ALYOSHA was roused early, before daybreak. Father Zossima woke up feeling very weak, though he wanted to get out of bed and sit up in a chair. His mind was quite clear; his face looked very tired, yet bright and almost joyful1. It wore an expression of gaiety, kindness and cordiality. “Maybe I shall not live through the coming day,” he said to Alyosha. Then he desired to confess and take the sacrament at once. He always confessed to Father Paissy. After taking the communion, the service of extreme unction followed. The monks2 assembled and the cell was gradually filled up by the inmates4 of the hermitage. Meantime it was daylight. People began coming from the monastery6. After the service was over the elder desired to kiss and take leave of everyone. As the cell was so small the earlier visitors withdrew to make room for others. Alyosha stood beside the elder, who was seated again in his arm-chair. He talked as much as he could. Though his voice was weak, it was fairly steady.
“I’ve been teaching you so many years, and therefore I’ve been talking aloud so many years, that I’ve got into the habit of talking, and so much so that it’s almost more difficult for me to hold my tongue than to talk, even now, in spite of my weakness, dear Fathers and brothers,” he jested, looking with emotion at the group round him.
Alyosha remembered afterwards something of what he said to them. But though he spoke7 out distinctly and his voice was fairly steady, his speech was somewhat disconnected. He spoke of many things, he seemed anxious before the moment of death to say everything he had not said in his life, and not simply for the sake of instructing them, but as though thirsting to share with all men and all creation his joy and ecstasy8, and once more in his life to open his whole heart.
“Love one another, Fathers,” said Father Zossima, as far as Alyosha could remember afterwards. “Love God’s people. Because we have come here and shut ourselves within these walls, we are no holier than those that are outside, but on the contrary, from the very fact of coming here, each of us has confessed to himself that he is worse than others, than all men on earth. . . . And the longer the monk3 lives in his seclusion9, the more keenly he must recognise that. Else he would have had no reason to come here. When he realises that he is not only worse than others, but that he is responsible to all men for all and everything, for all human sins, national and individual, only then the aim of our seclusion is attained10. For know, dear ones, that every one of us is undoubtedly11 responsible for all men — and everything on earth, not merely through the general sinfulness of creation, but each one personally for all mankind and every individual man. This knowledge is the crown of life for the monk and for every man. For monks are not a special sort of men, but only what all men ought to be. Only through that knowledge, our heart grows soft with infinite, universal, inexhaustible love. Then every one of you will have the power to win over the whole world by love and to wash away the sins of the world with your tears. . . . Each of you keep watch over your heart and confess your sins to yourself unceasingly. Be not afraid of your sins, even when perceiving them, if only there be penitence12, but make no conditions with God. Again, I say, be not proud. Be proud neither to the little nor to the great. Hate not those who reject you, who insult you, who abuse and slander13 you. Hate not the atheists, the teachers of evil, the materialists — and I mean not only the good ones — for there are many good ones among them, especially in our day — hate not even the wicked ones. Remember them in your prayers thus: Save, O Lord, all those who have none to pray for them, save too all those who will not pray. And add: it is not in pride that I make this prayer, O Lord, for I am lower than all men. . . . Love God’s people, let not strangers draw away the flock, for if you slumber14 in your slothfulness and disdainful pride, or worse still, in covetousness15, they will come from all sides and draw away your flock. Expound16 the Gospel to the people unceasingly . . . be not extortionate. . . . Do not love gold and silver, do not hoard17 them. . . . Have faith. Cling to the banner and raise it on high.”
But the elder spoke more disconnectedly than Alyosha reported his words afterwards. Sometimes he broke off altogether, as though to take breath and recover his strength, but he was in a sort of ecstasy. They heard him with emotion, though many wondered at his words and found them obscure. . . . Afterwards all remembered those words.
When Alyosha happened for a moment to leave the cell, he was struck by the general excitement and suspense18 in the monks who were crowding about it. This anticipation19 showed itself in some by anxiety, in others by devout20 solemnity. All were expecting that some marvel21 would happen immediately after the elder’s death. Their suspense was, from one point of view, almost frivolous22, but even the most austere23 of the monks were affected24 by it. Father Paissy’s face looked the gravest of all.
