My “idea” is — to become a Rothschild. I invite the reader to keep calm and not to excite himself.
I repeat it. My “idea” is to become a Rothschild, to become as rich as Rothschild, not simply rich, but as rich as Rothschild. What objects I have in view, what for, and why — all that shall come later. First I will simply show that the attainment2 of my object is a mathematical certainty.
It is a very simple matter; the whole secret lies in two words: OBSTINACY3 and PERSEVERANCE4.
“We have heard that; it’s nothing new,” people will tell me. Every “vater,” in Germany repeats this to his children, and meanwhile your Rothschild (James Rothschild the Parisian, is the one I mean) is unique while there are millions of such “vaters.”
I should answer:
“You assert that you’ve heard it, but you’ve heard nothing. It’s true that you’re right about one thing. When I said that this was ‘very simple,’ I forgot to add that it is most difficult. All the religions and the moralities of the world amount to one thing: ‘Love virtue5 and avoid vice6.’ One would think nothing could be simpler. But just try doing something virtuous7 and giving up any one of your vices8; just try it. It’s the same with this.
“That’s why your innumerable German ‘vaters’ may, for ages past reckoning, have repeated those two wonderful words which contain the whole secret, and, meanwhile, Rothschild remains9 unique. It shows it’s the same but not the same, and these ‘vaters’ don’t repeat the same idea.
“No doubt they too have heard of obstinacy and perseverance, but to attain1 my object what I need is not these German ‘vaters’ ’ obstinacy or these ‘vaters’ ‘ perseverance.”
“The mere10 fact that he is a ‘vater’— I don’t mean only the Germans — that he has a family, that he is living like other people, has expenses like other people, has obligations like other people, means that he can’t become a Rothschild, but must remain an average man. I understand quite clearly that in becoming a Rothschild, or merely desiring to become one, not in the German ‘vaters’’ way but seriously, I must at the same time cut myself off from society.”
Some years ago I read in the newspaper that on one of the steamers on the Volga there died a beggar who went about begging in rags and was known to every one. On his death they found sewn up in his shirt three thousand roubles in notes. The other day I read of another beggar of the “respectable” sort, who used to go about the restaurants holding out his hand. He was arrested and there was found on him five thousand roubles. Two conclusions follow directly from this. The first, that OBSTINACY in saving even the smallest coin will produce enormous results in the long run (time is of no account in this), and secondly11 that the most unskilful form of accumulation if only PERSEVERING12 is mathematically certain of success.
Meanwhile there are perhaps a good number of respectable, clever, obstinate13 people who cannot save either three or five thousand, however much they struggle, though they would be awfully14 glad to have such a sum. Why is that? The answer is clear: it is because not one of them, in spite of all their wishing it, DESIRES it to such a degree that, for instance, if he is not able to save by other means, he is ready to become a beggar, and so persistent16 that after becoming a beggar, he will not waste the first farthing he is given on an extra crust of bread for himself or his family. With this system of saving, that is in beggary, one must live on bread and salt and nothing more, to save up such sums; at least, so I imagine. That is no doubt what the two beggars I have mentioned above did do; they must have eaten nothing but bread and have lived almost in the open air. There is no doubt that they had no intention of becoming Rothschilds; they were simply Harpagons or Ilyushkins in their purest form, nothing more; but, when there is intelligent accumulation in quite a different form with the object of becoming a Rothschild, no less strength of will is needed than in the case of those two beggars. The German “vater” does not show such strength of will. There are many kinds of strength in the world, especially of strength of will and of desire. There is the temperature of boiling water and there is the temperature of molten iron.
One wants here the same thing as in a monastery17, the same heroic asceticism18. Feeling is wanted, not only idea. What for? Why? Is it moral and not monstrous20 to wear sackcloth and eat black bread all one’s life to heap up filthy21 lucre23? These questions I will consider later. Now I am discussing only the possibility of attaining24 the object. When I thought of my “idea” and it was forged in white heat, I began asking myself — am I capable of asceticism? With this object, for the whole of the first month I took bread and water, not more than two and a half pounds of black bread a day. To do this I was obliged to deceive Nikolay Semyonovitch who was clever, and Marie Ivanovna who was anxious for my welfare. Though I wounded her and somewhat surprised Nikolay Semyonovitch who was a man of great delicacy25, I insisted on having my dinner brought to my room. There I simply got rid of it. I poured the soup out of window on to the nettles26 or elsewhere, the meat I either flung out of window to a dog, or wrapping it up in paper put it in my pocket and threw it away after, and so on. As the bread given me for dinner was much less than two and a half pounds I bought bread on the sly. I stood this for a month perhaps, only upsetting my stomach a little, but the next month I added soup to the bread and drank a glass of tea morning and evening, and I assure you I passed a year like that in perfect health and content, as well as in a moral ecstasy27 and perpetual secret delight. Far from regretting the dainties I missed, I was overjoyed. At the end of the year, having convinced myself I was capable of standing28 any fast, however severe, I began eating as they did, and went back to dine with them. Not satisfied with this experiment I made a second; apart from the sum paid to Nikolay Semyonovitch for my board I was allowed five roubles a month for pocket money. I resolved to spend only half. This was a very great trial, but after at most two years I had in my pocket by the time I went to Petersburg seventy roubles saved entirely29 in this way, besides other money. The result of these two experiments was of vast importance to me: I had learnt positively30 that I could so will a thing as to attain my objects, and that I repeat is the essence of “my idea”— the rest is all nonsense.
