Another essentially3 Russian trait is the quite unaffected conception that the lowly are on a plane of equality with the so-called upper classes. When the Englishman Dickens wrote with his profound pity and understanding of the poor, there was yet a bit; of remoteness, perhaps, even, a bit of caricature, in his treatment of them. He showed their sufferings to the rest of the world with a “Behold how the other half lives!” The Russian writes of the poor, as it were, from within, as one of them, with no eye to theatrical4 effect upon the well-to-do. There is no insistence5 upon peculiar6 virtues8 or vices9. The poor are portrayed10 just as they are, as human beings like the rest of us. A democratic spirit is reflected, breathing a broad humanity, a true universality, an unstudied generosity11 that proceed not from the intellectual conviction that to understand all is to forgive all, but from an instinctive12 feeling that no man has the right to set himself up as a judge over another, that one can only observe and record.
In 1834 two short stories appeared, The Queen of Spades, by Pushkin, and The Cloak, by Gogol. The first was a finishing-off of the old, outgoing style of romanticism, the other was the beginning of the new, the characteristically Russian style. We read Pushkin’s Queen of Spades, the first story in the volume, and the likelihood is we shall enjoy it greatly. “But why is it Russian?” we ask. The answer is, “It is not Russian.” It might have been printed in an American magazine over the name of John Brown. But, now, take the very next story in the volume, The Cloak. “Ah,” you exclaim, “a genuine Russian story, Surely. You cannot palm it off on me over the name of Jones or Smith.” Why? Because The Cloak for the first time strikes that truly Russian note of deep sympathy with the disinherited. It is not yet wholly free from artificiality, and so is not yet typical of the purely13 realistic fiction that reached its perfected development in Turgenev and Tolstoy.
Though Pushkin heads the list of those writers who made the literature of their country world-famous, he was still a romanticist, in the universal literary fashion of his day. However, he already gave strong indication of the peculiarly Russian genius for naturalness or realism, and was a true Russian in his simplicity of style. In no sense an innovator14, but taking the cue for his poetry from Byron and for his prose from the romanticism current at that period, he was not in advance of his age. He had a revolutionary streak15 in his nature, as his Ode to Liberty and other bits of verse and his intimacy16 with the Decembrist rebels show. But his youthful fire soon died down, and he found it possible to accommodate himself to the life of a Russian high functionary17 and courtier under the severe despot Nicholas I, though, to be sure, he always hated that life. For all his flirting18 with revolutionarism, he never displayed great originality19 or depth of thought. He was simply an extraordinarily20 gifted author, a perfect versifier, a wondrous21 lyrist, and a delicious raconteur22, endowed with a grace, ease and power of expression that delighted even the exacting23 artistic24 sense of Turgenev. To him aptly applies the dictum of Socrates: “Not by wisdom do the poets write poetry, but by a sort of genius and inspiration.” I do not mean to convey that as a thinker Pushkin is to be despised. Nevertheless, it is true that he would occupy a lower position in literature did his reputation depend upon his contributions to thought and not upon his value as an artist.
“We are all descended25 from Gogol’s Cloak,” said a Russian writer. And Dostoyevsky’s novel, Poor People, which appeared ten years later, is, in a way, merely an extension of Gogol’s shorter tale. In Dostoyevsky, indeed, the passion for the common people and the all-embracing, all-penetrating pity for suffering humanity reach their climax27. He was a profound psychologist and delved28 deeply into the human soul, especially in its abnormal and diseased aspects. Between scenes of heart-rending, abject29 poverty, injustice30, and wrong, and the torments31 of mental pathology, he managed almost to exhaust the whole range of human woe32. And he analysed this misery33 with an intensity34 of feeling and a painstaking35 regard for the most harrowing details that are quite upsetting to normally constituted nerves. Yet all the horrors must be forgiven him because of the motive36 inspiring them—an overpowering love and the desire to induce an equal love in others. It is not horror for horror’s sake, not a literary tour de force, as in Poe, but horror for a high purpose, for purification through suffering, which was one of the articles of Dostoyevsky’s faith.
