“My work is literature.”
After completing his course at the university, Vladimir Semyonitch had had a paragraph of theatrical4 criticism accepted by a newspaper. From this paragraph he passed on to reviewing, and a year later he had advanced to writing a weekly article on literary matters for the same paper. But it does not follow from these facts that he was an amateur, that his literary work was of an ephemeral, haphazard5 character. Whenever I saw his neat spare figure, his high forehead and long mane of hair, when I listened to his speeches, it always seemed to me that his writing, quite apart from what and how he wrote, was something organically part of him, like the beating of his heart, and that his whole literary programme must have been an integral part of his brain while he was a baby in his mother’s womb. Even in his walk, his gestures, his manner of shaking off the ash from his cigarette, I could read this whole programme from A to Z, with all its claptrap, dulness, and honourable6 sentiments. He was a literary man all over when with an inspired face he laid a wreath on the coffin8 of some celebrity9, or with a grave and solemn face collected signatures for some address; his passion for making the acquaintance of distinguished10 literary men, his faculty for finding talent even where it was absent, his perpetual enthusiasm, his pulse that went at one hundred and twenty a minute, his ignorance of life, the genuinely feminine flutter with which he threw himself into concerts and literary evenings for the benefit of destitute11 students, the way in which he gravitated towards the young—all this would have created for him the reputation of a writer even if he had not written his articles.
He was one of those writers to whom phrases like, “We are but few,” or “What would life be without strife12? Forward!” were pre-eminently becoming, though he never strove with any one and never did go forward. It did not even sound mawkish13 when he fell to discoursing14 of ideals. Every anniversary of the university, on St. Tatiana’s Day, he got drunk, chanted Gaudeamus out of tune15, and his beaming and perspiring16 countenance17 seemed to say: “See, I’m drunk; I’m keeping it up!” But even that suited him.
Vladimir Semyonitch had genuine faith in his literary vocation18 and his whole programme. He had no doubts, and was evidently very well pleased with himself. Only one thing grieved him—the paper for which he worked had a limited circulation and was not very influential19. But Vladimir Semyonitch believed that sooner or later he would succeed in getting on to a solid magazine where he would have scope and could display himself—and what little distress20 he felt on this score was pale beside the brilliance21 of his hopes.
Visiting this charming man, I made the acquaintance of his sister, Vera Semyonovna, a woman doctor. At first sight, what struck me about this woman was her look of exhaustion22 and extreme ill-health. She was young, with a good figure and regular, rather large features, but in comparison with her agile23, elegant, and talkative brother she seemed angular, listless, slovenly24, and sullen25. There was something strained, cold, apathetic26 in her movements, smiles, and words; she was not liked, and was thought proud and not very intelligent.
In reality, I fancy, she was resting.
“My dear friend,” her brother would often say to me, sighing and flinging back his hair in his picturesque27 literary way, “one must never judge by appearances! Look at this book: it has long ago been read. It is warped28, tattered29, and lies in the dust uncared for; but open it, and it will make you weep and turn pale. My sister is like that book. Lift the cover and peep into her soul, and you will be horror-stricken. Vera passed in some three months through experiences that would have been ample for a whole lifetime!”
Vladimir Semyonitch looked round him, took me by the sleeve, and began to whisper:
“You know, after taking her degree she married, for love, an architect. It’s a complete tragedy! They had hardly been married a month when—whew—her husband died of typhus. But that was not all. She caught typhus from him, and when, on her recovery, she learnt that her Ivan was dead, she took a good dose of morphia. If it had not been for vigorous measures taken by her friends, my Vera would have been by now in Paradise. Tell me, isn’t it a tragedy? And is not my sister like an ingénue, who has played already all the five acts of her life? The audience may stay for the farce30, but the ingénue must go home to rest.”
After three months of misery31 Vera Semyonovna had come to live with her brother. She was not fitted for the practice of medicine, which exhausted32 her and did not satisfy her; she did not give one the impression of knowing her subject, and I never once heard her say anything referring to her medical studies.
