—Letter to his brother Michael.
In his Criticism and Fiction, Mr. Howells wrote: "It used to be one of the disadvantages of the practice of romance in America, which Hawthorne more or less whimsically lamented1, that there were few shadows and inequalities in our broad level of prosperity; and it is one of the reflections suggested by Dosto?evsky's novel, The Crime and the Punishment, that whoever struck a note so profoundly tragic2 in American fiction would do a false and mistaken thing—as false and as mistaken in its way as dealing3 in American fiction with certain nudities which the Latin peoples seem to find edifying4."
Who cares nowadays for the hard-and-fast classifications of idealist, realist, romanticist, [Pg 53] psychologist, symbolist, and the rest of the phrases, which are only so much superfluous5 baggage for literary camp-followers6. All great romancers are realists, and the converse7 may be true. You note it in Dumas and his gorgeous, clattering8 tales—improbable, but told in terms of the real. For my part, I often find them too real, with their lusty wenches and heroes smelling of the slaughter-house. Turn now to Flaubert, master of all the moderns; you may trace the romancer dear to the heart of Hugo, or the psychologist in Madame Bovary, the arch?ological novel in Salammb?, or cold, grey realism as in L'Education Sentimentale, while his very style, with its sumptuous10 verbal echoes, its resonant11, rhythmic12 periods—is not all this the beginning of that symbolism carried to such lengths by Verlaine and his followers? Shakespeare himself ranged from gross naturalism to the quiring of cherubim.
Walter Scott was a master realist if you forget his old-fashioned operatic scenery and costumes. It is to Jane Austen we must go for the realism admired of Mr. Howells, and justly. Her work is all of a piece. The Russians are realists, but with a difference; and that deviation13 forms the school. Taking Gogol as the norm of modern Russian fiction—Leo Wiener's admirable anthology surprises with its specimens14 of earlier men—we see the novel strained through the rich, mystic imagination of Dosto?evsky; [Pg 54] viewed through the more equable, artistic15, and pessimistic temperament16 of Turgenieff, until it is seized by Leo Tolstoy and passionately18 transformed to serve his own didactic purposes. Realism? Yes, such as the world has never before seen, and yet at times as idealistic as Shelley. It is not surprising that Mr. John M. Robertson wrote, as far back as 1891: "In that strange country where brute19 power seems to be throttling20 all the highest life of the people ... there yet seems to be no cessation in the production of truthful21 literary art ... for justice of perception, soundness and purity of taste, and skill of workmanship, we in England, with all our freedom, can offer no parallel."
Perhaps "freedom" is the reason.
And what would this critic have said of the De Profundis of Maxim22 Gorky? Are there still darker depths to be explored? Little wonder Mr. Robertson calls Kipling's "the art of a great talent with a cheap culture and a flashy environment." Therefore, to talk of such distinctions as realism and romance is sheer waste of time. It is but a recrudescence of the old classic vs. romantic conflict. Stendhal has written that a classicist is a dead romanticist. It still holds good. But here in America, "the colourless shadow land of fiction," is there no tragedy in Gilead for souls not supine? Some years ago Mr. James Lane Allen, who cannot be accused of any hankerings after the flesh-pots of Zola, [Pg 55] made an energetic protest against what he denominated the "feminine principle" in our fiction. He did not mean the books written by women—in sooth, they are for the most part boiling over with the joy of life—but he meant the feminism of so much of our novel writing put forth23 by men.
The censor24 in Russia by his very stringency25 caused a great fictional26 literature to blossom, despite his forbidding blue pencil. In America the sentiment of the etiolated, the brainless, the prudish27, the hypocrite is the censor. (Though something might be said now about the pendulum28 swinging too far in the opposite direction.) Not that Mr. Howells is strait-laced, prudish, narrow in his views—but he puts his foot down on the expression of the tragic, the unusual, the emotional. With him, charming artist, it is a matter of temperament. He admires with a latitude29 quite foreign to English-speaking critics such diverse genius as Flaubert, Tolstoy, Turgenieff, Galdos, Jane Austen, Emilia Pardo Bázan, Mathilde Serao—greater than any modern woman writer of fiction—Henry James, and George Moore. But he admires each on his or her native heath. That their particular methods might be given universal application he does not admit. And when he wrote the above about Dosto?evsky New York was not so full of Russians and Poles and people from southeastern Europe as it is now. Dosto?evsky, if he were alive, would find plenty of [Pg 56] material, tragedy and comedy alike, on our East Side.