Following as a corollary from the love and pity for mankind that make a leading element in Russian literature, is a passionate37 search for the means of improving the lot of humanity, a fervent38 attachment39 to social ideas and ideals. A Russian author is more ardently40 devoted41 to a cause than an American short-story writer to a plot. This, in turn, is but a reflection of the spirit of the Russian people, especially of the intellectuals. The Russians take literature perhaps more seriously than any other nation. To them books are not a mere26 diversion. They demand that fiction and poetry be a true mirror of life and be of service to life. A Russian author, to achieve the highest recognition, must be a thinker also. He need not necessarily be a finished artist. Everything is subordinated to two main requirements—humanitarian42 ideals and fidelity43 to life. This is the secret of the marvellous simplicity of Russian-literary art. Before the supreme44 function of literature, the Russian writer stands awed45 and humbled46. He knows he cannot cover up poverty of thought, poverty of spirit and lack of sincerity47 by rhetorical tricks or verbal cleverness. And if he possesses the two essential requirements, the simplest language will suffice.
These qualities are exemplified at their best by Turgenev and Tolstoy. They both had a strong social consciousness; they both grappled with the problems of human welfare; they were both artists in the larger sense, that is, in their truthful48 representation of life. Turgenev was an artist also in the narrower sense—in a keen appreciation49 Of form. Thoroughly50 Occidental in his tastes, he sought the regeneration of Russia in radical51 progress along the lines of European democracy. Tolstoy, on the other hand, sought the salvation52 of mankind in a return to the primitive53 life and primitive Christian54 religion.
The very first work of importance by Turgenev, A Sportsman’s Sketches55, dealt with the question of serfdom, and it wielded56 tremendous influence in bringing about its abolition57. Almost every succeeding book of his, from Rudin through Fathers and Sons to Virgin58 Soil, presented vivid pictures of contemporary Russian society, with its problems, the clash of ideas between the old and the new generations, and the struggles, the aspirations59 and the thoughts that engrossed60 the advanced youth of Russia; so that his collected works form a remarkable61 literary record of the successive movements of Russian society in a period of preparation, fraught62 with epochal significance, which culminated63 in the overthrow64 of Czarism and the inauguration65 of a new and true democracy, marking the beginning, perhaps, of a radical transformation66 the world over.
“The greatest writer of Russia.” That is Turgenev’s estimate of Tolstoy. “A second Shakespeare!” was Flaubert’s enthusiastic outburst. The Frenchman’s comparison is not wholly illuminating67. The one point of resemblance between the two authors is simply in the tremendous magnitude of their genius. Each is a Colossus. Each creates a whole world of characters, from kings and princes and ladies to servants and maids and peasants. But how vastly divergent the angle of approach! Anna Karenina may have all the subtle womanly charm of an Olivia or a Portia, but how different her trials. Shakespeare could not have treated Anna’s problems at all. Anna could not have appeared in his pages except as a sinning Gertrude, the mother of Hamlet. Shakespeare had all the prejudices of his age. He accepted the world as it is with its absurd moralities, its conventions and institutions and social classes. A gravedigger is naturally inferior to a lord, and if he is to be presented at all, he must come on as a clown. The people are always a mob, the rabble68. Tolstoy, is the revolutionist, the iconoclast69. He has the completest independence of mind. He utterly70 refuses to accept established opinions just because they are established. He probes into the right and wrong of things. His is a broad, generous universal democracy, his is a comprehensive sympathy, his an absolute incapacity to evaluate human beings according to station, rank or profession, or any standard but that of spiritual worth. In all this he was a complete contrast to Shakespeare. Each of the two men was like a creature of a higher world, possessed71 of supernatural endowments. Their omniscience72 of all things human, their insight into the hiddenmost springs of men’s actions appear miraculous73. But Shakespeare makes the impression of detachment from his works. The works do not reveal the man; while in Tolstoy the greatness of the man blends with the greatness of the genius. Tolstoy was no mere oracle74 uttering profundities75 he wot not of. As the social, religious and moral tracts76 that he wrote in the latter period of his life are instinct with a literary beauty of which he never could divest77 himself, and which gave an artistic value even to his sermons, so his earlier novels show a profound concern for the welfare of society, a broad, humanitarian spirit, a bigness of soul that included prince and pauper78 alike.
