LATE in the autumn, when the steamboat voyage finished, I went as pupil in the workshop of an icon1 painter. But in a day or two my mistress, a gentle old lady given to tippling, announced to me in her Vladimirski speech:
“The days are short now and the evenings long, so you will go to the shop in the mornings, and be shop-boy. In the evenings you will learn.”
She placed me under the authority of a small, swift-footed shopman, a young fellow with a handsome, false face. In the mornings, in the cold twilight2 of dawn, I went with him right across the town, up the sleepy mercantile street, Ilnik, to the Nijni bazaar3, and there, on the second floor of the Gostini Dvor, was the shop. It had been converted from a warehouse4 into a shop, and was dark, with an iron door, and one small window on the terrace, protected by iron bars. The shop was packed with icons5 of different sizes, with image-cases, and with highly finished books in church Slav characters, bound in yellow leather. Beside our shop there was another, in which were also sold icons and books, by a black-bearded merchant, kinsman6 to an Old Believer valuer. He was celebrated7 beyond the Volga as far as the boundaries of Kirjinski, and was assisted by his lean and lively son, who had the small gray face of in old man, and the restless eyes of a mouse.
When I had opened the shop, I had to run to the tavern8 for boiling water, and when I had finished breakfast, I had to set the shop in order, dust the goods, and then go out on the terrace and watch with vigilant9 eyes, lest customers should enter the neighboring shop.
“Customers are fools,” said the shopman forcibly to me. “They don’t mind where they buy, so long as it is cheap, and they do not understand the value of the goods.”
Lightly tapping the wooden surface of an icon, he aired his slight knowledge of the business to me. He instructed me :
“This is a clever piece of work — very cheap — three or four vershoks — stands by itself. Here is another — six or seven vershoks — stands by itself. Do you know about the saints? Remember Boniface is a protection against drink; Vvaara, the great martyr10, against toothache and death by accident; Blessed Vassili, against fevers. Do you know all about Our Lady? Look! This is Our Lady of Sorrows, and Our Lady of Abalak, Most Renowned11. Do not weep for me, Mother. Assuage12 my griefs. Our lady of Kazan, of Pokrove; Our Lady of Seven Dolors.”
I soon remembered the prices of the icons, according to their size and the work on them, and learned to distinguish between the different images of Our Lady. But to remember the significations of the various saints was difficult.
Sometimes I would be standing13 at the door of the shop, dreaming, when the shopman would suddenly test my knowledge.
“Who is the deliverer from painful childbirth?”
If I answered wrongly, he would ask scornfully:
“What is the use of your head?”
Harder still was it for me to tout14 for customers. The hideously15 painted icons did not please me at all, and I did not like having to sell them. According to grandmother’s stories, I had imagined Our Lady as young, beautiful, and good, just as she was in pictures in the magazines, but the icons represented her as old and severe, with a long crooked17 nose, and wooden hands.
On market days, Wednesdays and Fridays, business was brisk. Peasants, old women, and sometimes whole families together, appeared on the terrace, — all old Ritualists from Zavoljia, suspicious and surly people of the forests. I would see, perhaps, coming along slowly, almostly timidly, across the gallery, a ponderous18 man wrapped in sheepskin and thick, home-made cloth, and I would feel awkward and ashamed at having to accost19 him. At last by a great effort I managed to intercept21 him, and revolving22 about his feet in their heavy boots, I chanted in a constrained23, buzzing voice:
“What can we do for you, your honor? We have psalters with notes and comments, the books of Ephrem Siren, Kyrillov, and all the canonical24 books and breviaries. Please come and look at them. All kinds of icons, whatever you want, at various prices. Only the best work, — dark colors! We take orders, too, if you wish it, for all kinds of saints and madonnas. Perhaps you would like to order something for a Name Day, or for your family? This is the best workshop in Russia! Here are the best goods in the town!”
The impervious25 and inscrutable customer would look at me for a long time in silence. Suddenly pushing me aside with an arm like a piece of wood, he would go into the shop next door, and my shopman, rubbing his large ears, grumbled26 angrily :
“You have let him go! You’re a nice salesman!”
In the next shop could be heard a soft, sweet voice, pouring forth27 a speech which had the effect of a narcotic28.
“We don’t sell sheepskins or boots, my friend, but the blessing29 of God, which is of more value than silver or gold; which, in fact, is priceless.”
“The devil!” whispered our shopman, full of envy and almost beside himself with rage. “A curse on the eyes of that muzhik! You must learn! You must learn!”
I did honestly try to learn, for one ought to do well whatever one has to do. But I was not a success at enticing30 the customers in, nor as a salesman. These gruff men, so sparing of their words, those old women who looked like rats, always for some reason timid and abject31, aroused my pity, and I wanted to tell them on the quiet the real value of the icons, and not ask for the extra two greven.
They amazed me by their knowledge of books, and of the value of the painting on the icons. One day a gray-haired old man whom I had herded32 into the shop said to me shortly:
“It is not true, my lad, that your image workshop \s, the best in Russia — the best is Rogoshin’s in Moscow.”
In confusion I stood aside for him to pass, and he went to another shop, not even troubling to go next door.
“Has he gone away?” asked the shopman spitefully.
“You never told me about Rogoshin’s workshop.”
He became abusive.
“They come in here so quietly, and all the time they know all there is to know, curse them! They understand all about the business, the dogs!”
Handsome, overfed, and selfish, he hated the peasants. When he was in a good humor, he would com plain to me:
“I am clever! I like cleanliness and scents33, incense34, and eau-de-Cologne, and though I set such a value on myself, I am obliged to bow and scrape to some peasant, to get five copecks’ profit out of him for the mistress. Do you think it is fair? What is a peasant, after all? A bundle of foul35 wool, a winter louse, and yet ”
And he fell into an indignant silence.
I liked the peasants. There was something elusive36 about each one of them which reminded me of Yaakov.