The new translation of Dosto?evsky in English by Constance Garnett is significant. A few years ago Crime and Punishment was the only one of his works well known. The Possessed30, that extraordinary study of souls obsessed31 by madness and crime, The Brothers Karamazov, The House of the Dead, and The Idiot are to-day in the hands of American readers who indorse what Nietzsche said of the Russian master: "This profound man ... has perceived that Siberian convicts, with whom he lived for a long time (capital criminals for whom there was no return to society), were persons carved out of the best, the hardest and the most valuable material to be found in the Russian dominions32.... Dosto?evsky, the only psychologist from whom I had anything to learn." George Moore once had dubbed33 the novelist, "Gaboriau with psychological sauce." Since then, Mr. Moore has contributed a charming introduction to Poor Folk, yet there is no denying the force and wit of his hasty epigram. Dosto?evsky is often melodramatic and violent; his "psychology34" vague and tortuous35.
And in the letters exchanged between Nietzsche and Georg Brandes, the latter writes of Dosto?evsky after his visit to Russia: "He is a great poet but a detestable fellow, altogether Christian36 in his emotions, and quite sadique at the same time. All his morality is what you [Pg 57] have christened 'Slave's' morality.... Look at Dosto?evsky's face: half the face of a Russian peasant, half the physiognomy of a criminal, flat nose, little penetrating37 eyes, under lids trembling with nervousness, the forehead large and well-shaped, the expressive38 mouth telling of tortures without count, of unfathomable melancholy39, of morbid40 desires, endless compassion41, passionate17 envy. An epileptic genius whose very exterior42 speaks of the stream of mildness that fills his heart, of the wave of almost insane perspicuity43 that gets into his head, finally the ambition, the greatness of endeavour, and the envy that small-mindedness begets44.... His heroes are not only poor and crave45 sympathy, but are half imbeciles, sensitive creatures, noble drabs, often victims of hallucinations, talented epileptics, enthusiastic seekers after martyrdom, the very types that we are compelled to suppose probable among the apostles and disciples47 of the early Christian era. Certainly no mind stands further removed from the Renaissance48."
Of all Dosto?evsky's portraits after Sonia, the saintly prostitute, that of Nastasia Philipovna in The Idiot is the most lifelike and astounding49. The career of this half-mad girl is sinister50 and tragic; she is half-sister in her temperamental traits to Paulina in the same master's admirable story The Gambler. Grushenka in The Brothers Karamazov is another woman of the demoniac type to which Nastasia [Pg 58] belongs. Then there are high-spirited, hysterical51 girls such as Katarina in Karamazov, Aglaia Epanchin in The Idiot, or Liza in The Possessed (Besi). The border-land of puberty is a favourite theme with the Russian writer. And consider the splendidly fierce old women, mothers, aunts, grandmothers (Granny in The Gambler is a full-length portrait worthy52 of Hogarth) and befuddled53 old men—retired from service in state and army; Dosto?evsky is a masterly painter of drunkards, drabs, and neuropaths. Prince Mushkin (or Myshkin) the semi-idiot in The Idiot is depicted55 with surpassing charm. He is half cracked and an epileptic, but is one of the most lovable young men in fiction. Thinking of him, you recall what Nietzsche wrote of Christ: "One regrets that a Dosto?evsky did not live in the neighbourhood of this most interesting decadent56, I mean some one who knew just how to perceive the thrilling charm of such a mixture of the sublime57, the sickly, and the childish." Here is a "moral landscape of the dark Russian soul," and an exemplification in the Prince Myshkin of The Idiot, who is evidently an attempt to portray58 a latter-day Christ.