Alyosha was mysteriously summoned by a monk to see Rakitin, who had arrived from town with a singular letter for him from Madame Hohlakov. In it she informed Alyosha of a strange and very opportune25 incident. It appeared that among the women who had come on the previous day to receive Father Zossima’s blessing26, there had been an old woman from the town, a sergeant’s widow, called Prohorovna. She had inquired whether she might pray for the rest of the soul of her son, Vassenka, who had gone to Irkutsk, and had sent her no news for over a year. To which Father Zossima had answered sternly, forbidding her to do so, and saying that to pray for the living as though they were dead was a kind of sorcery. He afterwards forgave her on account of her ignorance, and added, “as though reading the book of the future” (this was Madame Hohlakov’s expression), words of comfort: “that her son Vassya was certainly alive and he would either come himself very shortly or send a letter, and that she was to go home and expect him.” And “Would you believe it?” exclaimed Madame Hohlakov enthusiastically, “the prophecy has been fulfilled literally27 indeed, and more than that.” Scarcely had the old woman reached home when they gave her a letter from Siberia which had been awaiting her. But that was not all; in the letter written on the road from Ekaterinenburg, Vassya informed his mother that he was returning to Russia with an official, and that three weeks after her receiving the letter he hoped “to embrace his mother.”
Madame Hohlakov warmly entreated28 Alyosha to report this new “miracle of prediction” to the Superior and all the brotherhood29. “All, all, ought to know of it” she concluded. The letter had been written in haste, the excitement of the writer was apparent in every line of it. But Alyosha had no need to tell the monks, for all knew of it already. Rakitin had commissioned the monk who brought his message “to inform most respectfully his reverence31 Father Paissy, that he, Rakitin, has a matter to speak of with him, of such gravity that he dare not defer32 it for a moment, and humbly33 begs forgiveness for his presumption34.” As the monk had given the message to Father Paissy, before that to Alyosha, the latter found after reading the letter, there was nothing left for him to do but to hand it to Father Paissy in confirmation35 of the story.
And even that austere and cautious man, though he frowned as he read the news of the “miracle,” could not completely restrain some inner emotion. His eyes gleamed, and a grave and solemn smile came into his lips.
“We shall see greater things!” broke from him.
“We shall see greater things, greater things yet!” the monks around repeated.
But Father Paissy, frowning again, begged all of them, at least for a time, not to speak of the matter “till it be more fully30 confirmed, seeing there is so much credulity among those of this world, and indeed this might well have chanced naturally,” he added, prudently36, as it were to satisfy his conscience, though scarcely believing his own disavowal, a fact his listeners very clearly perceived.
Within the hour the “miracle” was of course known to the whole monastery, and many visitors who had come for the mass. No one seemed more impressed by it than the monk who had come the day before from St. Sylvester, from the little monastery of Obdorsk in the far North. It was he who had been standing37 near Madame Hohlakov the previous day and had asked Father Zossima earnestly, referring to the “healing” of the lady’s daughter, “How can you presume to do such things?”
He was now somewhat puzzled and did not know whom to believe. The evening before he had visited Father Ferapont in his cell apart, behind the apiary38, and had been greatly impressed and overawed by the visit. This Father Ferapont was that aged39 monk so devout in fasting and observing silence who has been mentioned already, as antagonistic40 to Father Zossima and the whole institution of “elders,” which he regarded as a pernicious and frivolous innovation. He was a very formidable opponent, although from his practice of silence he scarcely spoke a word to anyone. What made him formidable was that a number of monks fully shared his feeling, and many of the visitors looked upon him as a great saint and ascetic41, although they had no doubt that he was crazy. But it was just his craziness attracted them.
Father Ferapont never went to see the elder. Though he lived in the hermitage they did not worry him to keep its regulations, and this too because he behaved as though he were crazy. He was seventy-five or more, and he lived in a corner beyond the apiary in an old decaying wooden cell which had been built long ago for another great ascetic, Father Iona, who had lived to be a hundred and five, and of whose saintly doings many curious stories were still extant in the monastery and the neighbourhood.
Father Ferapont had succeeded in getting himself installed in this same solitary42 cell seven years previously43. It was simply a peasant’s hut, though it looked like a chapel44, for it contained an extraordinary number of ikons with lamps perpetually burning before them — which men brought to the monastery as offerings to God. Father Ferapont had been appointed to look after them and keep the lamps burning. It was said (and indeed it was true) that he ate only two pounds of bread in three days. The beekeeper, who lived close by the apiary, used to bring him the bread every three days, and even to this man who waited upon him, Father Ferapont rarely uttered a word. The four pounds of bread, together with the sacrament bread, regularly sent him on Sundays after the late mass by the Father Superior, made up his weekly rations45. The water in his jug46 was changed every day. He rarely appeared at mass. Visitors who came to do him homage47 saw him sometimes kneeling all day long at prayer without looking round. If he addressed them, he was brief, abrupt48, strange, and almost always rude. On very rare occasions, however, he would talk to visitors, but for the most part he would utter some one strange saying which was a complete riddle49, and no entreaties50 would induce him to pronounce a word in explanation. He was not a priest, but a simple monk. There was a strange belief, chiefly, however, among the most ignorant, that Father Ferapont had communication with heavenly spirits and would only converse51 with them, and so was silent with men.