2
Let us, however, look into the nonsense too.
I have described my two experiments. In Petersburg, as the reader knows, I made a third. I went to the auction31 and at one stroke made a profit of seven roubles ninety-five kopecks. This of course was not a real experiment, it was only by way of sport and diversion. I simply wanted to filch32 a moment from the future, and to test how I should go and behave. I had decided33 even at the very first, in Moscow, to put off really beginning till I was perfectly34 free. I fully15 realized that I must, for instance, finish my work at school. (The university, as the reader knows already, I sacrificed.) There is no disputing that I went to Petersburg with concealed35 anger in my heart. No sooner had I left the grammar school and become free for the first time, than I suddenly saw that Versilov’s affairs would distract me from beginning my enterprise for an indefinite period. But though I was angry I went to Petersburg feeling perfectly serene36 about my object.
It is true I knew nothing of practical life; but I had been thinking about it for three years and could have no doubt about it. I had pictured a thousand times over how I should begin. I should suddenly find myself, as though dropped from the clouds, in one of our two capitals (I pitched on Petersburg or Moscow for my beginning, and by choice Petersburg, to which I gave the preference through certain considerations), perfectly free, not dependent on anyone, in good health, and with a hundred roubles hidden in my pocket, as the capital for my first investment. Without a hundred roubles it would be impossible to begin, as, without it, even the earliest period of success would be too remote. Apart from my hundred roubles I should have, as the reader knows already, courage, obstinacy, perseverance, absolute isolation37 and secrecy38. Isolation was the principal thing. I greatly disliked the idea of any connection or association with others until the last moment. Speaking generally I proposed beginning my enterprise alone, that was a sine qua non. People weigh upon me, and with them I should have been uneasy, and uneasiness would have hindered my success. Generally speaking, all my life up to now, in all my dreams of how I would behave with people, I always imagined myself being very clever; it was very different in reality — I was always very stupid; and I confess sincerely, with indignation, I always gave myself away and was flustered39, and so I resolved to cut people off altogether. I should gain by it independence, tranquillity40 of mind and clearness of motive41.
In spite of the terrible prices in Petersburg I determined42 once for all that I should never spend more than fifteen kopecks on food, and I knew I should keep my word. This question of food I had thought over minutely for a long time past. I resolved, for instance, sometimes to eat nothing but bread and salt for two days together, and to spend on the third day what I had saved on those two days. I fancied that this would be better for my health than a perpetual uniform fast on a minimum of fifteen kopecks. Then I needed a corner, literally43 a “corner,” solely44 to sleep the night in and to have a refuge in very bad weather. I proposed living in the street, and, if necessary, I was ready to sleep in one of the night refuges where they give you a piece of bread and a glass of tea as well as a night’s lodging45. Oh, I should be quite capable of hiding my money so that it should not be stolen in the “corner,” or in the refuge, and should not even be suspected, I’ll answer for that!
“Steal from me? Why, I’m afraid of stealing myself!” I once heard a passer-by in the street say gaily46. Of course I only apply to myself the caution and smartness of it, I don’t intend to steal. What is more, while I was in Moscow, perhaps from the very first day of my “idea,” I resolved that I would not be a pawnbroker47 or usurer either; there are Jews for that job, and such Russians as have neither intelligence nor character. Pawnbroking48 and usury49 are for the commonplace.
As for clothes, I resolved to have two suits, one for every day and one for best. When once I had got them I felt sure I should wear them a long time. I purposely trained myself to wear a suit for two and a half years, and in fact I discovered a secret: for clothes always to look new and not to get shabby they should be brushed as often as possible, five or six times a day. Brushing does not hurt the cloth. I speak from knowledge. What does hurt it is dust and dirt. Dust is the same thing as stones if you look at it through the microscope, and, however hard a brush is, it is almost the same as fur. I trained myself to wear my boots evenly. The secret lies in putting down the whole sole at once, and avoiding treading on the side. One can train oneself to this in a fortnight, after that the habit is unconscious. In this way boots last on an average a third as long again. That is the experience of two years.
Then followed my activity itself.
I started with the hypothesis that I had a hundred roubles. In Petersburg there are so many auction sales, petty hucksters’ booths and people who want things, that it would be impossible not to sell anything one bought for a little more. Over the album I had made seven roubles ninety-five kopecks profit on two roubles five kopecks of capital invested. This immense profit was made without any risk: I could see from his eyes that the purchaser would not back out. Of course I know quite well that this was only a chance; but it is just such chances I am on the look-out for, that is why I have made up my mind to live in the street. Well, granted that such a chance is unusual, no matter; my first principle will be to risk nothing, and the second to make every day more than the minimum spent on my subsistence, that the process of accumulation may not be interrupted for a single day.