Raskolnikov in Crime and Punishment, like Rogozhin in The Idiot, Stavrogin in The Possessed were supermen before Nietzsche, but all half mad. A famous alienist has declared that three-fourths of Dosto?evsky's characters are quite mad. This is an exaggeration, though [Pg 59] there are many about whom the aura of madness and melancholy hovers59. Dosto?evsky himself was epileptic; poverty and epilepsy were his companions through a life crowded with unhappiness. (Born 1822, died 1881.) He was four years in Siberia, condemned60 though innocent as a member of the Pétrachevsky group. He tells us that the experience calmed his nerves. His recollections of his Dead House are harrowing, and make the literature of prison life, whether written by Hugo, Zola, Tolstoy, or others, like the literary exercise of an amateur. It is this sense of reality, of life growing like grass over one's head, that renders the novels of Dosto?evsky "human documents." Calling himself a "proletarian of letters" this tender-hearted man denied being a psychologist—which pre-eminently he was: "They call me a psychologist; it is not true. I am only a realist in the highest sense of the word, i. e., I depict54 all the soul's depths."
If he has shown us the soul of the madman, drunkard, libertine61, the street-walker, he has also exposed the psychology of the gambler.
He knew. He was a desperate gambler and in Baden actually starved in company with his devoted62 wife. These experiences may be found depicted in The Gambler.
He has been called the "Bossuet of the détraqués," but I prefer that other and more appropriate title, the Dante of the North. His novels are infernos63. How well Nietzsche studied him; they were fellow spirits in suffering. All [Pg 60] Dosto?evsky is in his phrase: "There are no ugly women"—put in the mouth of the senile, debauched Karamazov, a companion portrait to Balzac's Baron64 Hulot. His love for women has a pathological cast. His young girls discuss unpleasant matters. Even Frank Wedekind is anticipated in his Spring's Awakening65 by the Russian in The Brothers Karamazov: "How can Katarina have a baby if she isn't married?" cries one of the youngsters, a question which is the very nub of the Wedekind play. "Two parallel lines may meet in eternity66," which sounds like Ibsen's query67: "Two and two may make five on the planet Jupiter." He was deeply pious68, nevertheless a questioner. His books are full of theological wranglings. Consider the "prose-poem" of the Grand Inquisitor and the second coming of Christ. Or such an idea as the "craving69 for community of worship is the chief misery70 of man, of all humanity from the beginning of time." We recognise Nietzsche in Dosto?evsky's "the old morality of the old slave man," and a genuine poet in "the secret of the earth mingles71 with the mystery of the stars." His na?ve conception of eternity as "a chamber72 something like a bathhouse, long neglected, and with spider's webs in its corners" reminds us of Nietzsche when he describes his doctrine73 of the Eternal Recurrence74. The Russian has told us in memorable75 phrases of the blinding, intense happiness, a cerebral76 spasm77, which lasts the fraction of a second at the beginning of an epileptic attack. [Pg 61] For it he declares, for that brief moment during which paradise is disclosed, he would sacrifice a lifetime. Little wonder in the interim78 of a cold, grey, miserable79 existence he suffered from what he calls "mystic fear," the fear of fear, such as Maeterlinck shows us in The Intruder. As for the socialists80 he says their motto is: "Don't dare to believe in God, don't dare to have property, fraternity or death, two millions of heads!"