The monk from Obdorsk, having been directed to the apiary by the beekeeper, who was also a very silent and surly monk, went to the corner where Father Ferapont’s cell stood. “Maybe he will speak as you are a stranger and maybe you’ll get nothing out of him,” the beekeeper had warned him. The monk, as he related afterwards, approached in the utmost apprehension52. It was rather late in the evening. Father Ferapont was sitting at the door of his cell on a low bench. A huge old elm was lightly rustling53 overhead. There was an evening freshness in the air. The monk from Obdorsk bowed down before the saint and asked his blessing.
“Do you want me to bow down to you, monk?” said Father Ferapont. “Get up!”
The monk got up.
“Blessing, be blessed! Sit beside me. Where have you come from?”
What most struck the poor monk was the fact that in spite of his strict fasting and great age, Father Ferapont still looked a vigorous old man. He was tall, held himself erect54, and had a thin, but fresh and healthy face. There was no doubt he still had considerable strength. He was of athletic55 build. In spite of his great age he was not even quite grey, and still had very thick hair and a full beard, both of which had once been black. His eyes were grey, large and luminous56, but strikingly prominent. He spoke with a broad accent. He was dressed in a peasant’s long reddish coat of coarse convict cloth (as it used to be called) and had a stout57 rope round his waist. His throat and chest were bare. Beneath his coat, his shirt of the coarsest linen58 showed almost black with dirt, not having been changed for months. They said that he wore irons weighing thirty pounds under his coat. His stockingless feet were thrust in old slippers59 almost dropping to pieces.
“From the little Obdorsk monastery, from St. Sylvester,” the monk answered humbly, whilst his keen and inquisitive60, but rather frightened little eyes kept watch on the hermit5.
“I have been at your Sylvester’s. I used to stay there. Is Sylvester well?”
The monk hesitated.
“You are a senseless lot! How do you keep the fasts?”
“Our dietary is according to the ancient conventual rules. During Lent there are no meals provided for Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. For Tuesday and Thursday we have white bread, stewed61 fruit with honey, wild berries, or salt cabbage and whole meal stirabout. On Saturday white cabbage soup, noodles with peas, kasha, all with hemp62 oil. On weekdays we have dried fish and kasha with the cabbage soup. From Monday till Saturday evening, six whole days in Holy Week, nothing is cooked, and we have only bread and water, and that sparingly; if possible not taking food every day, just the same as is ordered for first week in Lent. On Good Friday nothing is eaten. In the same way on the Saturday we have to fast till three o’clock, and then take a little bread and water and drink a single cup of wine. On Holy Thursday we drink wine and have something cooked without oil or not cooked at all, inasmuch as the Laodicean council lays down for Holy Thursday: “It is unseemly by remitting63 the fast on the Holy Thursday to dishonour64 the whole of Lent!” This is how we keep the fast. But what is that compared with you, holy Father,” added the monk, growing more confident, “for all the year round, even at Easter, you take nothing but bread and water, and what we should eat in two days lasts you full seven. It’s truly marvellous — your great abstinence.”
“And mushrooms?” asked Father Ferapont, suddenly.
“Mushrooms?” repeated the surprised monk.
“Yes. I can give up their bread, not needing it at all, and go away into the forest and live there on the mushrooms or the berries, but they can’t give up their bread here, wherefore they are in bondage65 to the devil. Nowadays the unclean deny that there is need of such fasting. Haughty66 and unclean is their judgment67.”
“Och, true,” sighed the monk.
“And have you seen devils among them?” asked Ferapont.
“Among them? Among whom?” asked the monk, timidly.
“I went to the Father Superior on Trinity Sunday last year, I haven’t been since. I saw a devil sitting on one man’s chest hiding under his cassock, only his horns poked68 out; another had one peeping out of his pocket with such sharp eyes, he was afraid of me; another settled in the unclean belly69 of one, another was hanging round a man’s neck, and so he was carrying him about without seeing him.”
“You — can see spirits?” the monk inquired.
“I tell you I can see, I can see through them. When I was coming out from the Superior’s I saw one hiding from me behind the door, and a big one, a yard and a half or more high, with a thick long grey tail, and the tip of his tail was in the crack of the door and I was quick and slammed the door, pinching his tail in it. He squealed70 and began to struggle, and I made the sign of the cross over him three times. And he died on the spot like a crushed spider. He must have rotted there in the corner and be stinking71, but they don’t see, they don’t smell it. It’s a year since I have been there. I reveal it to you, as you are a stranger.”
“Your words are terrible! But, holy and blessed father,” said the monk, growing bolder and bolder, “is it true, as they noise abroad even to distant lands about you, that you are in continual communication with the Holy Ghost?”
“He does fly down at times.”
“How does he fly down? In what form?”
“As a bird.”