She gave up medicine, and, silent and unoccupied, as though she were a prisoner, spent the remainder of her youth in colourless apathy33, with bowed head and hanging hands. The only thing to which she was not completely indifferent, and which brought some brightness into the twilight34 of her life, was the presence of her brother, whom she loved. She loved him himself and his programme, she was full of reverence35 for his articles; and when she was asked what her brother was doing, she would answer in a subdued36 voice as though afraid of waking or distracting him: “He is writing. . . .” Usually when he was at his work she used to sit beside him, her eyes fixed37 on his writing hand. She used at such moments to look like a sick animal warming itself in the sun. . . .
One winter evening Vladimir Semyonitch was sitting at his table writing a critical article for his newspaper: Vera Semyonovna was sitting beside him, staring as usual at his writing hand. The critic wrote rapidly, without erasures or corrections. The pen scratched and squeaked38. On the table near the writing hand there lay open a freshly-cut volume of a thick magazine, containing a story of peasant life, signed with two initials. Vladimir Semyonitch was enthusiastic; he thought the author was admirable in his handling of the subject, suggested Turgenev in his descriptions of nature, was truthful39, and had an excellent knowledge of the life of the peasantry. The critic himself knew nothing of peasant life except from books and hearsay40, but his feelings and his inner convictions forced him to believe the story. He foretold41 a brilliant future for the author, assured him he should await the conclusion of the story with great impatience42, and so on.
“Fine story!” he said, flinging himself back in his chair and closing his eyes with pleasure. “The tone is extremely good.”
Vera Semyonovna looked at him, yawned aloud, and suddenly asked an unexpected question. In the evening she had a habit of yawning nervously43 and asking short, abrupt44 questions, not always relevant.
“Volodya,” she asked, “what is the meaning of non-resistance to evil?”
“Non-resistance to evil!” repeated her brother, opening his eyes.
“Yes. What do you understand by it?”
“You see, my dear, imagine that thieves or brigands45 attack you, and you, instead of . . .”
“No, give me a logical definition.”
“A logical definition? Um! Well.” Vladimir Semyonitch pondered. “Non-resistance to evil means an attitude of non-interference with regard to all that in the sphere of mortality is called evil.”
Saying this, Vladimir Semyonitch bent46 over the table and took up a novel. This novel, written by a woman, dealt with the painfulness of the irregular position of a society lady who was living under the same roof with her lover and her illegitimate child. Vladimir Semyonitch was pleased with the excellent tendency of the story, the plot and the presentation of it. Making a brief summary of the novel, he selected the best passages and added to them in his account: “How true to reality, how living, how picturesque! The author is not merely an artist; he is also a subtle psychologist who can see into the hearts of his characters. Take, for example, this vivid description of the emotions of the heroine on meeting her husband,” and so on.
“Volodya,” Vera Semyonovna interrupted his critical effusions, “I’ve been haunted by a strange idea since yesterday. I keep wondering where we should all be if human life were ordered on the basis of non-resistance to evil?”
“In all probability, nowhere. Non-resistance to evil would give the full rein47 to the criminal will, and, to say nothing of civilisation48, this would leave not one stone standing49 upon another anywhere on earth.”
“What would be left?”
“Bashi-Bazouke and brothels. In my next article I’ll talk about that perhaps. Thank you for reminding me.”
And a week later my friend kept his promise. That was just at the period—in the eighties—when people were beginning to talk and write of non-resistance, of the right to judge, to punish, to make war; when some people in our set were beginning to do without servants, to retire into the country, to work on the land, and to renounce50 animal food and carnal love.
After reading her brother’s article, Vera Semyonovna pondered and hardly perceptibly shrugged51 her shoulders.
“Very nice!” she said. “But still there’s a great deal I don’t understand. For instance, in Leskov’s story ‘Belonging to the Cathedral’ there is a queer gardener who sows for the benefit of all—for customers, for beggars, and any who care to steal. Did he behave sensibly?”