The foundational theme of his work is an overwhelming love for mankind, a plea for solidarity82 which too often degenerates83 into sickly sentimentalism. He imitated Dickens, George Sand, and Victor Hugo—the Hugo of Les Misérables. He hated Turgenieff and caricatured him in The Possessed. It is true that in dialogue he has had few superiors; his men and women talk as they would talk in life and only in special instances are mouthpieces for the author's ideas—in this quite different from so many of Tolstoy's characters. Merejkowski has said without fear of contradiction that Dosto?evsky is like the great dramatists of antiquity84 in his "art of gradual tension, accumulation, increase, and alarming concentration of dramatic action." His books are veritably tragic. In Russian music alone may be found a parallel to his poignant85 pathos86 and gloomy imaginings and shuddering87 climaxes88. What is more wonderful than Chapter I of The Idiot with its adumbration89 of the entire plot and characterisation [Pg 62] of the book, or Chapter XV and its dramatic surprises.
His cardinal90 doctrine of non-resistance is illustrated91 in the following anecdote92. One evening while walking in St. Petersburg, evidently in meditation93 a beggar asked for alms. Dosto?evsky did not answer. Enraged94 by his apparent indifference95, the man gave him such a violent blow that he was knocked off his legs. On arising he picked up his hat, dusted his clothes, and walked away; but a policeman who saw the attack came running toward the beggar and took him to the lock-up. Despite his protest Dosto?evsky accompanied them. He refused to make a charge, for he argued that he was not sure the prisoner was the culpable96 one; it was dark and he had not seen his face. Besides, he might have been sick in his mind; only a sick person would attack in such a manner. Sick, cried the examining magistrate97, that drunken good-for-nothing sick! A little rest in jail would do him good. You are wrong, contradicted the accused, I am not drunk but hungry. When a man has eaten, he doesn't believe that another is starving. True, answered Dosto?evsky, this poor chap was crazy with hunger. I shan't make a complaint. Nevertheless the ruffian was sentenced to a month's imprisonment98. Dosto?evsky gave him three roubles before he left. Now this kind man was, strange as it may seem, an anti-Semite. His diary revealed the fact after his death. In life he kept [Pg 63] this prejudice to himself. I always think of Dosto?evsky as a man in shabby clothes mounting at twilight99 an obscure staircase in some St. Petersburg hovel, the moon shining dimly through the dirty window-panes, and cobwebs and gloom abounding100. "I love to hear singing to a street organ; I like it on cold, dark, damp autumn evenings, when all the passers-by have pale, green, sickly faces, or when wet snow is falling straight down; the night is windless ... and the street lamps shine through it," said Raskolnikov. Here is the essential Dosto?evsky.
And his tenacious101 love of life is exemplified in Raskolnikov's musing102: "Where is it I've read that some one condemned to death says or thinks an hour before his death, that if he had to live on some high rock, on such a narrow ledge103 that he would only have room to stand, and the ocean, everlasting104 darkness, everlasting solitude105, everlasting tempest around him, if he had to remain standing106 on a square yard of space all his life, a thousand years, eternity, it were better to live than to die at once." We feel the repercussion107 of his anguish108 when death was imminent109 for alleged110 participation111 in a nihilistic conspiracy112. Or, again, that horrid113 picture of a "boxed eternity": "We always imagine eternity as something beyond our conception, something vast, vast! But why must it be vast? Instead of all that, what if it's one little room, like a bath-house in the country, black and grimy and spiders in every corner, and [Pg 64] that's all eternity is? I sometimes fancy it is that." The grotesque114 and the sinister often nudge elbows in these morbid, monstrous115 pages.
His belief in the unchanging nature of mankind is pure fatalism. "Afterwards I understand ... that men won't change and that nobody can alter it and that it's not worth wasting efforts over it.... Whoever is strong in mind and spirit will have power over them. He who despises most things will be a lawgiver among them, and he who dares most of all will be most in right. Any one who is greatly daring is right in their eyes. So it has been till now, and so it always will be." Thus Rodion, the student to the devoted Sonia. It sounds like Nietzsche avant la lettre. Or the cynicism of: "Every one thinks of himself, and he lives most gaily116 who knows best how to deceive himself." He speaks of his impending117 exile to Siberia: "But I wonder shall I in those fifteen or twenty years grow so meek118 that I shall humble119 myself before people and whimper at every word that I am a criminal. Yes, that's it, that's it, that's what they are sending me there for, that's what they want. Look at them running to and fro about the streets, every one of them a scoundrel and a criminal at heart, and worse still, an idiot. But try to get me off and they'd be wild with righteous indignation. Oh, how I hate them all!" (The above excerpts120 are from the admirable translation by Constance Garnett.)
