Gorky’s position in Russia is a quite extraordinary and personal one. He is no more of a communist than I am, and I have heard him argue with the utmost freedom in his flat against the extremist positions with such men as Bokaiev, recently the head of the extraordinary commission in Petersburg, and Zalutsky, one of the rising leaders of the Communist party. It was a very reassuring7 display of free speech, for Gorky did not so much argue as denounce—and this in front of two deeply interested English enquirers.
But he has gained the confidence and respect of most of the Bolshevik leaders, and he has become by a kind of necessity the semi-official salvage8 man under the new régime. He is possessed9 by a passionate10 sense of the value of Western science and culture, and by the necessity of preserving the intellectual continuity of Russian life through these dark years of famine and war 43and social stress, with the general intellectual life of the world. He has found a steady supporter in Lenin. His work illuminates11 the situation to an extraordinary degree because it collects together a number of significant factors and makes the essentially12 catastrophic nature of the Russian situation plain.
The Russian smash at the end of 1917 was certainly the completest that has ever happened to any modern social organisation13. After the failure of the Kerensky Government to make peace and of the British naval14 authorities to relieve the military situation in the Baltic, the shattered Russian armies, weapons in hand, broke up and rolled back upon Russia, a flood of peasant soldiers making for home, without hope, without supplies, without discipline. That time of débacle was a time of complete social disorder15. It was a social dissolution. In many parts of Russia there was a peasant revolt. There was chateau-burning often accompanied by quite horrible atrocities16. It was an explosion of the very worst side of human 44nature in despair, and for most of the abominations committed the Bolsheviks are about as responsible as the Government of Australia. People would be held up and robbed even to their shirts in open daylight in the streets of Petersburg and Moscow, no one interfering17. Murdered bodies lay disregarded in the gutters18 sometimes for a whole day, with passengers on the footwalk going to and fro. Armed men, often professing19 to be Red Guards, entered houses and looted and murdered. The early months of 1918 saw a violent struggle of the new Bolshevik Government not only with counter-revolutions but with rollers and brigands20 of every description. It was not until the summer of 1918, and after thousands of looters and plunderers had been shot, that life began to be ordinarily safe again in the streets of the Russian great towns. For a time Russia was not a civilisation21, but a torrent22 of lawless violence, with a weak central Government of inexperienced rulers, fighting not only against unintelligent foreign intervention23 but against the completest internal disorder. 45It is from such chaotic24 conditions that Russia still struggles to emerge.
Art, literature, science, all the refinements25 and elaboration of life, all that we mean by “civilisation,” were involved in this torrential catastrophe26. For a time the stablest thing in Russia culture was the theatre. There stood the theatres, and nobody wanted to loot them or destroy them; the artists were accustomed to meet and work in them and went on meeting and working; the tradition of official subsidies27 held good. So quite amazingly the Russian dramatic and operatic life kept on through the extremest storms of violence, and keeps on to this day. In Petersburg we found there were more than forty shows going on every night; in Moscow we found very much the same state of affairs. We heard Shalyapin, greatest of actors and singers, in The Barber of Seville and in Chovanchina; the admirable orchestra was variously attired28, but the conductor still held out valiantly29 in swallow tails and a white tie; we saw a performance of Sadko, we saw Monachof in The Tzarevitch 46Alexei and as Iago in Othello (with Madame Gorky—Madame Andreievna—as Desdemona). When one faced the stage, it was as if nothing had changed in Russia; but when the curtain fell and one turned to the audience one realised the revolution. There were now no brilliant uniforms, no evening dress in boxes and stalls. The audience was a uniform mass of people, the same sort of people everywhere, attentive31, good-humoured, well-behaved and shabby. Like the London Stage Society, one’s place in the house is determined32 by ballot33. And for the most part there is no paying to go to the theatre. For one performance the tickets go, let us say, to the professional unions, for another to the Red Army and their families, for another to the school children, and so on. A certain selling of tickets goes on, but it is not in the present scheme of things.
