The Third Son, Alyosha
HE was only twenty, his brother Ivan was in his twenty-fourth year at the time, while their elder brother Dmitri was twenty-seven. First of all, I must explain that this young man, Alyosha, was not a fanatic1, and, in my opinion at least, was not even a mystic. I may as well give my full opinion from the beginning. He was simply an early lover of humanity, and that he adopted the monastic life was simply because at that time it struck him, so to say, as the ideal escape for his soul struggling from the darkness of worldly wickedness to the light of love. And the reason this life struck him in this way was that he found in it at that time, as he thought an extrordinary being, our celebrated2 elder, Zossima, to whom he became attached with all the warm first love of his ardent3 heart. But I do not dispute that he was very strange even at that time, and had been so indeed from his cradle. I have mentioned already, by the way, that though he lost his mother in his fourth year he remembered her all his life her face, her caresses4, “as though she stood living before me.” Such memories may persist, as everyone knows, from an even earlier age, even from two years old, but scarcely standing5 out through a whole lifetime like spots of light out of darkness, like a corner torn out of a huge picture, which has all faded and disappeared except that fragment. That is how it was with him. He remembered one still summer evening, an open window, the slanting6 rays of the setting sun (that he recalled most vividly7 of all); in a corner of the room the holy image, before it a lighted lamp, and on her knees before the image his mother, sobbing8 hysterically9 with cries and moans, snatching him up in both arms, squeezing him close till it hurt, and praying for him to the Mother of God, holding him out in both arms to the image as though to put him under the Mother’s protection . . . and suddenly a nurse runs in and snatches him from her in terror. That was the picture! And Alyosha remembered his mother’s face at that minute. He used to say that it was frenzied10 but beautiful as he remembered. But he rarely cared to speak of this memory to anyone. In his childhood and youth he was by no means expansive, and talked little indeed, but not from shyness or a sullen11 unsociability; quite the contrary, from something different, from a sort of inner preoccupation entirely12 personal and unconcerned with other people, but so important to him that he seemed, as it were, to forget others on account of it. But he was fond of people: he seemed throughout his life to put implicit13 trust in people: yet no one ever looked on him as a simpleton or naive14 person. There was something about him which made one feel at once (and it was so all his life afterwards) that he did not care to be a judge of others that he would never take it upon himself to criticise15 and would never condemn16 anyone for anything. He seemed, indeed, to accept everything without the least condemnation17 though often grieving bitterly: and this was so much so that no one could surprise or frighten him even in his earliest youth. Coming at twenty to his father’s house, which was a very sink of filthy18 debauchery, he, chaste19 and pure as he was, simply withdrew in silence when to look on was unbearable20, but without the slightest sign of contempt or condemnation. His father, who had once been in a dependent position, and so was sensitive and ready to take offence, met him at first with distrust and sullenness21. “He does not say much,” he used to say, “and thinks the more.” But soon, within a fortnight indeed, he took to embracing him and kissing him terribly often, with drunken tears, with sottish sentimentality, yet he evidently felt a real and deep affection for him, such as he had never been capable of feeling for anyone before.
Everyone, indeed, loved this young man wherever he went, and it was so from his earliest childhood. When he entered the household of his patron and benefactor23, Yefim Petrovitch Polenov, he gained the hearts of all the family, so that they looked on him quite as their own child. Yet he entered the house at such a tender age that he could not have acted from design nor artfulness in winning affection. So that the gift of making himself loved directly and unconsciously was inherent in him, in his very nature, so to speak. It was the same at school, though he seemed to be just one of those children who are distrusted, sometimes ridiculed24, and even disliked by their schoolfellows. He was dreamy, for instance, and rather solitary25. From his earliest childhood he was fond of creeping into a corner to read, and yet he was a general favourite all the while he was at school. He was rarely playful or merry, but anyone could see at the first glance that this was not from any sullenness. On the contrary he was bright and good-tempered. He never tried to show off among his schoolfellows. Perhaps because of this, he was never afraid of anyone, yet the boys immediately understood that he was not proud of his fearlessness and seemed to be unaware26 that he was bold and courageous27. He never resented an insult. It would happen that an hour after the offence he would address the offender28 or answer some question with as trustful and candid29 an expression as though nothing had happened between them. And it was not that he seemed to have forgotten or intentionally30 forgiven the affront31, but simply that he did not regard it as an affront, and this completely conquered and captivated the boys. He had one characteristic which made all his schoolfellows from the bottom class to the top want to mock at him, not from malice32 but because it amused them. This characteristic was a wild fanatical modesty33 and chastity. He could not bear to hear certain words and certain conversations about women. There are “certain” words and conversations unhappily impossible to eradicate34 in schools. Boys pure in mind and heart, almost children, are fond of talking in school among themselves, and even aloud, of things, pictures, and images of which even soldiers would sometimes hesitate to speak. More than that, much that soldiers have no knowledge or conception of is familiar to quite young children of our intellectual and higher classes. There is no moral depravity, no real corrupt35 inner cynicism in it, but there is the appearance of it, and it is often looked upon among them as something refined, subtle, daring, and worthy36 of imitation. Seeing that Alyosha Karamazov put his fingers in his ears when they talked of “that,” they used sometimes to crowd round him, pull his hands away, and shout nastiness into both ears, while he struggled, slipped to the floor, tried to hide himself without uttering one word of abuse, enduring their insults in silence. But at last they left him alone and gave up taunting37 him with being a “regular girl,” and what’s more they looked upon it with compassion38 as a weakness. He was always one of the best in the class but was never first.