I shall be told that “all this is a dream, you don’t know the streets, and you’ll be taken in at the first step.” But I have will and character, and the science of the streets is a science like any other: persistence50, attention and capacity can conquer it. In the grammar school right up to the seventh form I was one of the first; I was very good at mathematics. Why, can one possibly exaggerate the value of experience and knowledge of the streets to such a fantastic pitch as to predict my failure for certain? That is only what people say who have never made an experiment in anything, have never begun any sort of life, but have grown stiff in second-hand51 stagnation52. “One man breaks his nose, so another must break his.” No, I won’t break mine. I have character and if I pay attention I can learn anything. But is it possible to imagine that with constant persistence, with incessant53 vigilance, and continual calculation and reflection, with perpetual activity and alertness one could fail to find out how to make twenty kopecks to spare every day? Above all I resolved not to struggle for the maximum profit, but always to keep calm. As time went on after heaping up one or two thousand I should, of course, naturally rise above second-hand dealing54 and street trading. I know, of course, far too little as yet about the stock exchange, about shares, banking55 and all that sort of thing. But to make up for that I know, as I know I have five fingers on my hand, that I should learn all the stock exchange and banking business as well as anyone else, and that the subject would turn out to be perfectly simple, because one is brought to it by practice. What need is there of the wisdom of Solomon so long as one has character; efficiency, skill and knowledge come of themselves. If only one does not leave off “willing.”
The great thing is to avoid risks, and that can only be done if one has character. Not long ago in Petersburg I had before me a subscription56 list of shares in some railway investments; those who succeeded in getting shares made a lot of money. For some time the shares went up and up. Well, if one day some one who had not succeeded in getting a share, or was greedy for more, had offered to buy mine at a premium57 of so much per cent., I should certainly have sold it. People would have laughed at me, of course, and have said that if I had waited I should have made ten times as much. Quite so, but my premium is safer, for it’s a bird in the hand while yours is on the bush. I shall be told that one can’t make much like that; excuse me, that’s your mistake, the mistake of all our Kokorevs, Polyakovs, and Gubonins. Let me tell you the truth; perseverance and persistence in money making and still more in saving is much more effective than these cent. per cent. profits.
Not long before the French Revolution there was a man called Law in Paris who invented of himself a scheme what was theoretically magnificent but which came utterly58 to grief in practice afterwards. All Paris was in excitement. Law’s shares were bought up at once before allotment. Money from all parts of Paris poured as from a sack into the house where the shares were subscribed59. But the house was not enough at last, the public thronged60 the street, people of all callings, all classes, all ages: bourgeois62, noblemen, their children, countesses, marquises, prostitutes, were all struggling in one infuriated, half-crazy, rabid mob. Rank, the prejudices of birth and pride, even honour and good name were all trampled63 in the same mire64; all, even women, were ready to sacrifice anyone to gain a few shares. The list at last was passed down into the streets, but there was nothing to write on. Then it was suggested to a hunchback that he should lend his back for the time as a table on which people could sign their names for shares. The hunchback agreed — one can fancy at what a price. Some time (a very short time) after, they were all bankrupt, the whole thing went smash, the whole idea was exploded and the shares were worth nothing. Who got the best of it? Why, the hunchback, because he did not take shares but louis-d’or in cash. Well, I am that hunchback! I had strength of will enough not to eat, and to save seventy-two roubles out of my kopecks; I shall have strength enough to restrain myself and prefer a safe profit to a large one, even when every one around me is carried away by a fever of excitement. I am trivial only about trifles, not in what is important. I have often lacked fortitude65 for enduring little things ever since the inception66 of my idea, but for enduring big things I shall always have enough. When in the morning my mother gave me cold coffee before I set out to work, I was angry and rude to her, and yet I was the same person who had lived a whole month on bread and water.
In short not to make money, not to learn how to make money, would be unnatural67. It would be unnatural, too, in spite of incessant and regular saving, unflagging care and mental sobriety, self-control, economy, and growing energy — it would be unnatural, I repeat, to fail to become a millionaire. How did the beggar make his money if not by fanatical determination and perseverance? Am I inferior to a beggar? “And after all, supposing I don’t arrive at anything, suppose my calculation is incorrect, suppose I fall and come to grief; no matter, I shall go on, I shall go on, because I want to.” That is what I said in Moscow.
I shall be told that there is no “idea” in this, absolutely nothing new. But I say, and for the last time, that there are an immense number of ideas in it, and a vast amount that is new.
Oh, I foresaw how trivial all objections would be, and that I should be as trivial myself in expounding68 my “idea”: why, what have I said after all? I haven’t told a hundredth part of it. I feel that it is trivial, superficial, crude, and, somehow, too young for my age.
3
I’ve still to answer the questions, “What for?” and “Why?” Whether it’s moral,” and all the rest of it. I’ve undertaken to answer them.
I am sad at disappointing the reader straight off, sad and glad too. Let him know that in my idea there is absolutely no feeling of “revenge,” nothing “Byronic”— no curses, no lamentations over my orphaned69 state, no tears over my illegitimacy, nothing, nothing of the sort. In fact, if a romantic lady should chance to come across my autobiography70 she would certainly turn up her nose. The whole object of my “idea” is — isolation. But one can arrive at isolation without straining to become a Rothschild. What has Rothschild got to do with it?
Why, this. That besides isolation I want power.