[Pg 65] As for his own mental condition, Dosto?evsky gives us a picture of it in Injury and Insult: "As soon as it grew dusk I gradually fell into that state of mind which so often overmasters me at night since I've been ill, and which I shall call mystic fear. It is a crushing anxiety about something which I can neither define nor even conceive, which does not actually exist, but which perhaps is about to be realised, at this very moment, to appear and rise up before me like an inexorable, horrible misshapen fact." This "frenzied121 anguish" is a familiar stigma122 of epilepsy. Its presence denotes the approach of an attack.
But the "sacred malady123" had, in the case of Dosto?evsky, its compensations. Through this fissure124 in the walls of his neurotic125 soul he peered and saw its strange perturbations, divined their origins in the very roots of his being, and recorded—as did Poe, Baudelaire, and Nietzsche—the fluctuations126 of his sick will. With this Russian, his Hamlet-like introspection becomes vertigo127, and life itself fades into a dream compounded of febrile melancholy or blood lust9. It was not without warrant that he allows Rogoszin, in The Idiot, to murder Nastasia Philipovna, because of her physical charms. The aura of the man foredoomed to morbid crime is unmistakable.
The letters of Fyodor Michailovitch Dosto?evsky came as a revelation to his admirers. We think of him as overflowing128 with sentiment for [Pg 66] his fellow man, a socialist81, one who "went to the people" long before Tolstoy dreamed of the adventure, a man four years in prison in Siberia, and six more in that bleak129 country under official inspection130; truly, a martyr46 to his country, an epileptic and a genius. You may be disappointed to learn from these telltale documents—translated by Ethel Colburn Mayne—that the Russian writer while in exile avoided his fellow convicts, was very unpopular with them, and that throughout his correspondence there are numerous contemptuous references to socialism and "going to the people." He preferred solitude, he asserts more than once, to the company of common folk or mediocre131 persons. He gives Tolstoy at his true rating, but is cruel to Turgenieff—who never wished him harm. The Dosto?evsky caricature portrait of Turgenieff—infinitely the superior artist of the two—in The Possessed is absurd. Turgenieff forgave, but Dosto?evsky never forgave Turgenieff for this forgiveness. Another merit of these letters is the light they shed on the true character of Tolstoy, who is shown in his proper environment, neither a prophet nor a heaven-storming reformer. Dosto?evsky invented the phrase: "land-proprietor literature," to describe the fiction of both Tolstoy and Turgenieff. He was abjectly132 poor, gambled when he got the chance (which was seldom), hated Western Europe, France and Germany in particular, but admired the novels of George Sand, Victor Hugo, [Pg 67] and Charles Dickens. He tells us much of his painful methods of writing ("what do I want with fame when I'm writing for daily bread?" he bitterly asks his brother), and the overshadowing necessity that compelled him to turn in "copy" when he lacked food, fire, friends. No wonder this private correspondence shows us anything but a lover of mankind, no matter how suffused133 in humanitarianism134 are his books, with their drabs, tramps, criminals, and drunkards. Turgenieff divined in him Sadistic135 predispositions; he was certainly a morbid man; while Tolstoy wrote of him: "It never entered my head to compare myself with him.... I am weeping now over the news of his death ... and I never saw the man." Dosto?evsky was a profound influence on the art and life of Tolstoy.