Is this extravagant79 praise? Then let me echo William Dean Howells: “I know very well that I do not speak of Tolstoy’s books in measured terms; I cannot.”
The Russian writers so far considered have made valuable contributions to the short story; but, with the exception of Pushkin, whose reputation rests chiefly upon his poetry, their best work, generally, was in the field of the long novel. It was the novel that gave Russian literature its pre-eminence. It could not have been otherwise, since Russia is young as a literary nation, and did not come of age until the period at which the novel was almost the only form of literature that counted. If, therefore, Russia was to gain distinction in the world of letters, it could be only through the novel. Of the measure of her success there is perhaps no better testimony80 than the words of Matthew Arnold, a critic certainly not given to overstatement. “The Russian novel,” he wrote in 1887, “has now the vogue81, and deserves to have it... The Russian novelist is master of a spell to which the secret of human nature—both what is external and internal, gesture and manner no less than thought and feeling—willingly make themselves known... In that form of imaginative literature, which in our day is the most popular and the most possible, the Russians at the present moment seem to me to hold the field.”
With the strict censorship imposed on Russian writers, many of them who might perhaps have contented82 themselves with expressing their opinions in essays, were driven to conceal83 their meaning under the guise84 of satire85 or allegory; which gave rise to a peculiar genre86 of literature, a sort of editorial or essay done into fiction, in which the satirist87 Saltykov, a contemporary of Turgenev and Dostoyevsky, who wrote under the pseudonym88 of Shchedrin, achieved the greatest success and popularity.
It was not however, until the concluding quarter of the last century that writers like Korolenko and Garshin arose, who devoted themselves chiefly to the cultivation89 of the short story. With Anton Chekhov the short story assumed a position of importance alongside the larger works of the great Russian masters. Gorky and Andreyev made the short story do the same service for the active revolutionary period in the last decade of the nineteenth century down to its temporary defeat in 1906 that Turgenev rendered in his series of larger novels for the period of preparation. But very different was the voice of Gorky, the man sprung from the people, the embodiment of all the accumulated wrath90 and indignation of centuries of social wrong and oppression, from the gentlemanly tones of the cultured artist Turgenev. Like a mighty91 hammer his blows fell upon the decaying fabric92 of the old society. His was no longer a feeble, despairing protest. With the strength and confidence of victory he made onslaught upon onslaught on the old institutions until they shook and almost tumbled. And when reaction celebrated93 its short-lived triumph and gloom settled again upon his country and most of his co-fighters withdrew from the battle in despair, some returning to the old-time Russian mood of hopelessness, passivity and apathy94, and some even backsliding into wild orgies of literary debauchery, Gorky never wavered, never lost his faith and hope, never for a moment was untrue to his principles. Now, with the revolution victorious95, he has come into his right, one of the most respected, beloved and picturesque96 figures in the Russian democracy.
Kuprin, the most facile and talented short-story writer next to Chekhov, has, on the whole, kept well to the best literary traditions of Russia, though he has frequently wandered off to extravagant sex themes, for which he seems to display as great a fondness as Artzybashev. Semyonov is a unique character in Russian literature, a peasant who had scarcely mastered the most elementary mechanics of writing when he penned his first story. But that story pleased Tolstoy, who befriended and encouraged him. His tales deal altogether with peasant life in country and city, and have a lifelikeness, an artlessness, a simplicity striking even in a Russian author.
There is a small group of writers detached from the main current of Russian literature who worship at the shrine98 of beauty and mysticism. Of these Sologub has attained99 the highest reputation.