Let me tell the reader, he will perhaps be horrified71 at the candour of my confession72, and in the simplicity73 of his heart will wonder how the author could help blushing: but my answer is that I’m not writing for publication, and I may not have a reader for ten years, and by that time everything will be so thoroughly74 past, settled and defined that there will be no need to blush. And so, if I sometimes in my autobiography appeal to my reader it is simply a form of expression. My reader is an imaginary figure.
No, it was not being illegitimate, with which I was so taunted75 at Touchard’s, not my sorrowful childhood, it was not revenge, nor the desire to protest, that was at the bottom of my idea; my character alone was responsible for everything. At twelve years old, I believe, that is almost at the dawn of real consciousness, I began to dislike my fellow-creatures. It was not that I disliked them exactly, but that their presence weighed upon me. I was sometimes in my moments of purest sincerity76 quite sad that I never could express everything even to my nearest and dearest, that is, I could but will not; for some reason I restrain myself, so that I’m mistrustful, sullen77 and reserved. Again, I have noticed one characteristic in myself almost from childhood, that I am too ready to find fault, and given to blaming others. But this impulse was often followed at once by another which was very irksome to me: I would ask myself whether it were not my fault rather than theirs. And how often I blamed myself for nothing! To avoid such doubts I naturally sought solitude78. Besides, I found nothing in the company of others, however much I tried, and I did try. All the boys of my own age anyway, all my schoolfellows, all, every one of them, turned out to be inferior to me in their ideas. I don’t recall one single exception.
Yes, I am a gloomy person; I’m always shutting myself up. I often love to walk out of a room full of people. I may perhaps do people a kindness, but often I cannot see the slightest reason for doing them a kindness. People are not such splendid creatures that they are worth taking much trouble about. Why can’t they approach me openly and directly, why must I always be forced to make the first overtures79?
That is the question I asked myself. I am a grateful creature, and have shown it by a hundred imbecilities. If some one were frank with me, I should instantly respond with frankness and begin to love them at once. And so I have done, but they have all deceived me promptly80, and have withdrawn81 from me with a sneer83. The most candid84 of them all was Lambert, who beat me so much as a child, but he was only an open brute85 and scoundrel. And even his openness was only stupidity. Such was my state of mind when I came to Petersburg.
When I came out from Dergatchev’s (and goodness only knows what made me go to him) I had gone up to Vassin, and in a rush of enthusiasm I had begun singing his praises. And that very evening I felt that I liked him much less. Why? Just because by my praise of him I had demeaned myself before him. Yet one might have thought it would have been the other way: a man just and generous enough to give another his due, even to his own detriment86, ought to stand higher in personal dignity than anyone. And though I quite understood this, I did like Vassin less, much less in fact. I purposely choose an example with which the reader is familiar. I even thought of Kraft with a bitter, sickly feeling, because he had led me into the passage, and this feeling lasted till the day when Kraft’s state of mind at the time was revealed, and it was impossible to be angry with him. From the time when I was in the lowest class in the grammar-school, as soon as any of my comrades excelled me in school work, or witty87 answers or physical strength, I immediately gave up talking or having anything to do with them. Not that I disliked them or wished them not to succeed; I simply turned away from them because such was my character.
Yes, I thirsted for power, I’ve thirsted for it all my life, power and solitude. I dreamed of it at an age when every one would have laughed at me to my face if they could have guessed what was in my head. That was why I so liked secrecy. And indeed all my energy went into dreams, so much so that I had no time to talk. This led to my being unsociable, and my absentmindedness led people to more unpleasant conclusions about me, but my rosy88 cheeks belied89 their suspicions.
I was particularly happy when, covering myself up in bed at night, I began in complete solitude, with no stir or sound of other people round me, to re-create life on a different plan. I was most desperately90 dreamy up to the time of the “idea,” when all my dreams became rational instead of foolish, and passed from the fantastic realms of romance to the reasonable world of reality.
Everything was concentrated into one object. Not that they were so very stupid before, although there were masses and masses of them. But I had favourites . . . there is no need to bring them in here, however.
Power! I am convinced that very many people would think it very funny if they knew that such a “pitiful” creature was struggling for power. But I shall surprise them even more: perhaps from my very first dreams that is, almost from my earliest childhood, I could never imagine myself except in the foremost place, always and in every situation in life. I will add a strange confession: it is the same perhaps to this day. At the same time, let me observe that I am not apologizing for it.
That is the point of my idea, that is the force of it, that money is the one means by which the humblest nonentity92 may rise to the FOREMOST PLACE. I may not be a nonentity, but I know from the looking-glass that my exterior93 does not do me justice, for my face is commonplace. But if I were as rich as Rothschild, who would find fault with my face? And wouldn’t thousands of women be ready to fly to me with all their charms if I whistled to them? I am sure that they would honestly consider me good-looking. Suppose I am clever. But were I as wise as Solomon some one would be found wiser still, and I should be done for. But if I were a Rothschild what would that wise man be beside me? Why, they would not let him say a word beside me! I may be witty, but with Talleyrand or Piron I’m thrown into the shade; but if I were Rothschild, where would Piron be, and where Talleyrand even, perhaps? Money is, of course, despotic power, and at the same time it is the greatest leveller, and that is its chief power. Money levels all inequality. I settled all that in Moscow.