I had heard Shalyapin in London, but I had not met him personally there. We made his acquaintance this time in Petersburg, we dined with him and saw something 47of his very jolly household. There are two stepchildren almost grown up, and two little daughters, who speak a nice, stiff, correct English, and the youngest of whom dances delightfully34. Shalyapin is certainly one of the most wonderful things in Russia at the present time. He is the Artist, defiant37 and magnificent. Off the stage he has much the same vitality38 and abounding39 humour that made an encounter with Beerbohm Tree so delightful35 an experience. He refuses absolutely to sing except for pay—200,000 roubles a performance, they say, which is nearly ￡15—and when the markets get too tight, he insists upon payment in flour or eggs or the like. What he demands he gets, for Shalyapin on strike would leave too dismal40 a hole altogether in the theatrical41 world of Petersburg. So it is that he maintains what is perhaps the last fairly comfortable home in Russia. And Madame Shalyapin we found so unbroken by the revolution that she asked us what people were wearing in London. The last fashion 48papers she had seen—thanks to the blockade—dated from somewhen early in 1918.
But the position of the theatre among the arts is peculiar42. For the rest of the arts, for literature generally and for the scientific worker, the catastrophe of 1917–18 was overwhelming. There remained no one to buy books or pictures, and the scientific worker found himself with a salary of roubles that dwindled43 rapidly to less than the five-hundredth part of their original value. The new crude social organisation, fighting robbery, murder, and the wildest disorder, had no place for them; it had forgotten them. For the scientific man at first the Soviet44 Government had as little regard as the first French revolution, which had “no need for chemists.” These classes of worker, vitally important to every civilised system, were reduced, therefore, to a state of the utmost privation and misery45. It was to their assistance and salvation46 that Gorky’s first efforts were directed. Thanks very largely to him and to the more creative intelligences in the Bolshevik Government, there has now been 49organised a group of salvage establishments, of which the best and most fully36 developed is the House of Science in Petersburg, in the ancient palace of the Archduchess Marie Pavlova. Here we saw the headquarters of a special rationing47 system which provides as well as it can for the needs of four thousand scientific workers and their dependents—in all perhaps for ten thousand people. At this centre they not only draw their food rations48, but they can get baths and barber, tailoring, cobbling and the like conveniences. There is even a small stock of boots and clothing. There are bedrooms, and a sort of hospital accommodation for cases of weakness and ill-health.
It was to me one of the strangest of my Russian experiences to go to this institution and to meet there, as careworn49 and unprosperous-looking figures, some of the great survivors50 of the Russian scientific world. Here were such men as Oldenburg the orientalist, Karpinsky the geologist51, Pavloff the Nobel prizeman, Radloff, Bielopolsky, and the like, names of world-wide celebrity52. 50They asked me a multitude of questions about recent scientific progress in the world outside Russia, and made me ashamed of my frightful53 ignorance of such matters. If I had known that this would happen I would have taken some sort of report with me. Our blockade has cut them off from all scientific literature outside Russia. They are without new instruments, they are short of paper, the work they do has to go on in unwarmed laboratories. It is amazing they do any work at all. Yet they are getting work done; Pavloff is carrying on research of astonishing scope and ingenuity55 upon the mentality56 of animals; Manuchin claims to have worked out an effectual cure for tuberculosis57, even in advanced cases; and so on. I have brought back abstracts of Manuchin’s work for translation and publication here, and they are now being put into English. The scientific spirit is a wonderful spirit. If Petersburg starves this winter, the House of Science—unless we make some special effort on its behalf—will starve too, but these scientific men said very little to me 51about the possibility of sending them in supplies. The House of Literature and Art talked a little of want and miseries58, but not the scientific men. What they were all keen about was the possibility of getting scientific publications; they value knowledge more than bread. Upon that matter I hope I may be of some help to them. I got them to form a committee to make me out a list of all the books and publications of which they stood in need, and I have brought this list back to the Secretary of the Royal Society of London, which had already been stirring in this matter. Funds will be needed, three or four thousand pounds perhaps (the address of the Secretary of the Royal Society is Burlington House, W.), but the assent59 of the Bolshevik Government and our own to this mental provisioning of Russia has been secured, and in a little time I hope the first parcel of books will be going through to these men, who have been cut off for so long from the general mental life of the world.