Rich as Russia has become in the short story, Anton Chekhov still stands out as the supreme master, one of the greatest short-story writers of the world. He was born in Taganarok, in the Ukraine, in 1860, the son of a peasant serf who succeeded in buying his freedom. Anton Chekhov studied medicine, but devoted himself largely to writing, in which, he acknowledged, his scientific training was of great service. Though he lived only forty-four years, dying of tuberculosis100 in 1904, his collected works consist of sixteen fair-sized volumes of short stories, and several dramas besides. A few volumes of his works have already appeared in English translation.
Critics, among them Tolstoy, have often compared Chekhov to Maupassant. I find it hard to discover the resemblance. Maupassant holds a supreme position as a short-story writer; so does Chekhov. But there, it seems to me, the likeness97 ends.
The chill wind that blows from the atmosphere created by the Frenchman’s objective artistry is by the Russian commingled101 with the warm breath of a great human sympathy. Maupassant never tells where his sympathies lie, and you don’t know; you only guess. Chekhov does not tell you where his sympathies lie, either, but you know all the same; you don’t have to guess. And yet Chekhov is as objective as Maupassant. In the chronicling of facts, conditions, and situations, in the reproduction of characters, he is scrupulously102 true, hard, and inexorable. But without obtruding103 his personality, he somehow manages to let you know that he is always present, always at hand. If you laugh, he is there to laugh with you; if you cry, he is there to shed a tear with you; if you are horrified104, he is horrified, too. It is a subtle art by which he contrives105 to make one feel the nearness of himself for all his objectiveness, so subtle that it defies analysis. And yet it constitutes one of the great charms of his tales.
Chekhov’s works show an astounding106 resourcefulness and versatility107. There is no monotony, no repetition. Neither in incident nor in character are any two stories alike. The range of Chekhov’s knowledge of men and things seems to be unlimited108, and he is extravagant in the use of it. Some great idea which many a writer would consider sufficient to expand into a whole novel he disposes of in a story of a few pages. Take, for example, Vanka, apparently109 but a mere episode in the childhood of a nine-year-old boy; while it is really the tragedy of a whole life in its tempting110 glimpses into a past environment and ominous111 forebodings of the future—all contracted into the space of four or five pages. Chekhov is lavish112 with his inventiveness. Apparently, it cost him no effort to invent.
I have used the word inventiveness for lack of a better name. It expresses but lamely113 the peculiar faculty114 that distinguishes Chekhov. Chekhov does not really invent. He reveals. He reveals things that no author before him has revealed. It is as though he possessed a special organ which enabled him to see, hear and feel things of which we other mortals did not even dream the existence. Yet when he lays them bare we know that they are not fictitious115, not invented, but as real as the ordinary familiar facts of life. This faculty of his playing on all conceivable objects, all conceivable emotions, no matter how microscopic116, endows them with life and a soul. By virtue7 of this power The Steppe, an uneventful record of peasants travelling day after day through flat, monotonous117 fields, becomes instinct with dramatic interest, and its 125 pages seem all too short. And by virtue of the same attribute we follow with breathless suspense118 the minute description of the declining days of a great scientist, who feels his physical and mental faculties119 gradually ebbing120 away. A Tiresome121 Story, Chekhov calls it; and so it would be without the vitality122 conjured123 into it by the magic touch of this strange genius.
Divination124 is perhaps a better term than invention. Chekhov divines the most secret impulses of the soul, scents125 out what is buried in the subconscious126, and brings it up to the surface. Most writers are specialists. They know certain strata127 of society, and when they venture beyond, their step becomes uncertain. Chekhov’s material is only delimited by humanity. He is equally at home everywhere. The peasant, the labourer, the merchant, the priest, the professional man, the scholar, the military officer, and the government functionary, Gentile or Jew, man, woman, or child—Chekhov is intimate with all of them. His characters are sharply defined individuals, not types. In almost all his stories, however short, the men and women and children who play a part in them come out as clear, distinct personalities128. Ariadne is as vivid a character as Lilly, the heroine of Sudermann’s Song of Songs; yet Ariadne is but a single story in a volume of stories. Who that has read The Darling can ever forget her—the woman who had no separate existence of her own, but thought the thoughts, felt the feelings, and spoke129 the words of the men she loved? And when there was no man to love any more, she was utterly crushed until she found a child to take care of and to love; and then she sank her personality in the boy as she had sunk it before in her husbands and lover, became a mere reflection of him, and was happy again.