At the time of Yefim Petrovitch’s death Alyosha had two more years to complete at the provincial39 gymnasium. The inconsolable widow went almost immediately after his death for a long visit to Italy with her whole family, which consisted only of women and girls. Alyosha went to live in the house of two distant relations of Yefim Petrovitch, ladies whom he had never seen before. On what terms she lived with them he did not know himself. It was very characteristic of him, indeed, that he never cared at whose expense he was living. In that respect he was a striking contrast to his elder brother Ivan, who struggled with poverty for his first two years in the university, maintained himself by his own efforts, and had from childhood been bitterly conscious of living at the expense of his benefactor. But this strange trait in Alyosha’s character must not, I think, criticised too severely40, for at the slightest acquaintance with him anyone would have perceived that Alyosha was one of those youths, almost of the type of religious enthusiast41, who, if they were suddenly to come into possession of a large fortune, would not hesitate to give it away for the asking, either for good works or perhaps to a clever rogue43. In general he seemed scarcely to know the value of money, not, of course, in a literal sense. When he was given pocket-money, which he never asked for, he was either terribly careless of it so that it was gone in a moment, or he kept it for weeks together, not knowing what to do with it.
In later years Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miusov, a man very sensitive on the score of money and bourgeois44 honesty, pronounced the following judgment45, after getting to know Alyosha:
“Here is perhaps the one man in the world whom you might leave alone without a penny, in the centre of an unknown town of a million inhabitants, and he would not come to harm, he would not die of cold and hunger, for he would be fed and sheltered at once; and if he were not, he would find a shelter for himself, and it would cost him no effort or humiliation46. And to shelter him would be no burden, but, on the contrary, would probably be looked on as a pleasure.”
He did not finish his studies at the gymnasium. A year before the end of the course he suddenly announced to the ladies that he was going to see his father about a plan which had occurred to him. They were sorry and unwilling47 to let him go. The journey was not an expensive one, and the ladies would not let him pawn48 his watch, a parting present from his benefactor’s family. They provided him liberally with money and even fitted him out with new clothes and linen49. But he returned half the money they gave him, saying that he intended to go third class. On his arrival in the town he made no answer to his father’s first inquiry50 why he had come before completing his studies, and seemed, so they say, unusually thoughtful. It soon became apparent that he was looking for his mother’s tomb. He practically acknowledged at the time that that was the only object of his visit. But it can hardly have been the whole reason of it. It is more probable that he himself did not understand and could not explain what had suddenly arisen in his soul, and drawn51 him irresistibly52 into a new, unknown, but inevitable53 path. Fyodor Pavlovitch could not show him where his second wife was buried, for he had never visited her grave since he had thrown earth upon her coffin54, and in the course of years had entirely forgotten where she was buried.