Sometimes there would climb into the shop a miserable-looking figure in a chapan7 put on over a short, fur-coat. He would take off his shaggy cap, cross himself with two fingers, look into the corner where the lamp glimmered37, yet try not to, lest his eyes rest on the unblessed icons. Then glancing around, without speaking for some time, he would manage at length to say:
“Give me a psalter with a commentary.”
Tucking up the sleeves of his chapan he would read the pages, as he turned them over with clumsy movement, biting his lips the while.
“Haven’t you any more ancient than this?”
“An old one would cost a thousand rubles, as you know.”
“I know.”
The peasant moistened his finger as he turned over the leaves, and there was left a dark fingerprint38 where he had touched them. The shopman, gazing with an evil expression at the back of his head, said:
“The Holy Scriptures39 are all of the same age; the word of God does not change.”
“We know all about that; we have heard that! God did not change it, but Nikon did.”
Closing the book, he went out in silence.
7 The Nikonites are the followers40 of Nikon, patriarch of Moscow, who objected to the innovation of Peter the Great in suppressing the patriarchate of Moscow, and establishing a State Church upon the lines of the old patriarchal church. They are also termed the Old Believers, who are split up into several extraordinary schisms41 which existed before and after the suppression of the patriarchate, but who, in the main, continue their orthodoxy.
Sometimes these forest people disputed with the shopman, and it was evident to me that they knew more about the sacred writings than he did.
“Outlandish heathen!” grumbled the shop-man.
I saw also that, although new books were not to the taste of the peasants, they looked upon a new book with awe42, handling it carefully, as if it were a bird which might fly out of their hands. This was very pleasant to me to see, because a book was a miracle to me. In it was inclosed the soul of the writer, and when I opened it, I set this soul free, and it spoke43 to me in secret.
Often old men and women brought books to sell printed in the old characters of the preNikonovski period, or copies of such books, beautifully made by the monks44 of Irgiz and Kerjentz. They also brought copies of missals uncorrected by Dmitry Rostovski, icons with ancient inscriptions45, crosses, folding icons with brass47 mountings, and silver, eucharist spoons given by the Muscovite princes to their hosts as keepsakes. All these were offered secretly, from their hoards48 under the floor.
Both my shopman and his neighbor kept a very sharp lookout49 for such vendors51, each trying to take them away from the other. Having bought antiques for anything up to ten rubles, they would sell them on the market-place to rich Old Ritualists for hundreds of rubles.
“Mind you look out for those were — wolves, those wizards! Look for them with all your eyes; they bring luck with them.”
When a vendor50 of this kind appeared, the shop-man used to send me to fetch the valuer, Petr Vas — silich, a connoisseur52 in old books, icons, and all kind of antiques.
He was a tall old man with a long beard, like Blessed Vassili, with intelligent eyes in a pleasant face. The tendon of one of his legs had been removed, and he walked lame53, with a long stick. Summer and winter he wore a light garment, like a cassock, and a velvet54 cap of a strange shape, which looked like a saucepan. Usually brisk and upright, when he entered the shop, he let his shoulders droop55, and bent56 his back, sighing gently and crossing himself often, muttering prayers and psalms57 to himself all the time. This pious58 and aged20 feebleness at once inspired the vendor with confidence in the valuer.
“What is the matter? Has something gone wrong?” the old man would ask.
“Here is a man who has brought an icon to sell. He says it is a Stroganovski.”
“What?”
“A Stroganovski.”
“Aha, my hearing is bad. The Lord has stopped my ears against the abomination of the Nikonites.”
Taking off his cap, he held the icon horizontally, looked at the inscription46 lengthways, sideways, straight up, examined the knots in the wood, blinked, and murmured:
“The godless Nikonites, observing our love of ancient beauties, and instructed by the devil, have mali — ciously made forgeries59. In these days it is very easy to make holy images, — oh, very easy! At first sight, this might be a real Stroganovski, or an Ustiujcki painting, or even a Suzdulski, but when you look into it, it is a forgery60.”
If he said “forgery,” it meant, “This icon is precious and rare.”
By a series of prearranged signs, he informed the shopman how much he was to give for the icon or book. I knew that the words “melancholy61” and “affliction” meant ten rubles. “Nikon the tiger” meant twenty-five. I felt ashamed to see how they deceived the sellers, but the skilful62 by-play of the valuer amused me.
“Those Nikonites, black children of Nikon the tiger, will do anything, — led by the Devil as they are! Look! Even this signature looks real, and the bas-relief as if it were painted by the one hand. But look at the face — that was not done by the same brush. An old master like Pimen Ushakov, although he was a heretic, did the whole icon himself. He did the bas-relief, the face, and even the chasing very carefully, and sketched63 in the inscription, but the impious people of our day cannot do anything like it! In old times image painting was a holy calling, but now they make what concerns God merely a matter of art.”
At length he laid the icon down carefully on the counter, and putting on his hat, said:
“It is a sin!”
This meant “buy it.”
Overwhelmed by his flow of sweet words, astounded64 by the old man’s knowledge, the client would ask in an impressed tone :
“Well, your honor, what is your opinion of the icon?”
“The icon was made by Nikonite hands.”
“That cannot be! My grandfather and my grandmother prayed before it!”
“Nikon lived before your grandfather lived.”
The old man held the icon close to the face of the seller, and said sternly:
“Look now what a joyous65 expression it has! Do you call that an icon? It is nothing more than a picture — a blind work of art, a Nikonski joke — there is no soul in it! Would I tell you what is not true? I, an old man, persecuted66 for the sake of the truth! I shall soon have to go to God. I have nothing to gain by acting67 unfairly.”
He went out from the shop onto the terrace, languid with the feebleness of old age, offended by the doubt cast upon his valuation. The shopman paid a few rubles for the picture, the seller left, bowing low to Petr Vassilich, and they sent me to the tavern to get boiling water for the tea. When I returned, I would find the valuer brisk and cheerful, looking lovingly at the purchase, and thus instructing the shopman:
“Look, this icon has been very carefully done!
The painting is very fine, done in the fear of God. Human feelings had no part in it.”