From his sister’s tone and expression Vladimir Semyonitch saw that she did not like his article, and, almost for the first time in his life, his vanity as an author sustained a shock. With a shade of irritation52 he answered:
“Theft is immoral53. To sow for thieves is to recognise the right of thieves to existence. What would you think if I were to establish a newspaper and, dividing it into sections, provide for blackmailing54 as well as for liberal ideas? Following the example of that gardener, I ought, logically, to provide a section for blackmailers, the intellectual scoundrels? Yes.”
Vera Semyonovna made no answer. She got up from the table, moved languidly to the sofa and lay down.
“I don’t know, I know nothing about it,” she said musingly55. “You are probably right, but it seems to me, I feel somehow, that there’s something false in our resistance to evil, as though there were something concealed56 or unsaid. God knows, perhaps our methods of resisting evil belong to the category of prejudices which have become so deeply rooted in us, that we are incapable57 of parting with them, and therefore cannot form a correct judgment58 of them.”
“How do you mean?”
“I don’t know how to explain to you. Perhaps man is mistaken in thinking that he is obliged to resist evil and has a right to do so, just as he is mistaken in thinking, for instance, that the heart looks like an ace7 of hearts. It is very possible in resisting evil we ought not to use force, but to use what is the very opposite of force—if you, for instance, don’t want this picture stolen from you, you ought to give it away rather than lock it up. . . .”
“That’s clever, very clever! If I want to marry a rich, vulgar woman, she ought to prevent me from such a shabby action by hastening to make me an offer herself!”
The brother and sister talked till midnight without understanding each other. If any outsider had overheard them he would hardly have been able to make out what either of them was driving at.
They usually spent the evening at home. There were no friends’ houses to which they could go, and they felt no need for friends; they only went to the theatre when there was a new play—such was the custom in literary circles—they did not go to concerts, for they did not care for music.
“You may think what you like,” Vera Semyonovna began again the next day, “but for me the question is to a great extent settled. I am firmly convinced that I have no grounds for resisting evil directed against me personally. If they want to kill me, let them. My defending myself will not make the murderer better. All I have now to decide is the second half of the question: how I ought to behave to evil directed against my neighbours?”
“Vera, mind you don’t become rabid!” said Vladimir Semyonitch, laughing. “I see non-resistance is becoming your idée fixe!”
He wanted to turn off these tedious conversations with a jest, but somehow it was beyond a jest; his smile was artificial and sour. His sister gave up sitting beside his table and gazing reverently59 at his writing hand, and he felt every evening that behind him on the sofa lay a person who did not agree with him. And his back grew stiff and numb60, and there was a chill in his soul. An author’s vanity is vindictive61, implacable, incapable of forgiveness, and his sister was the first and only person who had laid bare and disturbed that uneasy feeling, which is like a big box of crockery, easy to unpack62 but impossible to pack up again as it was before.
Weeks and months passed by, and his sister clung to her ideas, and did not sit down by the table. One spring evening Vladimir Semyonitch was sitting at his table writing an article. He was reviewing a novel which described how a village schoolmistress refused the man whom she loved and who loved her, a man both wealthy and intellectual, simply because marriage made her work as a schoolmistress impossible. Vera Semyonovna lay on the sofa and brooded.
“My God, how slow it is!” she said, stretching. “How insipid63 and empty life is! I don’t know what to do with myself, and you are wasting your best years in goodness knows what. Like some alchemist, you are rummaging64 in old rubbish that nobody wants. My God!”
Vladimir Semyonitch dropped his pen and slowly looked round at his sister.
“It’s depressing to look at you!” said his sister. “Wagner in ‘Faust’ dug up worms, but he was looking for a treasure, anyway, and you are looking for worms for the sake of the worms.”
“That’s vague!”
“Yes, Volodya; all these days I’ve been thinking, I’ve been thinking painfully for a long time, and I have come to the conclusion that you are hopelessly reactionary65 and conventional. Come, ask yourself what is the object of your zealous66, conscientious67 work? Tell me, what is it? Why, everything has long ago been extracted that can be extracted from that rubbish in which you are always rummaging. You may pound water in a mortar68 and analyse it as long as you like, you’ll make nothing more of it than the chemists have made already. . . .”