Fyodor Pavlovitch, by the way, had for some time previously55 not been living in our town. Three or four years after his wife’s death he had gone to the south of Russia and finally turned up in Odessa, where he spent several years. He made the acquaintance at first, in his own words, “of a lot of low Jews, Jewesses, and Jewkins,” and ended by being received by “Jews high and low alike.” It may be presumed that at this period he developed a peculiar56 faculty57 for making and hoarding58 money. He finally returned to our town only three years before Alyosha’s arrival. His former acquaintances found him looking terribly aged59, although he was by no means an old man. He behaved not exactly with more dignity but with more effrontery60. The former buffoon61 showed an insolent62 propensity63 for making buffoons64 of others. His depravity with women was not as it used to be, but even more revolting. In a short time he opened a great number of new taverns65 in the district. It was evident that he had perhaps a hundred thousand roubles or not much less. Many of the inhabitants of the town and district were soon in his debt, and, of course, had given good security. Of late, too, he looked somehow bloated and seemed more irresponsible, more uneven66, had sunk into a sort of incoherence, used to begin one thing and go on with another, as though he were letting himself go altogether. He was more and more frequently drunk. And, if it had not been for the same servant Grigory, who by that time had aged considerably67 too, and used to look after him sometimes almost like a tutor, Fyodor Pavlovitch might have got into terrible scrapes. Alyosha’s arrival seemed to affect even his moral side, as though something had awakened68 in this prematurely69 old man which had long been dead in his soul.
“Do you know,” he used often to say, looking at Alyosha, “that you are like her, ‘the crazy woman’” — that was what he used to call his dead wife, Alyosha’s mother. Grigory it was who pointed70 out the “crazy woman’s” grave to Alyosha. He took him to our town cemetery71 and showed him in a remote corner a cast-iron tombstone, cheap but decently kept, on which were inscribed72 the name and age of the deceased and the date of her death, and below a four-lined verse, such as are commonly used on old-fashioned middle-class tombs. To Alyosha’s amazement73 this tomb turned out to be Grigory’s doing. He had put it up on the poor “crazy woman’s” grave at his own expense, after Fyodor Pavlovitch, whom he had often pestered74 about the grave, had gone to Odessa, abandoning the grave and all his memories. Alyosha showed no particular emotion at the sight of his mother’s grave. He only listened to Grigory’s minute and solemn account of the erection of the tomb; he stood with bowed head and walked away without uttering a word. It was perhaps a year before he visited the cemetery again. But this little episode was not without an influence upon Fyodor Pavlovitch — and a very original one. He suddenly took a thousand roubles to our monastery75 to pay for requiems76 for the soul of his wife; but not for the second, Alyosha’s mother, the “crazy woman,” but for the first, Adelaida Ivanovna, who used to thrash him. In the evening of the same day he got drunk and abused the monks77 to Alyosha. He himself was far from being religious; he had probably never put a penny candle before the image of a saint. Strange impulses of sudden feeling and sudden thought are common in such types.
I have mentioned already that he looked bloated. His countenance79 at this time bore traces of something that testified unmistakably to the life he had led. Besides the long fleshy bags under his little, always insolent, suspicious, and ironical80 eyes; besides the multitude of deep wrinkles in his little fat face, the Adam’s apple hung below his sharp chin like a great, fleshy goitre, which gave him a peculiar, repulsive81, sensual appearance; add to that a long rapacious82 mouth with full lips, between which could be seen little stumps83 of black decayed teeth. He slobbered every time he began to speak. He was fond indeed of making fun of his own face, though, I believe, he was well satisfied with it. He used particularly to point to his nose, which was not very large, but very delicate and conspicuously84 aquiline85. “A regular Roman nose,” he used to say, “with my goitre I’ve quite the countenance of an ancient Roman patrician86 of the decadent87 period.” He seemed proud of it.
Not long after visiting his mother’s grave Alyosha suddenly announced that he wanted to enter the monastery, and that the monks were willing to receive him as a novice88. He explained that this was his strong desire, and that he was solemnly asking his consent as his father. The old man knew that the elder Zossima, who was living in the monastery hermitage, had made a special impression upon his “gentle boy.”
“That is the most honest monk78 among them, of course,” he observed, after listening in thoughtful silence to Alyosha, and seeming scarcely surprised at his request. “H’m! . . . So that’s where you want to be, my gentle boy?”