“And whose work is it?” asked the shopman, beaming and jumping about for joy.
“It is too soon for you to know that.”
“But how much would connoisseurs68 give for it?”
“That I could not say. Give it to me, and I will show it to some one.”
“Och, Petr Vassilich.”
“And if I sell it, you shall have half the hundred rubles. Whatever there is over, that is mine!”
“Och!”
“You need not keep on saying ‘Och’!”
They drank their tea, bargaining shamelessly, looking at one another with the eyes of conspirators69. That the shopman was completely under the thumb of the old man was plain, and when the latter went away, he would say to me:
“Now don’t you go chattering70 to the mistress about this deal.”
When they had finished talking about the sale of the icon, the shopman would ask:
“And what news is there in the town, Petr Vassilich?”
Smoothing his beard with his yellow fingers, laying bare his oily lips, the old man told stories of the lives of the merchants. He spoke of commercial successes, of feasts, of illnesses, of weddings, and of the infidelities of husbands and wives. He served up these greasy71 stories quickly and skilfully72, as a good cook serves up pancakes, with a sauce of hissing73 laughter. The shopman’s round face grew dark with envy and rapture74. His eyes were wide with dreamy wistfulness, as he said complainingly:
“Other people live, and here am I!”
“Every one has his appointed destiny,” resounded75 the deep voice. “Of one, the fate is heralded76 by angels with little silver hammers, and’ of another, by devils with the butt-end of an ax.”
This strong, muscular, old man knew everything — the whole life of the town, all the secrets of the merchants, chinovniks, priests, and citizens. He was keensighted as a bird of prey77, and with this had some of the qualities of the wolf and fox. I always wanted to make him angry, but he looked at me from afar, almost as if through a fog. He seemed to me to be surrounded by a limitless space. If one went closer to him, one seemed to be falling. I felt in him some affinity78 to the stoker Shumov.
Although the shopman went into ecstasies79 over his cleverness, both to his face and behind his back, there were times when, like me, he wanted to provoke or offend the old man.
“You are a deceiver of men,” he would say, suddenly looking heatedly into the old man’s face.
The latter, smiling lazily, answered:
“Only the Lord lives without deceit, and we live among fools, you see. Can one meet fools, and not deceive them? Of what use would they be, then?”
The shopman lost his temper.
“Not all the peasants are fools. The merchants themselves came from the peasantry!”
“We are not talking about merchants. Fools do not live as rogues80 do. A fool is like a saint — his brains are asleep.”
The old man drawled more and more lazily, and this was very irritating. It seemed to me that he was standing on a hillock in the midst of a quagmire81. It was impossible to make him angry. Either he was above rage, or he was able to hide it very successfully.
But he often happened to be the one to start a dispute with me. He would come quite close to me, and smiling into his beard, remark:
“What do you call that French writer — Ponoss?”
I was desperately82 angry at this silly way of turning the names upside down. But holding myself in for the time, I said:
“Ponson de Terrail.”
“Where was he lost?” 8
8 Terryat in Russian means “to lose.”
“Don’t play the fool. You are not a child.”
“That is true. I am not a child. What are you reading?”
“‘Ephrem Siren.’”
“And who writes best. Your foreign authors? or he?”
I made no reply.
“What do the foreign ones write about most?”
“About everything which happens to exist in life.”
“That is to say, about dogs and horses — whichever may happen to come their way.”
The shopman laughed. I was enraged83. The atmosphere was oppressive, unpleasant to me. But if I attempted to get away, the shopman stopped me.
“Where are you going?”
And the old man would examine me.
“Now, you learned man, gnaw84 this problem. Suppose you had a thousand naked people standing before you, five hundred women and five hundred men, and among them Adam and Eve. How would you tell which were Adam and Eve”?”
He kept asking me this, and at length explained triumphantly85:
“Little fool, don’t you see that, as they were not born, but were created, they would have no navels!”
The old man knew an innumerable quantity of these “problems.” He could wear me out with them.
During my early days at the shop, I used to tell the shopman the contents of some of the books I had read. Now these stories came back to me in an evil form. The shopman retold them to Petr Vassilich, considerably86 cut up, obscenely mutilated. The old man skilfully helped him in his shameful87 questions. Their slimy tongues threw the refuse of their obscene words at Eugenie Grandet, Ludmilla, and Henry IV.
I understood that they did not do this out of ill-nature, but simply because they wanted something to do. All the same, I did not find it easy to bear. Having created the filth88, they wallowed in it, like hogs89, and grunted90 with enjoyment91 when they soiled what was beautiful, strange, unintelligible92, and therefore comical to them.
The whole Gostinui Dvor, the whole of its population of merchants and shopinen, lived a strange life, full of stupid, puerile93, and always malicious94 diversions. If a passing peasant asked which was the nearest way to any place in the town, they always gave him the wrong direction. This had become such a habit with them that the deceit no longer gave them pleasure. They would catch two rats, tie their tails together, and let them go in the road. They loved to see how they pulled in different directions, or bit each other, and sometimes they poured paraffin-oil over the rats, and set fire to them. They would tie an old iron pail on the tail of a dog, who, in wild terror, would tear about, yelping95 and growling96, while they all looked on, and laughed.
There were many similar forms of recreation, and it seemed to me that all kinds of people, especially country people, existed simply for the amusement of the Gostinui Dvor. In their relations to other people, there was a constant desire to make fun of them, to give them pain, and to make them uncomfortable. It was strange that the books I had read were silent on the subject of this unceasing, deep-seated tendency of people to jeer97 at one another.
One of the amusements of the Gostinui Dvor seemed to me peculiarly offensive and disgusting.
Underneath99 our shop there was a dealer100 in woolen101 and felt footwear, whose salesman amazed the whole of Nijni by his gluttony. His master used to boast of this peculiarity103 of his employee, as one boasts of the fierceness of a dog, or the strength of a horse. He often used to get the neighboring shopkeepers to bet.