If I had no other reason for satisfaction 52about this trip to Russia, I should find quite enough in the hope and comfort our mere60 presence evidently gave to many of these distinguished61 men in the House of Science and in the House of Literature and Art. Upon many of them there had evidently settled a kind of despair of ever seeing or hearing anything of the outer world again. They had been living for three years, very grey and long years indeed, in a world that seemed sinking down steadily62 through one degree of privation after another into utter darkness. Possibly they had seen something of one or two of the political deputations that have visited Russia—I do not know; but manifestly they had never expected to see again a free and independent individual walk in, with an air of having come quite easily and unofficially from London, and of its being quite possible not only to come but to go again into the lost world of the West. It was like an unexpected afternoon caller strolling into a cell in a jail.
All musical people in England know the work of Glazounov; he has conducted concerts 53in London and is an honorary doctor both of Oxford63 and Cambridge. I was very deeply touched by my meeting with him. He used to be a very big florid man, but now he is pallid64 and very much fallen away, so that his clothes hang loosely on him. He came and talked of his friends Sir Hubert Parry and Sir Charles Villiers Stanford. He told me he still composed, but that his stock of music paper was almost exhausted65. “Then there will be no more.” I said there would be much more, and that soon. He doubted it. He spoke66 of London and Oxford; I could see that he was consumed by an almost intolerable longing67 for some great city full of life, a city with abundance, with pleasant crowds, a city that would give him still audiences in warm, brightly-lit places. While I was there, I was a sort of living token to him that such things could still be. He turned his back on the window which gave on the cold grey Neva, deserted68 in the twilight69, and the low lines of the fortress70 prison of St. Peter and St. Paul. “In England there will be no revolution—no? I had 54many friends in England—many good friends in England....” I was loth to leave him, and he was very loth to let me go.
Seeing all these distinguished men living a sort of refugee life amidst the impoverished71 ruins of the fallen imperialist system has made me realise how helplessly dependent the man of exceptional gifts is upon a securely organised civilisation. The ordinary man can turn from this to that occupation; he can be a sailor or a worker in a factory or a digger or what not. He is under a general necessity to work, but he has no internal demon30 which compels him to do a particular thing and nothing else, which compels him to be a particular thing or die. But a Shalyapin must be Shalyapin or nothing, Pavloff is Pavloff and Glazounov is Glazounov. So long as they can go on doing their particular thing, such men will live and flourish. Shalyapin still acts and sings magnificently—in absolute defiance72 of every Communist principle; Pavloff still continues his marvellous researches—in an old coat and with his study piled up with the potatoes and carrots he grows in his spare time; Glazounov will compose until the paper runs out. But many of the others are evidently stricken much harder. The mortality among the intellectually distinguished men of Russia has been terribly high. Much, no doubt, has been due to the general hardship of life, but in many cases I believe that the sheer mortification73 of great gifts become futile74 has been the determining cause. They could no more live in the Russia of 1919 than they could have lived in a Kaffir kraal.
56
GORKY IN THE GREAT DUMP OF ART AND VIRTUOSITY75 IN PETERSBURG
57Science, art, and literature are hothouse plants demanding warmth and respect and service. It is the paradox76 of science that it alters the whole world and is produced by the genius of men who need protection and help more than any other class of worker. The collapse of the Russian imperial system has smashed up all the shelters in which such things could exist. The crude Marxist philosophy which divides all men into bourgeoisie and proletariat, which sees all social life as a stupidly simple “class war,” had no knowledge of the conditions 58necessary for the collective mental life. But it is to the credit of the Bolshevik Government that it has now risen to the danger of a universal intellectual destruction in Russia, and that, in spite of the blockade and the unending struggle against the subsidised revolts and invasions with which we and the French plague Russia, it is now permitting and helping77 these salvage organisations. Parallel with the House of Science is the House of Literature and Art. The writing of new books, except for some poetry, and the painting of pictures have ceased in Russia. But the bulk of the writers and artists have been found employment upon a grandiose78 scheme for the publication of a sort of Russian encyclop?dia of the literature of the world. In this strange Russia of conflict, cold, famine and pitiful privations there is actually going on now a literary task that would be inconceivable in the rich England and the rich America of to-day. In England and America the production of good literature at popular prices has practically ceased now—“because of the price of paper.” 59The mental food of the English and American masses dwindles79 and deteriorates80, and nobody in authority cares a rap. The Bolshevik Government is at least a shade above that level. In starving Russia hundreds of people are working upon translations, and the books they translate are being set up and printed, work which may presently give a new Russia such a knowledge of world thought as no other people will possess. I have seen some of the books and the work going on. “May” I write, with no certainty. Because, like everything else in this ruined country, this creative work is essentially improvised81 and fragmentary. How this world literature is to be distributed to the Russian people I do not know. The bookshops are closed and bookselling, like every other form of trading, is illegal. Probably the books will be distributed to schools and other institutions.