You will see, of course, in this idea nothing but insolence94, violence, the triumph of the nonentity over the talented. I admit that it is an impudent95 idea (and for that reason a sweet one). But let it pass: you imagine that I desire power to be able to crush, to avenge96 myself. That is just the point, that that is how the commonplace would behave. What is more, I’m convinced that thousands of the wise and talented who are so exalted97, if the Rothschilds’ millions suddenly fell to their lot could not resist behaving like the most vulgar and commonplace, and would be more oppressive than any. My idea is quite different. I’m not afraid of money. It won’t crush me and it won’t make me crush others.
What I want isn’t money, or rather money is not necessary to me, nor power either. I only want what is obtained by power, and cannot be obtained without it; that is, the calm and solitary98 consciousness of strength! That is the fullest definition of liberty for which the whole world is struggling! Liberty! At last I have written that grand word. . . . Yes, the solitary consciousness of strength is splendid and alluring99. I have strength and I am serene. With the thunderbolts in his hands Jove is serene; are his thunders often heard? The fool fancies that he is asleep. But put a literary man or a peasant-woman in Jove’s place, and the thunder would never cease!
If I only have power, I argued, I should have no need to use it. I assure you that of my own free will I should take the lowest seat everywhere. If I were a Rothschild, I would go about in an old overcoat with an umbrella. What should I care if I were jostled in the crowd, if I had to skip through the mud to avoid being run over? The consciousness that I was myself, a Rothschild, would even amuse me at the moment. I should know I could have a dinner better than anyone, that I could have the best cook in the world, it would be enough for me to know it. I would eat a piece of bread and ham and be satisfied with the consciousness of it. I think so even now.
I shouldn’t run after the aristocracy, but they would run after me. I shouldn’t pursue women, but they would fly to me like the wind, offering me all that women can offer. “The vulgar” run after money, but the intelligent are attracted by curiosity to the strange, proud and reserved being, indifferent to everything. I would be kind, and would give them money perhaps, but I would take nothing from them. Curiosity arouses passion, perhaps I may inspire passion. They will take nothing away with them I assure you, except perhaps presents that will make me twice as interesting to them.
. . . to me enough
The consciousness of this.
It is strange, but true, that I have been fascinated by this picture since I was seventeen.
I don’t want to oppress or torment100 anyone and I won’t, but I know that if I did want to ruin some man, some enemy of mine, no one could prevent me, and every one would serve me, and that would be enough again. I would not revenge myself on anyone. I could never understand how James Rothschild could consent to become a Baron101! Why, for what reason, when he was already more exalted than anyone in the world. “Oh, let that insolent102 general insult me at the station where we are both waiting for our horses! If he knew who I was he would run himself to harness the horses and would hasten to assist me into my modest vehicle! They say that some foreign count or baron at a Vienna railway station put an Austrian banker’s slippers103 on for him in public; and the latter was so vulgar as to allow him to do it. Oh, may that terrible beauty (yes, terrible, there are such!), that daughter of that luxurious104 and aristocratic lady meeting me by chance on a steamer or somewhere, glance askance at me and turn up her nose, wondering contemptuously how that humble91, unpresentable man with a book or paper in his hand could dare to be in a front seat beside her! If only she knew who was sitting beside her! And she will find out, she will, and will come to sit beside me of her own accord, humble, timid, ingratiating, seeking my glance, radiant at my smile.” . . . I purposely introduce these early day-dreams to express what was in my mind. But the picture is pale, and perhaps trivial. Only reality will justify105 everything.
I shall be told that such a life would be stupid: why not have a mansion106, keep open house, gather society round you, why not have influence, why not marry? But what would Rothschild be then? He would become like every one else. All the charm of the “idea” would disappear, all its moral force. When I was quite a child I learnt Pushkin’s monologue107 of the “Miserly Knight108.” Pushkin has written nothing finer in conception than that! I have the same ideas now.
“But yours is too low an ideal,” I shall be told with contempt. “Money, wealth. Very different from the common weal, from self-sacrifice for humanity.”
But how can anyone tell how I should use my wealth? In what way is it immoral109, in what way is it degrading, that these millions should pass out of dirty, evil, Jewish hands into the hands of a sober and resolute110 ascetic19 with a keen outlook upon life? All these dreams of the future, all these conjectures111, seem like a romance now, and perhaps I am wasting time in recording112 them. I might have kept them to myself. I know, too, that these lines will very likely be read by no one, but if anyone were to read them, would he believe that I should be unable to stand the test of the Rothschild millions? Not because they would crush me, quite the contrary. More than once in my dreams I have anticipated that moment in the future, when my consciousness will be satiated, and power will not seem enough for me. Then, not from ennui113, not from aimless weariness, but because I have a boundless114 desire for what is great, I shall give all my millions away, let society distribute all my wealth, and I— I will mix with nothingness again! Maybe I will turn into a beggar like the one who died on the steamer, with the only difference that they wouldn’t find money sewn up in my shirt. The mere consciousness that I had had millions in my hands and had flung them away into the dirt like trash would sustain me in my solitude. I am ready to think the same even now. Yes, my “idea” is a fortress115 in which I can always, at every turn, take refuge from every one, even if I were a beggar dying on a steamer. It is my poem! And let me tell you I must have the WHOLE of my vicious will, simply to prove TO MYSELF that I can renounce116 it.