“Who will go as high as ten rubles? I will bet that Mishka devours104 ten pounds of ham in two hours!”
But they all knew that Mishka was well able to do that, and they said:
“We won’t take your bet, but buy the ham and let him eat it, and we will look on.”
“Only let it be all meat and no bones!”
They would dispute a little and lazily, and then out of the dark storehouse crept a lean, beardless fellow with high cheek-bones, in a long cloth coat girdled with a red belt all stuck round with tufts of wool. Respectfully removing his cap from his small head, he gazed in silence, with a dull expression in his deep-set eyes, at the round face of his master which was suffused105 with purple blood. The latter was saying in his thick harsh voice:
“Can you eat a gammon of ham?”
“How long shall I have for it?” asked Mishka practically, in his thin voice.
“Two hours.”
“That will be difficult.”
“Where is the difficulty?”
“Well, let me have a drop of beer with it.”
“All right,” said his master, and he would boast:
“You need not think that he has an empty stomach. No! In the morning he had two pounds of bread, and dinner at noon, as you know.”
They brought the ham, and the spectators took their places. All the merchants were tightly enveloped106 in their thick fur-coats and looked like gigantic weights. They were people with big stomachs, but they all had small eyes and some had fatty tumors. An unconquerable feeling of boredom107 oppressed them all.
With their hands tucked into their sleeves, they surrounded the great glutton102 in a narrow circle, armed with knives and large crusts of rye bread. He crossed himself piously108, sat down on a sack of wool and placed the ham on a box at his side, measuring it with his vacant eyes.
Cutting off a thin slice of bread and a thick one of meat, the glutton folded them together carefully, and held the sandwich to his mouth with both hands. His lips trembled; he licked them with his thin and long canine109 tongue, showing his small sharp teeth, and with a dog-like movement bent his snout again over the meat.
“He has begun!”
“Look at the time!”
All eyes were turned in a business-like manner on the face of the glutton, on his lower jaw110, on the round protuberances near his ears; they watched the sharp chin rise and fall regularly, and drowsily111 uttered their thoughts.
“He eats cleanly — like a bear.”
“Have you ever seen a bear eat?”
“Do I live in the woods? There is a saying, ‘he gobbles like a bear.’ ”
“Like a pig, it says.”
“Pigs don’t eat pig.”
They laughed unwillingly113, and soon some one knowingly said:
“Pigs eat everything — little pigs and their own sisters.”
The face of the glutton gradually grew darker, his ears became livid, his running eyes crept out of their bony pit, he breathed with difficulty, but his chin moved as regularly as ever.
“Take it easy, Mikhail, there is time!” they encouraged him.
He uneasily measured the remains114 of the meat with his eyes, drank some beer, and once more began to munch115. The spectators became more animated116. Looking more often at the watch in the hand of Mishka’s master, they suggested to one another:
“Don’t you think he may have put the watch back? Take it away from him! Watch Mishka in case he should put any meat up his sleeve! He won’t finish it in the time!”
Mishka’s master cried passionately117:
“I’ll take you on for a quarter of a ruble! Mishka, don’t give way!”
They began to dispute with the master, but no one would take the bet.
And Mishka went on eating and eating; his face began to look like the ham, his sharp grisly nose whistled plaintively118. It was terrible to look at him. It seemed to me that he was about to scream, to wail119:
“Have mercy on me!”
At length he finished it all, opened his tipsy eyes wide, and said in a hoarse120, tired voice:
“Let me go to sleep.”
But his master, looking at his watch, cried angrily:
“You have taken four minutes too long, you wretch121!”
The others teased him:
“What a pity we did not take you on; you would have lost.”
“However, he is a regular wild animal, that fellow.”
“Ye — e — es, he ought to be in a show.”
“You see what monsters the Lord can make of men, eh?”
“Let us go and have some tea, shall we?”
And they swam like barges122 to the tavern.
I wanted to know what stirred in the bosoms123 of these heavy, iron-hearted people that they should gather round the poor fellow because his unhealthy gluttony amused them.
It was dark and dull in that narrow gallery closel3f packed with wool, sheepskins, hemp124, ropes, felt, boots, and saddlery. It was cut off — from the pavement by pillars of brick, clumsily thick, weather-beaten, and spattered with mud from the road. All the bricks and all the chinks between them, all the holes made by the fallen-away mortar125, had been mentally counted by me a thousand times, and their hideous16 designs were forever heavily imprinted126 on my memory.
The foot-passenger dawdled127 along the pavement; hackney carriages and sledges128 loaded with goods passed up the road without haste. Beyond the street, in a red-brick, square, two-storied shop, was the market-place, littered with cases, straw, crumpled129 paper, covered with dirt and trampled130 snow.
All this, together with the people and the horses, in spite of the movement, seemed to be motionless, or lazily moving round and round in one place to which it was fastened by invisible chains. One felt suddenly that this life was almost devoid131 of sound, or so poor in sounds that it amounted to dumbness. The sides of the sledges squeaked132, the doors of the shops slammed, sellers of pies and honey cried their wares133, but their voices sounded unhappy, unwilling112. They were all alike; one quickly became used to them, and ceased to pay attention to them.
The church-bells tolled134 funerally. That melancholy sound was always in my ears. It seemed to float in the air over the market-place without ceasing from morning to night; it was mingled135 with all my thoughts and feelings; it lay like a copper136 veneer137 over all my impressions.
Tedium138, coldness, and want breathed all around: from the earth covered with dirty snow, from the gray snow-drift on the roof, from the flesh-colored bricks of the buildings; tedium rose from the chimneys in a thick gray smoke, and crept up to the gray, low, empty sky; with tedium horses sweated and people sighed. They had a peculiar98 smell of their own, these people — the oppressive dull smell of sweat, fat, hemp oil, hearth-cakes, and smoke. It was an odor which pressed upon one’s head like a warm close-fitting cap, and ran down into one’s breast, arousing a strange feeling of intoxication139, a vague desire to shut one’s eyes, to cry out despairingly, to run away somewhere and knock one’s head against the first wall.