In this matter of book distribution the Bolshevik authorities are clearly at a loss. They are at a loss upon very many such matters. In regard to the intellectual life 60of the community one discovers that Marxist Communism is without plans and without ideas. Marxist Communism has always been a theory of revolution, a theory not merely lacking in creative and constructive83 ideas, but hostile to creative and constructive ideas. Every Communist orator54 has been trained to contemn84 “Utopianism,” that is to say, has been trained to contemn intelligent planning. Not even a British business man of the older type is quite such a believer in things righting themselves and in “muddling through” as these Marxists. The Russian Communist Government now finds itself face to face, among a multiplicity of other constructive problems, with the problem of sustaining scientific life, of sustaining thought and discussion, of promoting artistic creation. Marx the Prophet and his Sacred Book supply it with no lead at all in the matter. Bolshevism, having no schemes, must improvise82 therefore—clumsily, and is reduced to these pathetic attempts to salvage the wreckage85 of the intellectual life of the old order. And that life is very 61sick and unhappy and seems likely to die on its hands.
It is not simply scientific and literary work and workers that Maxim Gorky is trying to salvage in Russia. There is a third and still more curious salvage organisation associated with him. This is the Expertise86 Commission, which has its headquarters in the former British Embassy. When a social order based on private property crashes, when private property is with some abruptness87 and no qualification abolished, this does not abolish and destroy the things which have hitherto constituted private property. Houses and their gear remain standing88, still being occupied and used by the people who had them before—except when those people have fled. When the Bolshevik authorities requisition a house or take over a deserted palace, they find themselves faced by this problem of the gear. Any one who knows human nature will understand that there has been a certain amount of quiet annexation89 of desirable things by inadvertent officials and, perhaps less inadvertently, by 62their wives. But the general spirit of Bolshevism is quite honest, and it is set very stoutly90 against looting and suchlike developments of individual enterprise. There has evidently been comparatively little looting either in Petersburg or Moscow since the days of the débacle. Looting died against the wall in Moscow in the spring of 1918. In the guest houses and suchlike places we noted91 that everything was numbered and listed. Occasionally we saw odd things astray, fine glass or crested92 silver upon tables where it seemed out of place, but in many cases these were things which had been sold for food or suchlike necessities on the part of the original owners. The sailor courier who attended to our comfort to and from Moscow was provided with a beautiful little silver teapot that must once have brightened a charming drawing-room. But apparently93 it had taken to a semi-public life in a quite legitimate94 way.
For greater security there has been a gathering95 together and a cataloguing of everything that could claim to be a work 63of art by this Expertise Commission. The palace that once sheltered the British Embassy is now like some congested secondhand art shop in the Brompton Road. We went through room after room piled with the beautiful lumber96 of the former Russian social system. There are big rooms crammed97 with statuary; never have I seen so many white marble Venuses and sylphs together, not even in the Naples Museum. There are stacks of pictures of every sort, passages choked with inlaid cabinets piled up to the ceiling; a room full of cases of old lace, piles of magnificent furniture. This accumulation has been counted and catalogued. And there it is. I could not find out that any one had any idea of what was ultimately to be done with all this lovely and elegant litter. The stuff does not seem to belong in any way to the new world, if it is indeed a new world that the Russian Communists are organising. They never anticipated that they would have to deal with such things. Just as they never really thought of what they would do with the shops and markets 64when they had abolished shopping and marketing98. Just as they had never thought out the problem of converting a city of private palaces into a Communist gathering-place. Marxist theory had led their minds up to the “dictatorship of the class-conscious proletariat” and then intimated—we discover now how vaguely—that there would be a new heaven and a new earth. Had that happened it would indeed have been a revolution in human affairs. But as we saw Russia there is still the old heaven and the old earth, covered with the ruins, littered with the abandoned furnishings and dislocated machinery99 of the former system, with the old peasant tough and obstinate100 upon the soil—and Communism, ruling in the cities quite pluckily101 and honestly, and yet, in so many matters, like a conjurer who has left his pigeon and his rabbit behind him, and can produce nothing whatever from the hat.