No doubt I shall be told that this is all romance, and that if I got my millions I should not give them up and become a beggar. Perhaps I should not. I have simply sketched117 the ideal in my mind.
But I will add seriously that if I did succeed in piling up as much money as Rothschild, that it really might end in my giving it all up to the public (though it would be difficult to do so before I reached that amount). And I shouldn’t give away half because that would be simply vulgar: I should be only half as rich, that would be all. I should give away all, all to the last farthing, for on becoming a beggar I should become twice as rich as Rothschild! If other people don’t understand this it’s not my fault; I’m not going to explain it.
“The fanaticism118, the romanticism of insignificance119 and impotence!” people will pronounce, “the triumph of commonplaceness and mediocrity!” Yes, I admit that it is in a way the triumph of commonplaceness and mediocrity, but surely not of impotence. I used to be awfully fond of imagining just such a creature, commonplace and mediocre120, facing the world and saying to it with a smile, “You are Galileos, and Copernicuses, Charlemagnes and Napoleons, you are Pushkins and Shakespeares, you are field-marshals and generals, and I am incompetence121 and illegitimacy, and yet I am higher than all of you, because you bow down to it yourself.” I admit that I have pushed this fancy to such extremes that I have struck out even my education. It seemed to me more picturesque122 if the man were sordidly123 ignorant. This exaggerated dream had a positive influence at the time on my success in the seventh form of the grammar-school. I gave up working simply from fanaticism, feeling that lack of education would add a charm to my ideal. Now I’ve changed my views on that point; education does not detract from it.
Gentlemen, can it be that even the smallest independence of mind is so distasteful to you? Blessed he who has an ideal of beauty, even though it be a mistaken one! But I believe in mine. It is only that I’ve explained it clumsily, crudely. In ten years, of course, I should explain it better, and I treasure that in my memory.
4
I’ve finished with my idea. If my account of it has been commonplace and superficial it is I that am to blame and not the idea. I have already pointed124 out that the simplest ideas are always the most difficult to understand.
Now I will add that they are also the most difficult to explain; moreover, I have described my “idea” in its earliest phase. The converse125 is the rule with ideas: commonplace and shallow ideas are extraordinarily126 quickly understood, and are invariably understood by the crowd, by the whole street. What is more, they are regarded as very great, and as the ideas of genius, but only for the day of their appearance. The cheap never wears. For a thing to be quickly understood is only a sign of its commonplaceness. Bismarck’s idea was received as a stroke of genius instantly, and Bismarck himself was looked on as a genius, but the very rapidity of its reception was suspicious. Wait for ten years, and then we shall see what remains of the idea and of Bismarck himself. I introduce this extremely irrelevant127 observation, of course, not for the sake of comparison, but also for the sake of remembering it. (An explanation for the too unmannerly reader.)
And now I will tell two anecdotes128 to wind up my account of the “idea,” that it may not hinder my story again.
In July, two months before I came to Petersburg, when my time was all my own, Marie Ivanovna asked me to go to see an old maiden130 lady who was staying in the Troitsky suburb to take her a message of no interest for my story. Returning the same day, I noticed in the railway carriage an unattractive-looking young man, not very poorly though grubbily dressed, with a pimply131 face and a muddy dark complexion132. He distinguished133 himself by getting out at every station, big and little, to have a drink. Towards the end of the journey he was surrounded by a merry throng61 of very low companions. One merchant, also a little drunk, was particularly delighted at the young man’s power of drinking incessantly134 without becoming drunk. Another person, who was awfully pleased with him, was a very stupid young fellow who talked a great deal. He was wearing European dress and smelt135 most unsavoury — he was a footman as I found out afterwards; this fellow got quite friendly with the young man who was drinking, and, every time the train stopped, roused him with the invitation: “It’s time for a drop of vodka,” and they got out with their arms round each other. The young man who drank scarcely said a word, but yet more and more companions joined him, he only listened to their chatter136, grinning incessantly with a drivelling snigger, and only from time to time, always unexpectedly, brought out a sound something like “Ture-lure-loo!” while he put his finger up to his nose in a very comical way. This diverted the merchant, and the footman and all of them, and they burst into very loud and free and easy laughter. It is sometimes impossible to understand why people laugh. I joined them too, and, I don’t know why, the young man attracted me too, perhaps by his very open disregard for the generally accepted conventions and proprieties137. I didn’t see, in fact, that he was simply a fool. Anyway, I got on to friendly terms with him at once, and, as I got out of the train, I learnt from him that he would be in the Tverskoy Boulevard between eight and nine. It appeared that he had been a student. I went to the Boulevard, and this was the diversion he taught me: we walked together up and down the boulevards, and