacconist downstairs (some sort of a refugee himself) to tell inquirers that one was not in. Not very good precautions those. The manner of his life, he felt, must be kept clear of every cause for suspicion or even occasion for wonder, down to such trifling223 occurrences as a delay in opening a locked door. “I wish I were in the middle of some field miles away from everywhere,” he thought.
He had unconsciously turned to the left once more and now was aware of being on a bridge again. This one was much narrower than the other, and instead of being straight, made a sort of elbow or angle. At the point of that angle a short arm joined it to a hexagonal islet with a soil of gravel103 and its shores faced with dressed stone, a perfection of puerile224 neatness. A couple of tall poplars and a few other trees stood grouped on the clean, dark gravel, and under them a few garden benches and a bronze effigy225 of Jean Jacques Rousseau seated on its pedestal.
On setting his foot on it Razumov became aware that, except for the woman in charge of the refreshment226 chalet, he would be alone on the island. There was something of naive, odious, and inane227 simplicity228 about that unfrequented tiny crumb229 of earth named after Jean Jacques Rousseau. Something pretentious230 and shabby, too. He asked for a glass of milk, which he drank standing231, at one draught232 (nothing but tea had passed his lips since the morning), and was going away with a weary, lagging step when a thought stopped him short. He had found precisely233 what he needed. If solitude234 could ever be secured in the open air in the middle of a town, he would have it there on this absurd island, together with the faculty235 of watching the only approach.
He went back heavily to a garden seat, dropped into it. This was the place for making a beginning of that writing which had to be done. The materials he had on him. “I shall always come here,” he said to himself, and afterwards sat for quite a long time motionless, without thought and sight and hearing, almost without life. He sat long enough for the declining sun to dip behind the roofs of the town at his back, and throw the shadow of the houses on the lake front over the islet, before he pulled out of his pocket a fountain pen, opened a small notebook on his knee, and began to write quickly, raising his eyes now and then at the connecting arm of the bridge. These glances were needless; the people crossing over in the distance seemed unwilling236 even to look at the islet where the exiled effigy of the author of the Social Contract sat enthroned above the bowed head of Razumov in the sombre immobility of bronze. After finishing his scribbling237, Razumov, with a sort of feverish238 haste, put away the pen, then rammed239 the notebook into his pocket, first tearing out the written pages with an almost convulsive brusqueness. But the folding of the flimsy batch240 on his knee was executed with thoughtful nicety. That done, he leaned back in his seat and remained motionless, the papers holding in his left hand. The twilight241 had deepened. He got up and began to pace to and fro slowly under the trees.
“There can be no doubt that now I am safe,” he thought. His fine ear could detect the faintly accentuated242 murmurs243 of the current breaking against the point of the island, and he forgot himself in listening to them with interest. But even to his acute sense of hearing the sound was too elusive244.
“Extraordinary occupation I am giving myself up to,” he murmured. And it occurred to him that this was about the only sound he could listen to innocently, and for his own pleasure, as it were. Yes, the sound of water, the voice of the wind — completely foreign to human passions. All the other sounds of this earth brought contamination to the solitude of a soul.
This was Mr. Razumov’s feeling, the soul, of course, being his own, and the word being used not in the theological sense, but standing, as far as I can understand it, for that part of Mr. Razumov which was not his body, and more specially in danger from the fires of this earth. And it must be admitted that in Mr. Razumov’s case the bitterness of solitude from which he suffered was not an altogether morbid245 phenomenon.