“Indeed!” drawled Vladimir Semyonitch, getting up. “Yes, all this is old rubbish because these ideas are eternal; but what do you consider new, then?”
“You undertake to work in the domain69 of thought; it is for you to think of something new. It’s not for me to teach you.”
“Me—an alchemist!” the critic cried in wonder and indignation, screwing up his eyes ironically. “Art, progress—all that is alchemy?”
“You see, Volodya, it seems to me that if all you thinking people had set yourselves to solving great problems, all these little questions that you fuss about now would solve themselves by the way. If you go up in a balloon to see a town, you will incidentally, without any effort, see the fields and the villages and the rivers as well. When stearine is manufactured, you get glycerine as a by-product70. It seems to me that contemporary thought has settled on one spot and stuck to it. It is prejudiced, apathetic, timid, afraid to take a wide titanic71 flight, just as you and I are afraid to climb on a high mountain; it is conservative.”
Such conversations could not but leave traces. The relations of the brother and sister grew more and more strained every day. The brother became unable to work in his sister’s presence, and grew irritable72 when he knew his sister was lying on the sofa, looking at his back; while the sister frowned nervously and stretched when, trying to bring back the past, he attempted to share his enthusiasms with her. Every evening she complained of being bored, and talked about independence of mind and those who are in the rut of tradition. Carried away by her new ideas, Vera Semyonovna proved that the work that her brother was so engrossed73 in was conventional, that it was a vain effort of conservative minds to preserve what had already served its turn and was vanishing from the scene of action. She made no end of comparisons. She compared her brother at one time to an alchemist, then to a musty old Believer who would sooner die than listen to reason. By degrees there was a perceptible change in her manner of life, too. She was capable of lying on the sofa all day long doing nothing but think, while her face wore a cold, dry expression such as one sees in one-sided people of strong faith. She began to refuse the attentions of the servants, swept and tidied her own room, cleaned her own boots and brushed her own clothes. Her brother could not help looking with irritation and even hatred74 at her cold face when she went about her menial work. In that work, which was always performed with a certain solemnity, he saw something strained and false, he saw something both pharisaical and affected75. And knowing he could not touch her by persuasion76, he carped at her and teased her like a schoolboy.
“You won’t resist evil, but you resist my having servants!” he taunted77 her. “If servants are an evil, why do you oppose it? That’s inconsistent!”
He suffered, was indignant and even ashamed. He felt ashamed when his sister began doing odd things before strangers.
“It’s awful, my dear fellow,” he said to me in private, waving his hands in despair. “It seems that our ingénue has remained to play a part in the farce, too. She’s become morbid78 to the marrow79 of her bones! I’ve washed my hands of her, let her think as she likes; but why does she talk, why does she excite me? She ought to think what it means for me to listen to her. What I feel when in my presence she has the effrontery80 to support her errors by blasphemously81 quoting the teaching of Christ! It chokes me! It makes me hot all over to hear my sister propounding82 her doctrines83 and trying to distort the Gospel to suit her, when she purposely refrains from mentioning how the moneychangers were driven out of the Temple. That’s, my dear fellow, what comes of being half educated, undeveloped! That’s what comes of medical studies which provide no general culture!”
One day on coming home from the office, Vladimir Semyonitch found his sister crying. She was sitting on the sofa with her head bowed, wringing84 her hands, and tears were flowing freely down her cheeks. The critic’s good heart throbbed85 with pain. Tears fell from his eyes, too, and he longed to pet his sister, to forgive her, to beg her forgiveness, and to live as they used to before. . . . He knelt down and kissed her head, her hands, her shoulders. . . . She smiled, smiled bitterly, unaccountably, while he with a cry of joy jumped up, seized the magazine from the table and said warmly:
“Hurrah! We’ll live as we used to, Verotchka! With God’s blessing86! And I’ve such a surprise for you here! Instead of celebrating the occasion with champagne87, let us read it together! A splendid, wonderful thing!”