a little later, as soon as we noticed a respectable woman walking along the street, if there were no one else near, we fastened upon her. Without uttering a word we walked one on each side of her, and with an air of perfect composure as though we didn’t see her, began to carry on a most unseemly conversation. We called things by their names, preserving unruffled countenances138 as though it were the natural thing to do; we entered into such subtleties139 in our description of all sorts of filth22 and obscenity as the nastiest mind of the lewdest debauchee could hardly have conceived. (I had, of course, acquired all this knowledge at the boarding school before I went to the grammar school, though I knew only words, nothing of the reality.) The woman was dreadfully frightened, and made haste to try and get away, but we quickened our pace too — and went on in the same way. Our victim, of course, could do nothing; it was no use to cry out, there were no spectators; besides, it would be a strange thing to complain of. I repeated this diversion for eight days. I can’t think how I can have liked doing it; though, indeed, I didn’t like doing it — I simply did it. At first I thought it original, as something outside everyday conventions and conditions, besides I couldn’t endure women. I once told the student that in his “Confessions” Jean Jacques Rousseau describes how, as a youth, he used to behave indecently in the presence of women. The student responded with his “ture-lure-loo!” I noticed that he was extraordinarily ignorant, and that his interests were astonishingly limited. There was no trace in him of any latent idea such as I had hoped to find in him. Instead of originality141 I found nothing in him but a wearisome monotony. I disliked him more and more. The end came quite unexpectedly. One night when it was quite dark, we persecuted142 a girl who was quickly and timidly walking along the boulevard. She was very young, perhaps sixteen or even less, very tidily and modestly dressed; possibly a working girl hurrying home from work to an old widowed mother with other children; there is no need to be sentimental143 though. The girl listened for some time, and hurried as fast as she could with her head bowed and her veil drawn82 over her face, frightened and trembling. But suddenly she stood still, threw back her veil, showing, as far as I remember, a thin but pretty face, and cried with flashing eyes:
“Oh, what scoundrels you are!”
She may have been on the verge144 of tears, but something different happened. Lifting her thin little arm, she gave the student a slap in the face which could not have been more dexterously145 delivered. It did come with a smack146! He would have rushed at her, swearing, but I held him back, and the girl had time to run away. We began quarrelling at once. I told him all I had been saving up against him in those days. I told him he was the paltriest147 commonplace fool without the trace of an idea. He swore at me. . . . (I had once explained to him that I was illegitimate), then we spat148 at each other, and I’ve never seen him since. I felt frightfully vexed149 with myself that evening, but not so much the next day, and by the day after I had quite forgotten it. And though I sometimes thought of that girl again, it was only casually150, for a moment. It was only after I had been a fortnight in Petersburg, I suddenly recalled the whole scene. I remembered it, and I was suddenly so ashamed that tears of shame literally ran down my cheeks. I was wretched the whole evening, and all that night, and I am rather miserable151 about it now. I could not understand at first how I could have sunk to such a depth of degradation152, and still less how I could have forgotten it without feeling shame or remorse153. It is only now that I understand what was at the root of it; it was all due to my “idea.” Briefly154, I conclude that, having something fixed155, permanent and overpowering in one’s mind in which one is terribly absorbed, one is, as it were, removed by it from the whole world, and everything that happens, except the one great thing, slips by one. Even one’s impressions are hardly formed correctly. And what matters most — one always has an excuse. However much I worried my mother at that time, however disgracefully I neglected my sister, “Oh, I’ve my ‘idea,’ nothing else matters,” was what I said to myself, as it were. If I were slighted and hurt, I withdrew in my mortification156 and at once said to myself, “Ah, I’m humiliated157, but still I have my idea, and they know nothing about that.” The “idea” comforted me in disgrace and insignificance. But all the nasty things I did took refuge, as it were, under the “idea.” It, so to speak, smoothed over everything, but it also put a mist before my eyes; and such a misty158 understanding of things and events may, of course, be a great hindrance159 to the “idea” itself, to say nothing of other things.
Now for another anecdote129.
On the 1st of April last year, Marie Ivanovna was keeping her name-day; some visitors, though only a few, came for the evening. Suddenly Agrafena rushed in, out of breath, announcing that a baby was crying in the passage before the kitchen, and that she didn’t know what to do. We were all excited at the news. We went out and saw a bark basket, and in the basket a three or four weeks old child, crying. I picked up the basket and took it into the kitchen. Then I immediately found a folded note:
“Gracious benefactors160, show kind charity to the girl christened Arina, and we will join with her to send our tears to the Heavenly throne for you for ever, and congratulate you on your name-day,
??Persons unknown to you.”