I gazed into the faces of the merchants, over-nourished, full-blooded, frost-bitten, and as immobile as if they were asleep. These people often yawned, opening their mouths like fish which have been cast on dry land.
In winter, trade was slack and there was not in the eyes of the dealer that cautious, rapacious140 gleam which somehow made them bright and animated in the summer. The heavy fur coats hampered141 their movements, bowed them to the earth. As a rule they spoke lazily, but when they fell into a passion, they grew vehement142. I had an idea that they did this purposely, in order to show one another that they were alive.
It was perfectly143 clear to me that tedium weighed upon them, was killing144 them, and the unsuccessful struggle against its overwhelming strength was the only explanation I could give of their cruelty and senseless amusements at the expense of others.
Sometimes I discussed this with Petr Vissilich.
Although as a rule he behaved to me scornfully and jeeringly145, he liked me for my partiality for books, and at times he permitted himself to talk to me instructively, seriously.
“I don’t like the way these merchants live,” I said.
Twisting a strand146 of his beard in his long fingers, he said:
“And how do you know how they live? Do you then often visit them at their houses? This is merely a street, my friend, and people do not live in a street; they simply buy and sell, and they get through that as quickly as they can, and then go home again! People walk about the streets with their clothes on, and you do not know what they are like under their clothes. What a man really is is seen in his own home, within his own four walls, and how he lives there — that you know nothing about!”
“Yes, but they have the same ideas whether they are here or at home, don’t they?”
“And how can any one know what ideas his neighbors have?” said the old man, making his eyes round. “Thoughts are like lice; you cannot count them. It may be that a man, on going to his home, falls on his knees and, weeping, prays to God: Torgive me, Lord, I have defiled147 Thy holy day!’ It may be that his house is a sort of monastery148 to him, and he lives there alone with his God. You see how it is! Every spider knows its own corner, spins its own web, and understands its own position, so that it may hold its own.”
When he spoke seriously, his voice went lower and lower to a deep base, as if he were communicating secrets.
“Here you are judging others, and it is too soon for you; at your age one lives not by one’s reason but by one’s eyes. What you must do is to look, remember, and hold your tongue. The mind is for business, but faith is for the soul. It is good for you to read books, but there must be moderation in all things, and some have read themselves into madness and godlessness.”
I looked upon him as immortal149; it was hard for me to believe that he might grow older and change. He liked to tell stories about merchants and coiners who had become notorious. I had heard many such stories from grandfather, who told them better than the valuer, but the underlying150 theme was the same — that riches always lead to sin towards God and one’s fellow-creatures. Petr Vassilich had no pity for human creatures, but he spoke of God with warmth of feeling, sighing and covering his eyes.
“And so they try to cheat God, and He, the Lord Jesus Christ, sees it all and weeps. ‘My people, my people, my unhappy people, hell is being prepared for you!’ ”
Once I jokingly reminded him:
“But you cheat the peasants yourself.”
He was not offended by this.
“Is that a great matter as far as I am concerned?” he said. “I may rob them of from three to five rubles, and that is all it amounts to!”
When he found me reading, he would take the book out of my hands and ask me questions about what I had read, in a fault-finding manner. With amazed incredulity he would say to the shopman:
“Just look at that now; he understands books, the young rascal151!”
And he would give me a memorable152, intelligent lecture:
“Listen to what I tell you now; it is worth your while. There were two Kyrills, both of them bishops153; one Kyrill of Alexandria, and the other Kyrill of Jerusalem. The first warred against the cursed heretic, Nestorius, who taught obscenely that Our Lady was born in original sin and therefore could not have given birth to God; but that she gave birth to a human being with the name and attributes of the Messiah, the Saviour154 of the world, and therefore she should be called not the God–Bearer, but the Christ–Bearer. Do you understand? That is called heresy155! And Kyrill of Jerusalem fought against the Arian heretics.”
I was delighted with his knowledge of church history, and he, stroking his beard with his well-cared-for, priest-like hands, boasted:
“I am a past master in that sort of thing. When I was in Moscow, I was engaged in a verbal debate against the poisonous doctrines157 of the Nikonites, with both priests and seculars158. I, my little one, actually conducted discussions with professors, yes! To one of the priests I so drove home the verbal scourge159 that his nose bled infernally, that it did!”
His cheeks were flushed; his eyes shone.
The bleeding of the nose of his opponent was evidently the highest point of his success, in his opinion; the highest ruby160 in the golden crown of his glory, and he told the story voluptuously161.
“A ha — a — andsome, wholesome-looking priest he was! He stood on the platform and drip, drip, the blood came from his nose. He did not see his shame. Ferocious162 was the priest as a desert lion; his voice was like a bell. But very quietly I got my words in between his ribs163, like saws. He was really as hot as a stove, made red-hot by heretical malice164 — ekh — that was a business!”
Occasionally other valuers came. These were Pakhomi, a man with a fat belly165, in greasy clothes, with one crooked eye who was wrinkled and snarling166; Lukian, a little old man, smooth as a mouse, kind and brisk; and with him came a big, gloomy man looking like a coachman, black bearded, with a deathlike face, unpleasant to look upon, but handsome, and with eyes which never seemed to move. Almost always they brought ancient books, icons and thuribles to sell, or some kind of bowl. Sometimes they brought the vendors — an old man or woman from the Volga. When their business was finished, they sat on the counter, looking just like crows on a furrow167, drank tea with rolls and lenten sugar, and told each other about the persecutions of the Nikonites.
Here a search had been made, and books of devotion had been confiscated169; there the police had closed a place of worship, and had contrived170 to bring its owner to justice under Article 103. This Article 103 was frequently the theme of their discussions, but they spoke of it calmly, as of something unavoidable, like the frosts of winter. The words police, search, prison, justice, Siberia — these words, continually recurring171 in their conversations about the persecutions for religious beliefs, fell on my heart like hot coals, kindling172 sympathy and fellow feeling for these Old Believers. Reading had taught me to look up to people who were obstinate173 in pursuing their aims, to value spiritual steadfastness174.