“Oh, no, no!” cried Vera Semyonovna, pushing away the book in alarm. “I’ve read it already! I don’t want it, I don’t want it!”
“When did you read it?”
“A year . . . two years ago. . . I read it long ago, and I know it, I know it!”
“H’m! . . . You’re a fanatic88!” her brother said coldly, flinging the magazine on to the table.
“No, you are a fanatic, not I! You!” And Vera Semyonovna dissolved into tears again. Her brother stood before her, looked at her quivering shoulders, and thought. He thought, not of the agonies of loneliness endured by any one who begins to think in a new way of their own, not of the inevitable89 sufferings of a genuine spiritual revolution, but of the outrage90 of his programme, the outrage to his author’s vanity.
From this time he treated his sister coldly, with careless irony91, and he endured her presence in the room as one endures the presence of old women that are dependent on one. For her part, she left off disputing with him and met all his arguments, jeers92, and attacks with a condescending93 silence which irritated him more than ever.
One summer morning Vera Semyonovna, dressed for travelling with a satchel94 over her shoulder, went in to her brother and coldly kissed him on the forehead.
“Where are you going?” he asked with surprise.
“To the province of N. to do vaccination95 work.” Her brother went out into the street with her.
“So that’s what you’ve decided96 upon, you queer girl,” he muttered. “Don’t you want some money?”
“No, thank you. Good-bye.”
The sister shook her brother’s hand and set off.
“Why don’t you have a cab?” cried Vladimir Semyonitch.
She did not answer. Her brother gazed after her, watched her rusty-looking waterproof97, the swaying of her figure as she slouched along, forced himself to sigh, but did not succeed in rousing a feeling of regret. His sister had become a stranger to him. And he was a stranger to her. Anyway, she did not once look round.
Going back to his room, Vladimir Semyonitch at once sat down to the table and began to work at his article.
I never saw Vera Semyonovna again. Where she is now I do not know. And Vladimir Semyonitch went on writing his articles, laying wreaths on coffins98, singing Gaudeamus, busying himself over the Mutual99 Aid Society of Moscow Journalists.
He fell ill with inflammation of the lungs; he was ill in bed for three months—at first at home, and afterwards in the Golitsyn Hospital. An abscess developed in his knee. People said he ought to be sent to the Crimea, and began getting up a collection for him. But he did not go to the Crimea—he died. We buried him in the Vagankovsky Cemetery100, on the left side, where artists and literary men are buried.
One day we writers were sitting in the Tatars’ restaurant. I mentioned that I had lately been in the Vagankovsky Cemetery and had seen Vladimir Semyonitch’s grave there. It was utterly101 neglected and almost indistinguishable from the rest of the ground, the cross had fallen; it was necessary to collect a few roubles to put it in order.
But they listened to what I said unconcernedly, made no answer, and I could not collect a farthing. No one remembered Vladimir Semyonitch. He was utterly forgotten.
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1
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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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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ace
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| n.A牌；发球得分；佼佼者；adj.杰出的 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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mawkish
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| adj.多愁善感的的；无味的 | |
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discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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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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warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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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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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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44
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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brigands
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| n.土匪，强盗( brigand的名词复数 ) | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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blackmailing
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| 胁迫，尤指以透露他人不体面行为相威胁以勒索钱财( blackmail的现在分词 ) | |
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musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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62
unpack
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| vt.打开包裹（或行李），卸货 | |
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insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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reactionary
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| n.反动者，反动主义者；adj.反动的，反动主义的，反对改革的 | |
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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by-product
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| n.副产品，附带产生的结果 | |
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titanic
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| adj.巨人的，庞大的，强大的 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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blasphemously
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propounding
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的现在分词 ) | |
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doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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jeers
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| n.操纵帆桁下部（使其上下的）索具；嘲讽( jeer的名词复数 )v.嘲笑( jeer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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94
satchel
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| n.(皮或帆布的)书包 | |
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95
vaccination
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| n.接种疫苗，种痘 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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97
waterproof
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| n.防水材料；adj.防水的；v.使...能防水 | |
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98
coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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99
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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100
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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101
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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