He was half drunk, and suddenly he grinned his slow half-drunken grin, which was not without a certain cunning and tipsy slyness. “H’m! . . . I had a presentiment89 that you would end in something like this. Would you believe it? You were making straight for it. Well, to be sure you have your own two thousand. That’s a dowry for you. And I’ll never desert you, my angel. And I’ll pay what’s wanted for you there, if they ask for it. But, of course, if they don’t ask, why should we worry them? What do you say? You know, you spend money like a canary, two grains a week. H’m! . . . Do you know that near one monastery there’s a place outside the town where every baby knows there are none but ‘the monks’ wives’ living, as they are called. Thirty women, I believe. I have been there myself. You know, it’s interesting in its way, of course, as a variety. The worst of it is it’s awfully90 Russian. There are no French women there. Of course, they could get them fast enough, they have plenty of money. If they get to hear of it they’ll come along. Well, there’s nothing of that sort here, no ‘monks’ wives,’ and two hundred monks. They’re honest. They keep the fasts. I admit it. . . . H’m. . . . So you want to be a monk? And do you know I’m sorry to lose you, Alyosha; would you believe it, I’ve really grown fond of you? Well, it’s a good opportunity. You’ll pray for us sinners; we have sinned too much here. I’ve always been thinking who would pray for me, and whether there’s anyone in the world to do it. My dear boy, I’m awfully stupid about that. You wouldn’t believe it. Awfully. You see, however stupid I am about it, I keep thinking, I keep thinking — from time to time, of course, not all the while. It’s impossible, I think, for the devils to forget to drag me down to hell with their hooks when I die. Then I wonder — hooks? Where would they get them? What of? Iron hooks? Where do they forge them? Have they a foundry there of some sort? The monks in the monastery probably believe that there’s a ceiling in hell, for instance. Now I’m ready to believe in hell, but without a ceiling. It makes it more refined, more enlightened, more Lutheran that is. And, after all, what does it matter whether it has a ceiling or hasn’t? But, do you know, there’s a damnable question involved in it? If there’s no ceiling there can be no hooks, and if there are no hooks it all breaks down, which is unlikely again, for then there would be none to drag me down to hell, and if they don’t drag me down what justice is there in the world? Il faudrait les inventer,1 those hooks, on purpose for me alone, for, if you only knew, Alyosha, what a black-guard I am.”
1 It would be neccessary to invent them.
“But there are no hooks there,” said Alyosha, looking gently and seriously at his father.
“Yes, yes, only the shadows of hooks. I know, I know. That’s how a Frenchman described hell: ‘J’ai vu l’ombre d’un cocher qui avec l’ombre d’une brosse frottait l’ombre d’une carrosse.’2 How do you know there are no hooks, darling? When you’ve lived with the monks you’ll sing a different tune42. But go and get at the truth there, and then come and tell me. Anyway it’s easier going to the other world if one knows what there is there. Besides, it will be more seemly for you with the monks than here with me, with a drunken old man and young harlots . . . though you’re like an angel, nothing touches you. And I dare say nothing will touch you there. That’s why I let you go, because I hope for that. You’ve got all your wits about you. You will burn and you will burn out; you will be healed and come back again. And I will wait for you. I feel that you’re the only creature in the world who has not condemned91 me. My dear boy, I feel it, you know. I can’t help feeling it.”
2 I’ve seen the shadow of a coachman rubbing the shadow of a coach with the shadow of a brush.
And he even began blubbering. He was sentimental22. He was wicked and sentimental.