It may interest musical persons to learn that it was through the efforts of Adolphe Henselt, piano virtuoso136 and composer, that Dosto?evsky was finally allowed to leave Siberia and publish his writings. Henselt, who was at the time court pianist and teacher of the Czarina, appealed to her, and thus the ball was set rolling that ended in the clemency137 of the Czar. To Henselt, then, Russian literature is indebted for the "greater Dosto?evsky." Why he was ever sent to Siberia is still a mystery. He had avowed138 his disbelief in the teachings of the Pétrachevsky group, and only frequented their meetings because "advanced" European literature was read aloud. Dosto?evsky was never a [Pg 68] nihilist, and in his open letter to some St. Petersburg students he gives them sound advice as to the results of revolution. Poor man! He knew from harsh experience.
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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deviation
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| n.背离，偏离；偏差，偏向；离题 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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throttling
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| v.扼杀( throttle的现在分词 )；勒死；使窒息；压制 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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censor
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| n./vt.审查，审查员；删改 | |
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stringency
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| n.严格，紧迫，说服力；严格性；强度 | |
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fictional
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| adj.小说的，虚构的 | |
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prudish
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| adj.装淑女样子的，装规矩的，过分规矩的；adv.过分拘谨地 | |
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pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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dominions
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| 统治权( dominion的名词复数 )； 领土； 疆土； 版图 | |
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dubbed
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| v.给…起绰号( dub的过去式和过去分词 )；把…称为；配音；复制 | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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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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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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perspicuity
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| n.（文体的）明晰 | |
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44
begets
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| v.为…之生父( beget的第三人称单数 )；产生，引起 | |
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45
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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46
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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47
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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48
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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49
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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50
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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51
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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52
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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53
befuddled
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| adj.迷糊的，糊涂的v.使烂醉( befuddle的过去式和过去分词 )；使迷惑不解 | |
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54
depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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55
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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56
decadent
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| adj.颓废的，衰落的，堕落的 | |
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57
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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58
portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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59
hovers
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| 鸟( hover的第三人称单数 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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60
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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61
libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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62
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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63
infernos
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| n.地狱( inferno的名词复数 )；很热的地方 | |
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64
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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65
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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66
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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67
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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68
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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69
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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70
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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71
mingles
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| 混合，混入( mingle的第三人称单数 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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72
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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73
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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74
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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75
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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76
cerebral
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| adj.脑的，大脑的；有智力的，理智型的 | |
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77
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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78
interim
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| adj.暂时的，临时的；n.间歇，过渡期间 | |
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79
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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80
socialists
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| 社会主义者( socialist的名词复数 ) | |
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81
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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82
solidarity
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| n.团结；休戚相关 | |
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83
degenerates
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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84
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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85
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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86
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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87
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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88
climaxes
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| n.顶点( climax的名词复数 )；极点；高潮；性高潮 | |
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89
adumbration
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| n.预示，预兆 | |
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90
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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91
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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92
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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93
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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95
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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96
culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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97
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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98
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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99
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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100
abounding
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| adj.丰富的，大量的v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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101
tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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102
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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103
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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104
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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105
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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106
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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107
repercussion
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| n.[常pl.](不良的)影响，反响，后果 | |
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108
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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109
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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110
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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111
participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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112
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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113
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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114
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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115
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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116
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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117
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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118
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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119
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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120
excerpts
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| n.摘录，摘要( excerpt的名词复数 )；节选（音乐，电影）片段 | |
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121
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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122
stigma
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| n.耻辱，污名；(花的)柱头 | |
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123
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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124
fissure
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| n.裂缝；裂伤 | |
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125
neurotic
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| adj.神经病的，神经过敏的；n.神经过敏者，神经病患者 | |
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126
fluctuations
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| 波动，涨落，起伏( fluctuation的名词复数 ) | |
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127
vertigo
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| n.眩晕 | |
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128
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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129
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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130
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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131
mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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132
abjectly
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| 凄惨地； 绝望地； 糟透地； 悲惨地 | |
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133
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
humanitarianism
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| n.博爱主义；人道主义；基督凡人论 | |
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135
sadistic
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| adj.虐待狂的 | |
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136
virtuoso
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| n.精于某种艺术或乐器的专家，行家里手 | |
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137
clemency
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| n.温和，仁慈，宽厚 | |
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138
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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