Ruin: that is the primary Russian fact at the present time. The revolution, the Communist rule, which I will proceed to describe 65in my next paper, is quite secondary to that. It is something that has happened in the ruin and because of the ruin. It is of primary importance that people in the West should realise that. If the Great War had gone on for a year or so more, Germany and then the Western Powers would probably have repeated, with local variations, the Russian crash. The state of affairs we have seen in Russia is only the intensification102 and completion of the state of affairs towards which Britain was drifting in 1918. Here also there are shortages such as we had in England, but they are relatively103 monstrous104; here also is rationing, but it is relatively feeble and inefficient105; the profiteer in Russia is not fined but shot, and for the English D.O.R.A. you have the Extraordinary Commission. What were nuisances in England are magnified to disasters in Russia. That is all the difference. For all I know, Western Europe may be still drifting even now towards a parallel crash. I am not by any means sure that we have turned the corner. War, self-indulgence, 66and unproductive speculation106 may still be wasting more than the Western world is producing; in which case our own crash—currency failure, a universal shortage, social and political collapse and all the rest of it—is merely a question of time. The shops of Regent Street will follow the shops of the Nevsky Prospect107, and Mr. Galsworthy and Mr. Bennett will have to do what they can to salvage the art treasures of Mayfair. It falsifies the whole world situation, it sets people altogether astray in their political actions, to assert that the frightful destitution108 of Russia to-day is to any large extent the result merely of Communist effort; that the wicked Communists have pulled down Russia to her present plight109, and that if you can overthrow110 the Communists every one and everything in Russia will suddenly become happy again. Russia fell into its present miseries through the world war and the moral and intellectual insufficiency of it’s ruling and wealthy people. (As our own British State—as presently even the American State—may fall.) They had neither the 67brains nor the conscience to stop warfare111, stop waste of all sorts, and stop taking the best of everything and leaving every one else dangerously unhappy, until it was too late. They ruled and wasted and quarrelled, blind to the coming disaster up to the very moment of its occurrence. And then, as I will describe in my next paper, the Communist came in....
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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delegation
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| n.代表团；派遣 | |
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whetted
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| v.（在石头上）磨（刀、斧等）( whet的过去式和过去分词 )；引起，刺激（食欲、欲望、兴趣等） | |
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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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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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salvage
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| v.救助，营救，援救；n.救助，营救 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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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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illuminates
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| v.使明亮( illuminate的第三人称单数 )；照亮；装饰；说明 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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atrocities
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| n.邪恶，暴行( atrocity的名词复数 )；滔天大罪 | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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gutters
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professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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brigands
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civilisation
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torrent
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intervention
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chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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subsidies
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| n.补贴，津贴，补助金( subsidy的名词复数 ) | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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valiantly
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demon
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attentive
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determined
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ballot
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delightfully
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delightful
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fully
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defiant
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vitality
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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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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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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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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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Soviet
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| adj.苏联的，苏维埃的；n.苏维埃 | |
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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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46
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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rationing
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| n.定量供应 | |
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48
rations
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| 定量( ration的名词复数 )； 配给量； 正常量； 合理的量 | |
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careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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51
geologist
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| n.地质学家 | |
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celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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57
tuberculosis
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| n.结核病，肺结核 | |
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58
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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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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61
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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66
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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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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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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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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virtuosity
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| n.精湛技巧 | |
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paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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grandiose
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| adj.宏伟的，宏大的，堂皇的，铺张的 | |
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dwindles
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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deteriorates
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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improvise
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| v.即兴创作；临时准备，临时凑成 | |
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constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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84
contemn
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| v.蔑视 | |
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85
wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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expertise
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| n.专门知识(或技能等)，专长 | |
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87
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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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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annexation
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| n.吞并，合并 | |
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stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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96
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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99
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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100
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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101
pluckily
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| adv.有勇气地，大胆地 | |
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102
intensification
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| n.激烈化，增强明暗度；加厚 | |
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103
relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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104
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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105
inefficient
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| adj.效率低的，无效的 | |
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106
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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107
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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108
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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109
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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110
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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