Then Nikolay Semyonovitch, for whom I have such a respect, greatly disappointed me. He drew a very long face and decided to send the child at once to the Foundling Home. I felt very sad. They lived very frugally161 but had no children, and Nikolay Semyonovitch was always glad of it. I carefully took little Arina out of the basket and held her up under the arms. The basket had that sour, pungent162 odour characteristic of a small child which has not been washed for a long time. I opposed Nikolay Semyonovitch, and suddenly announced that I would keep the child at my expense. In spite of his gentleness he protested with some severity, and, though he ended by joking, he adhered to his intention in regard to the foundling. I got my way, however. In the same block of buildings, but in a different wing, there lived a very poor carpenter, an elderly man, given to drink, but his wife, a very healthy and still youngish peasant woman, had only just lost a baby, and, what is more, the only child she had had in eight years of marriage, also a girl, and by a strange piece of luck also called Arina. I call it good luck, because while we were arguing in the kitchen, the woman, hearing of what had happened, ran in to look at the child, and when she learned that it was called Arina, she was greatly touched. She still had milk, and unfastening her dress she put the baby to her breast. I began persuading her to take the child home with her, saying I would pay for it every month. She was afraid her husband would not allow it, but she took it for the night. Next morning, her husband consented to her keeping it for eight roubles a month, and I immediately paid him for the first month in advance. He at once spent the money on drink. Nikolay Semyonovitch, still with a strange smile, agreed to guarantee that the money should be paid regularly every month. I would have given my sixty roubles into Nikolay Semyonovitch’s keeping as security, but he would not take it. He knew, however, that I had the money, and trusted me. Our momentary163 quarrel was smoothed over by this delicacy on his part. Marie Ivanovna said nothing, but wondered at my undertaking164 such a responsibility. I particularly appreciated their delicacy in refraining from the slightest jest at my expense, but, on the contrary, taking the matter with proper seriousness. I used to run over to the carpenter’s wife three times a day, and at the end of a week I slipped an extra three roubles into her hand without her husband’s knowledge. For another three I bought a little quilt and swaddling clothes. But ten days later little Arina fell ill. I called in a doctor at once, he wrote a prescription165, and we were up all night, tormenting166 the mite140 with horrid167 medicine. Next day he declared that he had been sent for too late, and answered my entreaties168 — which I fancy were more like reproaches — by saying with majestic169 evasiveness: “I am not God.” The baby’s little tongue and lips and whole mouth were covered with a minute white rash, and towards evening she died, gazing at me with her big black eyes, as though she understood already. I don’t know why I never thought to take a photograph of the dead baby. But will it be believed, that I cried that evening, and, in fact, I howled as I had never let myself do before, and Marie Ivanovna had to try to comfort me, again without the least mockery either on her part or on Nikolay Semyonovitch’s. The carpenter made a little coffin170, and Marie Ivanovna finished it with a frill and a pretty little pillow, while I bought flowers and strewed171 them on the baby. So they carried away my poor little blossom, whom it will hardly be believed I can’t forget even now. A little afterwards, however, this sudden adventure made me reflect seriously. Little Arina had not cost me much, of course; the coffin, the burial, the doctor, the flowers, and the payment to the carpenter’s wife came altogether to thirty roubles. As I was going to Petersburg I made up this sum from the forty roubles sent me by Versilov for the journey, and from the sale of various articles before my departure, so that my capital remained intact. But I thought: “If I am going to be turned aside like this I shan’t get far.” The affair with the student showed that the “idea” might absorb me till it blurred172 my impressions and drew me away from the realities of life. The incident with little Arina proved, on the contrary, that no “idea” was strong enough to absorb me, at least so completely that I should not stop short in the face of an overwhelming fact and sacrifice to it at once all that I had done for the “idea” by years of labour. Both conclusions were nevertheless true.
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1
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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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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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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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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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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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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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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asceticism
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| n.禁欲主义 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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lucre
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| n.金钱，财富 | |
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attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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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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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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filch
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| v.偷窃 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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flustered
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| adj.慌张的；激动不安的v.使慌乱，使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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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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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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pawnbroker
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| n.典当商，当铺老板 | |
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pawnbroking
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| n.典当业 | |
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usury
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| n.高利贷 | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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stagnation
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| n. 停滞 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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56
subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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57
premium
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| n.加付款；赠品；adj.高级的；售价高的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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60
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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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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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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inception
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| n.开端，开始，取得学位 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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expounding
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的现在分词 ) | |
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orphaned
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| [计][修]孤立 | |
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autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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73
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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74
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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76
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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77
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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78
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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79
overtures
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| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
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80
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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81
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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82
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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83
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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84
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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85
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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86
detriment
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| n.损害；损害物，造成损害的根源 | |
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87
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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88
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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89
belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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90
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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91
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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92
nonentity
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| n.无足轻重的人 | |
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93
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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94
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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95
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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96
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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97
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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98
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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99
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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100
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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101
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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102
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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103
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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104
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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105
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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106
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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107
monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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108
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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109
immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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110
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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111
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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112
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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113
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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114
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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115
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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116
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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117
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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118
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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119
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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120
mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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121
incompetence
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| n.不胜任，不称职 | |
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122
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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123
sordidly
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| adv.肮脏地；污秽地；不洁地 | |
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124
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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125
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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126
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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127
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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128
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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129
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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130
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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131
pimply
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| adj.肿泡的；有疙瘩的；多粉刺的；有丘疹的 | |
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132
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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133
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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134
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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135
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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136
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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137
proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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138
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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139
subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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140
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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141
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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142
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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143
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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144
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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145
dexterously
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| adv.巧妙地，敏捷地 | |
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146
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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147
paltriest
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| paltry（微小的）的最高级形式 | |
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148
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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149
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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150
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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151
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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152
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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153
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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154
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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155
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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156
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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157
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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158
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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159
hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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160
benefactors
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| n.捐助者，施主( benefactor的名词复数 )；恩人 | |
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161
frugally
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| adv. 节约地, 节省地 | |
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162
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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163
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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164
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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165
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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166
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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167
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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168
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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169
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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170
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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171
strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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172
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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