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1
incertitude
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| n.疑惑，不确定 | |
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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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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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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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distended
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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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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peevishness
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| 脾气不好；爱发牢骚 | |
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squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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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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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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squeaks
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| n.短促的尖叫声，吱吱声( squeak的名词复数 )v.短促地尖叫( squeak的第三人称单数 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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stolidity
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| n.迟钝，感觉麻木 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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alliteration
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| n.（诗歌的）头韵 | |
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celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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gendarmes
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| n.宪兵，警官( gendarme的名词复数 ) | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pseudonym
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| n.假名，笔名 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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bureaucrats
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| n.官僚( bureaucrat的名词复数 )；官僚主义；官僚主义者；官僚语言 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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meshes
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| 网孔( mesh的名词复数 )； 网状物； 陷阱； 困境 | |
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squeaked
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的过去式和过去分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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43
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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45
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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incisive
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| adj.敏锐的，机敏的，锋利的，切入的 | |
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49
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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51
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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52
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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slayer
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| n. 杀人者，凶手 | |
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apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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56
dispersing
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| adj. 分散的 动词disperse的现在分词形式 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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scenting
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| vt.闻到（scent的现在分词形式） | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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squeaking
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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assertive
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| adj.果断的，自信的，有冲劲的 | |
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unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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appeasement
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| n.平息，满足 | |
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67
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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68
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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69
gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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70
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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71
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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72
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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73
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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74
placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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75
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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76
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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77
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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78
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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79
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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80
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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81
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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82
edified
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|
| v.开导，启发( edify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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84
hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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85
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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86
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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87
contraction
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| n.缩略词，缩写式，害病 | |
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88
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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89
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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90
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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91
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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92
greasily
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| adv.多脂，油腻，滑溜地 | |
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93
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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94
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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95
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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96
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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98
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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99
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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100
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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101
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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102
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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103
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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104
vivaciously
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| adv.快活地；活泼地；愉快地 | |
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105
spokes
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| n.（车轮的）辐条( spoke的名词复数 )；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 | |
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106
pointed
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|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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107
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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108
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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109
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
judicially
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| 依法判决地，公平地 | |
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111
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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112
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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113
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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114
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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115
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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116
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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117
fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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118
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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119
conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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120
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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121
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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122
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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123
impartiality
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| n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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124
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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125
democrat
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士；民主党党员 | |
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126
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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127
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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128
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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129
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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130
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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131
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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132
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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133
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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134
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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135
impenitent
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| adj.不悔悟的，顽固的 | |
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136
insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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137
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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138
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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139
negation
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| n.否定；否认 | |
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140
abhorrent
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|
| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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141
flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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143
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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144
gnawed
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| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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145
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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146
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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147
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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148
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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149
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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150
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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151
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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152
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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153
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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154
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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155
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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156
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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157
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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158
piquancy
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| n.辛辣，辣味，痛快 | |
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159
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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160
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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161
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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162
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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163
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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164
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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165
feminist
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| adj.主张男女平等的，女权主义的 | |
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166
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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167
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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168
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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169
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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170
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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171
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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172
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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173
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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174
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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175
jutted
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| v.（使）突出( jut的过去式和过去分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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176
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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177
polyglot
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| adj.通晓数种语言的；n.通晓多种语言的人 | |
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178
anarchist
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| n.无政府主义者 | |
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179
pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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180
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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181
invective
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| n.痛骂，恶意抨击 | |
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182
naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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183
humanitarian
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| n.人道主义者，博爱者，基督凡人论者 | |
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184
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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185
languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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186
overalls
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| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
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187
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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188
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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189
pedantry
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| n.迂腐，卖弄学问 | |
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190
maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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191
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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192
sweepings
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|
| n.笼统的( sweeping的名词复数 )；（在投票等中的）大胜；影响广泛的；包罗万象的 | |
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193
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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194
rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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195
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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196
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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197
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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198
dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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200
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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201
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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202
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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203
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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204
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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205
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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206
banality
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| n.陈腐；平庸；陈词滥调 | |
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207
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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208
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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209
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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210
rankled
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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211
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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212
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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214
ailment
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| n.疾病，小病 | |
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215
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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216
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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217
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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218
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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219
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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220
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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221
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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222
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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223
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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224
puerile
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| adj.幼稚的，儿童的 | |
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225
effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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226
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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227
inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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228
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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229
crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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230
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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231
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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232
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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233
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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234
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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235
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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236
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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237
scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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238
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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239
rammed
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| v.夯实（土等）( ram的过去式和过去分词 )；猛撞；猛压；反复灌输 | |
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240
batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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241
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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242
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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243
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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244
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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245
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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