1 fanatic | |
n.狂热者,入迷者;adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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2 celebrated | |
adj.有名的,声誉卓著的 | |
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3 ardent | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,强烈的,烈性的 | |
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4 caresses | |
爱抚,抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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5 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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6 slanting | |
倾斜的,歪斜的 | |
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7 vividly | |
adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
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8 sobbing | |
<主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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9 hysterically | |
ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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10 frenzied | |
a.激怒的;疯狂的 | |
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11 sullen | |
adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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12 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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13 implicit | |
a.暗示的,含蓄的,不明晰的,绝对的 | |
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14 naive | |
adj.幼稚的,轻信的;天真的 | |
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15 criticise | |
v.批评,评论;非难 | |
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16 condemn | |
vt.谴责,指责;宣判(罪犯),判刑 | |
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17 condemnation | |
n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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18 filthy | |
adj.卑劣的;恶劣的,肮脏的 | |
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19 chaste | |
adj.贞洁的;有道德的;善良的;简朴的 | |
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20 unbearable | |
adj.不能容忍的;忍受不住的 | |
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21 sullenness | |
n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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22 sentimental | |
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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23 benefactor | |
n. 恩人,行善的人,捐助人 | |
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24 ridiculed | |
v.嘲笑,嘲弄,奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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26 unaware | |
a.不知道的,未意识到的 | |
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27 courageous | |
adj.勇敢的,有胆量的 | |
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28 offender | |
n.冒犯者,违反者,犯罪者 | |
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29 candid | |
adj.公正的,正直的;坦率的 | |
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30 intentionally | |
ad.故意地,有意地 | |
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31 affront | |
n./v.侮辱,触怒 | |
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32 malice | |
n.恶意,怨恨,蓄意;[律]预谋 | |
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33 modesty | |
n.谦逊,虚心,端庄,稳重,羞怯,朴素 | |
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34 eradicate | |
v.根除,消灭,杜绝 | |
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35 corrupt | |
v.贿赂,收买;adj.腐败的,贪污的 | |
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36 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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37 taunting | |
嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 ); 嘲弄; 辱骂; 奚落 | |
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38 compassion | |
n.同情,怜悯 | |
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39 provincial | |
adj.省的,地方的;n.外省人,乡下人 | |
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40 severely | |
adv.严格地;严厉地;非常恶劣地 | |
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41 enthusiast | |
n.热心人,热衷者 | |
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42 tune | |
n.调子;和谐,协调;v.调音,调节,调整 | |
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43 rogue | |
n.流氓;v.游手好闲 | |
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44 bourgeois | |
adj./n.追求物质享受的(人);中产阶级分子 | |
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45 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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46 humiliation | |
n.羞辱 | |
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47 unwilling | |
adj.不情愿的 | |
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48 pawn | |
n.典当,抵押,小人物,走卒;v.典当,抵押 | |
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49 linen | |
n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
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50 inquiry | |
n.打听,询问,调查,查问 | |
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51 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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52 irresistibly | |
adv.无法抵抗地,不能自持地;极为诱惑人地 | |
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53 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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54 coffin | |
n.棺材,灵柩 | |
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55 previously | |
adv.以前,先前(地) | |
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56 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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57 faculty | |
n.才能;学院,系;(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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58 hoarding | |
n.贮藏;积蓄;临时围墙;囤积v.积蓄并储藏(某物)( hoard的现在分词 ) | |
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59 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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60 effrontery | |
n.厚颜无耻 | |
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61 buffoon | |
n.演出时的丑角 | |
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62 insolent | |
adj.傲慢的,无理的 | |
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63 propensity | |
n.倾向;习性 | |
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64 buffoons | |
n.愚蠢的人( buffoon的名词复数 );傻瓜;逗乐小丑;滑稽的人 | |
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65 taverns | |
n.小旅馆,客栈,酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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66 uneven | |
adj.不平坦的,不规则的,不均匀的 | |
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67 considerably | |
adv.极大地;相当大地;在很大程度上 | |
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68 awakened | |
v.(使)醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
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69 prematurely | |
adv.过早地,贸然地 | |
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70 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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71 cemetery | |
n.坟墓,墓地,坟场 | |
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72 inscribed | |
v.写,刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 );内接 | |
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73 amazement | |
n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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74 pestered | |
使烦恼,纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75 monastery | |
n.修道院,僧院,寺院 | |
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76 requiems | |
(天主教)安魂弥撒仪式,安魂曲( requiem的名词复数 ) | |
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77 monks | |
n.修道士,僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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78 monk | |
n.和尚,僧侣,修道士 | |
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79 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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80 ironical | |
adj.讽刺的,冷嘲的 | |
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81 repulsive | |
adj.排斥的,使人反感的 | |
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82 rapacious | |
adj.贪婪的,强夺的 | |
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83 stumps | |
(被砍下的树的)树桩( stump的名词复数 ); 残肢; (板球三柱门的)柱; 残余部分 | |
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84 conspicuously | |
ad.明显地,惹人注目地 | |
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85 aquiline | |
adj.钩状的,鹰的 | |
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86 patrician | |
adj.贵族的,显贵的;n.贵族;有教养的人;罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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87 decadent | |
adj.颓废的,衰落的,堕落的 | |
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88 novice | |
adj.新手的,生手的 | |
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89 presentiment | |
n.预感,预觉 | |
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90 awfully | |
adv.可怕地,非常地,极端地 | |
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91 condemned | |
adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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