I forgot all the bad which I saw in these teachers of life. I felt only their calm stubbornness, behind which, it seemed to me, was hidden an unwavering belief in the teachings of their faith, for which they were ready to suffer all kinds of torments175.
At length, when I had come across many specimens176 of these guardians177 of the old faith, both among the people and among the intellectuals, I understood that this obstinacy178 was the oriental passivity of people who never moved from the place whereon they stood, and had no desire to move from it, but were bound by strong ties to the ways of the old words, and worn-out ideas. They were steeped in these words and ideas. Their wills were stationary179, incapable180 of looking forward, and when some blow from without cast them out of their accustomed place, they mechanically and without resistance let themselves roll down, like a stone off a hill. They kept their own fasts in the graveyards181 of lived-out truths, with a deadly strength of memory for the past, and an insane love of suffering and persecution168; but if the possibility of suffering were taken away from them, they faded away, disappeared like a cloud on a fresh winter day.
The faith for which they, with satisfaction and great self-complacency, were ready to suffer is incontestably a strong faith, but it resembles well-worn clothes, covered with all kinds of dirt, and for that very reason is less vulnerable to the ravages182 of time. Thought and feeling become accustomed to the narrow and oppressive envelope of prejudice and dogma, and although wingless and mutilated, they live in ease and comfort.
This belief founded on habits is one of the most grievous and harmful manifestations183 of our lives. Within the domains184 of such beliefs, as within the shadows of stone walls, anything new is born slowly, is deformed185, and grows ansemic. In that dark faith there are very few of the beams of love, too many causes of offense186, irritations187, and petty spites which are always friendly with hatred188. The flame of that faith is the phosphorescent gleam of putrescence.
But before I was convinced of this, I had to live through many weary years, break up many images in my soul, and cast them out of my memory. But at the time when I first came across these teachers of life, in the midst of tedious and sordid189 realities, they appeared to me as persons of great spiritual strength, the best people in the world. Almost every one of them had been persecuted, put in prison, had been banished190 from different towns, traveling by stages with convicts. They all lived cautious, hidden lives.
However, I saw that while pitying the “narrow spirit” of the Nikonites, these old people willingly and with great satisfaction kept one another within narrow bounds.
Crooked Pakhomie, when he had been drinking, liked to boast of his wonderful memory with regard to matters of the faith. He had several books at his finger-ends, as a Jew has his Talmud. He could put his finger on his favorite page, and from the word on which he had placed his finger, Pakhomie could go on reciting by heart in his mild, snuffling voice. He always looked on the floor, and his solitary191 eye ran over the floor disquietingly, as if he were seeking some lost and very valuable article.
The book with which he most often performed this trick was that of Prince Muishetzki, called “The Russian Vine,” and the passage he best knew was, “The long suffering and courageous192 suffering of wonderful and valiant193 martyrs,” but Petr Vassilitch was always trying to catch him in a mistake.
“That’s a lie! That did not happen to Cyprian the Mystic, but to Denis the Chaste194.”
“What other Denis could it be? You are thinking of Dionysius.”
“Don’t shuffle195 with words!”
“And don’t you try to teach me!”
In a few moments both, swollen196 with rage, would be looking fixedly197 at one another, and saying:
“Perverter of the truth! Away, shameless one!”
Pakhomie answered, as if he were adding up accounts:
“As for you, you are a libertine198, a goat, always hanging round the women.”
The shopman, with his hands tucked into his sleeves, smiled maliciously199, and, encouraging the guardians of the ancient religion, cried, just like a small boy:
“Th — a — at’s right! Go it!”
One day when the old men were quarreling, Petr Vassilitch slapped his comrade on the face with unexpected swiftness, put him to flight, and, wiping the sweat from his face, called after the fugitive200:
“Look out; that sin lies to your account! You led my hand into sin, you accursed one; you ought to be ashamed of yourself!”
He was especially fond of reproaching his comrades in that they were wanting in firm faith, and predicting that they would fall away into “Protestantism.”
“That is what troubles you, Aleksasha — the sound of the cock crowing!”
Protestantism worried and apparently201 frightened him, but to the question, “What is the doctrine156 of that sect202?” he answered, not very intelligibly203:
“Protestantism is the most bitter heresy; it acknowledges reason alone, and denies God! Look at the
Bible Christians204, for example, who read nothing but the Bible, which came from a German, from Luther, of whom it was said : He was rightly called Luther, for if you make a verb of it, it runs: Lute205 bo, lubo luto! 9 And all that comes from the west, from the heretics of that part of the world.”
9 From Lutui which means hard, violent.
Stamping his mutilated foot, he would say coldly and heavily:
“Those are they whom the new Ritualists will have to drive out, whom they will have to watch, — yes, and burn too! But not us — we are of the true faith. Eastern, we are of the faith, the true, eastern, original Russian faith, and all the others are of the west, spoiled by free will! What good has ever come from the Germans, or the French? Look what they did in the year 12 — .”
Carried away by his feelings, he forgot that it was a boy who stood before him, and with his strong hands he took hold of me by the belt, now drawing me to him, now pushing me away, as he spoke beautifully, emotionally, hotly, and youthfully:
“The mind of man wanders in the forest of its own thoughts. Like a fierce wolf it wanders, the devil’s assistant, putting the soul of man, the gift of God, on the rack! What have they imagined, these servants of the devil? The Bogomuili,10 through whom Protestantism came, taught thus: Satan, they say, is the son of God, the elder brother of Jesus Christ, That
10 Another sect of Old Believers. is what they have come to! They taught people also not to obey their superiors, not to work, to abandon wife and children; a man needs nothing, no property whatever in his life; let him live as he chooses, and the devil shows him how. That Aleksasha has turned up here again.”
At this moment the shopman set me to do some work, and I left the old man alone in the gallery, but he went on talking to space:
“O soul without wings! O blind-born kitten, whither shall I run to get away from you?”