In the compilation130 of this volume I have been guided by the desire to give the largest possible representation to the prominent authors of the Russian short story, and to present specimens131 characteristic of each. At the same time the element of interest has been kept in mind; and in a few instances, as in the case of Korolenko, the selection of the story was made with a view to its intrinsic merit and striking qualities rather than as typifying the writer’s art. It was, of course, impossible in the space of one book to exhaust all that is best. But to my knowledge, the present volume is the most comprehensive anthology of the Russian short story in the English language, and gives a fair notion of the achievement in that field. All who enjoy good reading, I have no reason to doubt, will get pleasure from it, and if, in addition, it will prove of assistance to American students of Russian literature, I shall feel that the task has been doubly worth the while.
Korolenko’s Shades and Andreyev’s Lazarus first appeared in Current Opinion, and Artzybashev’s The Revolutionist in the Metropolitan132 Magazine. I take pleasure in thanking Mr. Edward J. Wheeler, editor of Current Opinion, and Mr. Carl Hovey, editor of the Metropolitan Magazine, for permission to reprint them.
[Signature: Thomas Seltzer]
“Everything is subordinated to two main requirements—humanitarian ideals and fidelity to life. This is the secret of the marvellous simplicity of Russian literary art.”—THOMAS SELTZER.
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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veraciousness
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| n.诚实 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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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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insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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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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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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portrayed
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| v.画像( portray的过去式和过去分词 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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innovator
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| n.改革者；创新者 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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originality
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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raconteur
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| n.善讲故事者 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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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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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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delved
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| v.深入探究，钻研( delve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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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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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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painstaking
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| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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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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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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humanitarian
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| n.人道主义者，博爱者，基督凡人论者 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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55
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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56
wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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57
abolition
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| n.废除，取消 | |
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58
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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59
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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60
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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61
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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63
culminated
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| v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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65
inauguration
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| n.开幕、就职典礼 | |
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66
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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67
illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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68
rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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69
iconoclast
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| n.反对崇拜偶像者 | |
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70
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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71
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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72
omniscience
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| n.全知，全知者，上帝 | |
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73
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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profundities
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| n.深奥，深刻，深厚( profundity的名词复数 )；堂奥 | |
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76
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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78
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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81
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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82
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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85
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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86
genre
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| n.(文学、艺术等的)类型，体裁，风格 | |
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satirist
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| n.讽刺诗作者，讽刺家，爱挖苦别人的人 | |
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pseudonym
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| n.假名，笔名 | |
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89
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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92
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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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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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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98
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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100
tuberculosis
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| n.结核病，肺结核 | |
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101
commingled
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| v.混合，掺和，合并( commingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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103
obtruding
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的现在分词 ) | |
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104
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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105
contrives
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的第三人称单数 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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106
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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107
versatility
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| n.多才多艺，多样性，多功能 | |
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108
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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109
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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110
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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111
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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112
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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113
lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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114
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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115
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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116
microscopic
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| adj.微小的，细微的，极小的，显微的 | |
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117
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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118
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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119
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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120
ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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121
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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122
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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123
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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124
divination
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| n.占卜，预测 | |
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125
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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126
subconscious
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| n./adj.潜意识(的)，下意识(的) | |
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127
strata
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| n.地层（复数）；社会阶层 | |
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128
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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129
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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130
compilation
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| n.编译，编辑 | |
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131
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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132
metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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