And then, with bent head and hands resting on hi? knees, he fell into a long silence, gazing, intent and motionless, up at the gray winter sky.
He began to take more notice of me, and his manner was kinder. When he found me with a book, he would glance over my shoulder, and say:
“Read, youngster, read; it is worth your while I It may be that you are clever; it is a pity that you think so little of your elders. You can stand up to any one, you think, but where will your sauciness206 land you in the end? It will lead you nowhere, youngster, but to a convict’s prison. Read by all means; but remember that books are books, and use your own brains I Danilov, the founder207 of the Xlist sect, came to the conclusion that neither old nor new books were necessary, and he put them all in a sack, and threw them in the water. Of course that was a stupid thing to do, but And now that cur, Aleksasha, must come disturbing us.”
He was always talking about this Aleksasha, and one day he came into the shop, looking preoccupied208 and stem, and explained to the shopman:
“Aleksander Vassiliev is here in the town; he came yesterday. I have been looking for him for a long time, but he has hidden himself somewhere 1”
The shopman answered in an unfriendly tone:
“I don’t know anything about him!”
Bending his head, the old man said:
“That means that for you, people are either buyers or sellers, and nothing more! Let us have some tea.”
When I brought in the big copper tea-pot, there were visitors in the shop. There was old Lukian, smiling happily, and behind the door in a dark corner sat a stranger dressed in a dark overcoat and high felt boots, with a green belt, and a cap set clumsily over his brows. His face was indistinct, but he seemed to be quiet and modest, and he looked somewhat like a shopman who had just lost his place and was very dejected about it.
Petr Vassilich, not glancing in his direction, said something sternly and ponderously209, and he pulled at his cap all the time, with a convulsive movement of his right hand. He would raise his hand as if he were about to cross himself, and push his cap upwards210, and he would do this until he had pushed it as far back as his crown, when he would again pull it over his brows. That convulsive movement reminded me of the mad beggar, Igosha, “Death in his pocket.”
“Various kinds of reptiles211 swim in our muddy rivers, and make the water more turbid212 than ever,” said Petr Vassilich.
The man who resembled a shopman asked quietly and gently:
“Do you mean that for me?”
“And suppose I do mean it for you?”
Then the man asked again, not loudly but very frankly213:
“Well, and what have you to say about yourself, man?”
“What I have to say about myself, I say to God — that is my business.”
“No, man, it is mine also,” said the new-comer solemnly and firmly. “Do not turn away your face from the truth, and don’t blind yourself deliberately214; that is the great sin towards God and your fellow-creatures!”
I liked to hear him call Petr Vassilich “man,” and his quiet, solemn voice stirred me. He spoke as a good priest reads, “Lord and Master of my life,” and bending forward, got off his chair, spreading his hands before his face:
“Do not judge me; my sins are not more grievous than yours.”
The samovar boiled and hissed215, the old valuer spoke contemptuously, and the other continued, refusing to be stopped by his words:
“Only God knows who most befouls the source of the Holy Spirit. It may be your sin, you book-learned, literary people. As for me, I am neither book-learned nor literary; I am a man of simple life.”
“We know all about your simplicity216 — we have heard of it — more than we want to hear!”
“It is you who confuse the people; you break up the true faith, you scribes and Pharisees. I— what shall I say? Tell me —”
“Heresy,” said Petr Vassilich. The man held his hands before his face, just as if he were reading something written on them, and said warmly: “Do you think that to drive people from one hole to another is to do better than they? But I say no! I say: Let us be free, man! What is the good of a house, a wife, and all your belongings217, in the sight of God? Let us free ourselves, man, from all that for the sake of which men fight and tear each other to pieces — from gold and silver and all kinds of property, which brings nothing but corruption218 and uncleannessi Not on earthly fields is the soul saved, but in the valleys of paradise! Tear yourself away from it all, I say; break all ties, all cords; break the nets of this world. They are woven by antichrist. I am going by the straight road; I do not juggle219 with my soul; the dark world has no part in me.”
“And bread, water, clothes — do you have any part in them? They are worldly, you know,” said the valuer maliciously.
But these words had no effect on Aleksander. He talked all the more earnestly, and although his voice was so low, it had the sound of a brass trumpet220.
“What is dear to you, man? The one God only should be dear to you. I stand before Him, cleansed221 from every stain. Remove the ways of earth from your heart and see God; you alone — He alone! So you will draw near to God; that is the only road to Him. That is the way of salvation222 — to leave father and mother — to leave all, and even thine eye, if it tempts223 thee — pluck it out! For God’s sake tear yourself from things and save your soul; take refuge in the spirit, and your soul shall live for ever and ever.”
“Well, it is a case with you, of the dog returning to his vomit,” said Petr Vassiliev, rising, “I should have thought that you would have grown wiser since last year, but you are worse than ever.”
The old man went swaying from the shop onto the terrace, which action disturbed Aleksander. He asked amazedly and hastily:
“Has he gone? But — why?”
Kind Lukian, winking224 consolingly, said:
“That’s all right — that’s all right!”
Then Aleksander fell upon him:
“And what about you, worldling? You are also sewing rubbishy words, and what do they mean? Well — a threefold alleluia — a double ”
Lukian smiled at him and then went out on the terrace also, and Aleksander, turning to the shopman, said in a tone of conviction:
“They can’t stand up to me, they simply can’t! They disappear like smoke before a flame.”
The shopman looked at him from under his brows, and observed dryly:
“I have not thought about the matter.”
“What! Do you mean you have not thought about it? This is a business which demands to be thought about.”
He sat for a moment in silence, with drooping225 head. Then the old men called him, and they all three went away.
This man had burst upon me like a bonfire in the night. He burned brightly, and when he was extinguished, left me feeling that there was truth in his refusal to live as other men.
In the evening, choosing a good time, I spoke about him excitedly to the head icon-painter. Quiet and kind Ivan Larionovich listened to what I had to say, and explained:
“He belongs to the Byegouns,11 a sort of sect; they acknowledge no authority.”
11 Byegouns, or wanderers, still another sect of Old Believers.
“How do they live?”
“Like fugitives226 they wander about the earth; that is why they have been given the name Byegoun. They say that no one ought to have land, or property. And the police look upon them as dangerous, and arrest them.”
Although my life was bitter, I could not understand how any one could run away from everything pleasant. In the life which went on around me at that time, there was much that was interesting and precious to me, and Aleksander Vassiliev soon faded from my mind.
But from time to time, in hours of darkness, he appeared to me. He came by the fields, or by the gray road to the forest, pushed his cap aside with a convulsive movement of his white hands, unsoiled by work, and muttered:
“I am going on the straight road; I have no part in this world; I have broken all ties.”
In conjunction with him I remembered my father, as grandmother had seen him in her dream, with a walnut227 stick in his hand, and behind him a spotted228 dog running, with its tongue hanging out.
收听单词发音 |
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icon
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| n.偶像，崇拜的对象，画像 | |
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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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bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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icons
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| n.偶像( icon的名词复数 )；（计算机屏幕上表示命令、程序的）符号，图像 | |
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kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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assuage
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| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
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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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tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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accost
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| v.向人搭话，打招呼 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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intercept
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| vt.拦截，截住，截击 | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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canonical
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impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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narcotic
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| n.麻醉药，镇静剂；adj.麻醉的，催眠的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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enticing
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| adj.迷人的；诱人的 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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herded
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| 群集，纠结( herd的过去式和过去分词 )； 放牧； （使）向…移动 | |
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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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incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fingerprint
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| n.指纹；vt.取...的指纹 | |
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scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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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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schisms
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| n.教会分立，分裂( schism的名词复数 ) | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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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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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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hoards
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| n.（钱财、食物或其他珍贵物品的）储藏，积存( hoard的名词复数 )v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的第三人称单数 ) | |
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lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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vendor
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| n.卖主；小贩 | |
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vendors
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| n.摊贩( vendor的名词复数 )；小贩；（房屋等的）卖主；卖方 | |
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connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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55
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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56
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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57
psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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58
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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59
forgeries
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| 伪造( forgery的名词复数 )； 伪造的文件、签名等 | |
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60
forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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61
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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62
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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63
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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64
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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65
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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66
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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67
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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68
connoisseurs
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| n.鉴赏家，鉴定家，行家( connoisseur的名词复数 ) | |
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69
conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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70
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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71
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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72
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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73
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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74
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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75
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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76
heralded
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| v.预示( herald的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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77
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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78
affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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79
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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80
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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81
quagmire
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| n.沼地 | |
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82
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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83
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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84
gnaw
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| v.不断地啃、咬；使苦恼，折磨 | |
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85
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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86
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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87
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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88
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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89
hogs
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| n.（尤指喂肥供食用的）猪( hog的名词复数 )；（供食用的）阉公猪；彻底地做某事；自私的或贪婪的人 | |
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90
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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91
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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92
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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93
puerile
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| adj.幼稚的，儿童的 | |
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94
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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95
yelping
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| v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的现在分词 ) | |
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96
growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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97
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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98
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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99
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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100
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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101
woolen
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| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
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102
glutton
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| n.贪食者，好食者 | |
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103
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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104
devours
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| 吞没( devour的第三人称单数 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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105
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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106
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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108
piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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109
canine
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| adj.犬的，犬科的 | |
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110
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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111
drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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112
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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113
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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114
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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115
munch
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| v.用力嚼，大声咀嚼 | |
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116
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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117
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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118
plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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119
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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120
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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121
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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122
barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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123
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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124
hemp
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| n.大麻；纤维 | |
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125
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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126
imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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127
dawdled
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| v.混（时间）( dawdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
sledges
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| n.雪橇，雪车( sledge的名词复数 )v.乘雪橇( sledge的第三人称单数 )；用雪橇运载 | |
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129
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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130
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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131
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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132
squeaked
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的过去式和过去分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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133
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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134
tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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135
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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136
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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137
veneer
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| n.(墙上的)饰面，虚饰 | |
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138
tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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139
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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140
rapacious
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| adj.贪婪的，强夺的 | |
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141
hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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143
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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144
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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145
jeeringly
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| adv.嘲弄地 | |
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146
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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147
defiled
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| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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148
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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149
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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150
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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151
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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152
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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153
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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154
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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155
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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156
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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157
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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158
seculars
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| n.现世的，俗界的( secular的名词复数 ) | |
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159
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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160
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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161
voluptuously
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| adv.风骚地，体态丰满地 | |
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162
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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163
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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164
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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165
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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166
snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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167
furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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168
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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169
confiscated
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| 没收，充公( confiscate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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170
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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171
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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172
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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173
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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174
steadfastness
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| n.坚定，稳当 | |
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175
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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176
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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177
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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178
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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179
stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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180
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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181
graveyards
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| 墓地( graveyard的名词复数 )； 垃圾场； 废物堆积处； 收容所 | |
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ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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domains
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| n.范围( domain的名词复数 )；领域；版图；地产 | |
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185
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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186
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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irritations
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| n.激怒( irritation的名词复数 )；恼怒；生气；令人恼火的事 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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189
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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191
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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196
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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197
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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198
libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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199
maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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200
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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202
sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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intelligibly
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| adv.可理解地，明了地，清晰地 | |
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204
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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205
lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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206
sauciness
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| n.傲慢，鲁莽 | |
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207
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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ponderously
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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reptiles
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| n.爬行动物，爬虫( reptile的名词复数 ) | |
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212
turbid
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| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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217
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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218
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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219
juggle
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| v.变戏法，纂改，欺骗，同时做；n.玩杂耍，纂改，花招 | |
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trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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tempts
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| v.引诱或怂恿（某人）干不正当的事( tempt的第三人称单数 )；使想要 | |
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224
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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225
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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226
fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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227
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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228
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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