“The Holy Ghost in the form of a dove?”
“There’s the Holy Ghost and there’s the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit can appear as other birds — sometimes as a swallow, sometimes a goldfinch and sometimes as a blue-tit.”
“How do you know him from an ordinary tit?”
“He speaks.”
“How does he speak, in what language?”
“Human language.”
“And what does he tell you?”
“Why, to-day he told me that a fool would visit me and would ask me unseemly questions. You want to know too much, monk.”
“Terrible are your words, most holy and blessed Father,” the monk shook his head. But there was a doubtful look in his frightened little eyes.
“Do you see this tree?” asked Father Ferapont, after a pause.
“I do, blessed Father.”
“You think it’s an elm, but for me it has another shape.”
“What sort of shape?” inquired the monk, after a pause of vain expectation.
“It happens at night. You see those two branches? In the night it is Christ holding out His arms to me and seeking me with those arms, I see it clearly and tremble. It’s terrible, terrible!”
“What is there terrible if it’s Christ Himself?”
“Why, He’ll snatch me up and carry me away.”
“Alive?”
“In the spirit and glory of Elijah, haven’t you heard? He will take me in His arms and bear me away.”
Though the monk returned to the cell he was sharing with one of the brothers, in considerable perplexity of mind, he still cherished at heart a greater reverence for Father Ferapont than for Father Zossima. He was strongly in favour of fasting, and it was not strange that one who kept so rigid72 a fast as Father Ferapont should “see marvels73.” His words seemed certainly queer, but God only could tell what was hidden in those words, and were not worse words and acts commonly seen in those who have sacrificed their intellects for the glory of God? The pinching of the devil’s tail he was ready and eager to believe, and not only in the figurative sense. Besides he had, before visiting the monastery, a strong prejudice against the institution of “elders,” which he only knew of by hearsay74 and believed to be a pernicious innovation. Before he had been long at the monastery, he had detected the secret murmurings of some shallow brothers who disliked the institution. He was, besides, a meddlesome75, inquisitive man, who poked his nose into everything. This was why the news of the fresh “miracle” performed by Father Zossima reduced him to extreme perplexity. Alyosha remembered afterwards how their inquisitive guest from Obdorsk had been continually flitting to and fro from one group to another, listening and asking questions among the monks that were crowding within and without the elder’s cell. But he did not pay much attention to him at the time, and only recollected76 it afterwards.
He had no thought to spare for it indeed, for when Father Zossima, feeling tired again, had gone back to bed, he thought of Alyosha as he was closing his eyes, and sent for him. Alyosha ran at once. There was no one else in the cell but Father Paissy, Father Iosif, and the novice77 Porfiry. The elder, opening his weary eyes and looking intently at Alyosha, asked him suddenly:
“Are your people expecting you, my son?”
Alyosha hesitated.
“Haven’t they need of you? Didn’t you promise someone yesterday to see them to-day?”
“I did promise — to my father — my brothers — others too.”
“You see, you must go. Don’t grieve. Be sure I shall not die without your being by to hear my last word. To you I will say that word, my son, it will be my last gift to you. To you, dear son, because you love me. But now go to keep your promise.”
Alyosha immediately obeyed, though it was hard to go. But the promise that he should hear his last word on earth, that it should be the last gift to him, Alyosha, sent a thrill of rapture78 through his soul. He made haste that he might finish what he had to do in the town and return quickly. Father Paissy, too, uttered some words of exhortation79 which moved and surprised him greatly. He spoke as they left the cell together.
“Remember, young man, unceasingly,” Father Paissy began, without preface, “that the science of this world, which has become a great power, has, especially in the last century, analysed everything divine handed down to us in the holy books. After this cruel analysis the learned of this world have nothing left of all that was sacred of old. But they have only analysed the parts and overlooked the whole, and indeed their blindness is marvellous. Yet the whole still stands steadfast80 before their eyes, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. Has it not lasted nineteen centuries, is it not still a living, a moving power in the individual soul and in the masses of people? It is still as strong and living even in the souls of atheists, who have destroyed everything! For even those who have renounced81 Christianity and attack it, in their inmost being still follow the Christian82 ideal, for hitherto neither their subtlety83 nor the ardour of their hearts has been able to create a higher ideal of man and of virtue84 than the ideal given by Christ of old. When it has been attempted, the result has been only grotesque85. Remember this especially, young man, since you are being sent into the world by your departing elder. Maybe, remembering this great day, you will not forget my words, uttered from the heart for your guidance, seeing you are young, and the temptations of the world are great and beyond your strength to endure. Well, now go, my orphan86.”
With these words Father Paissy blessed him. As Alyosha left the monastery and thought them over, he suddenly realised that he had met a new and unexpected friend, a warmly loving teacher, in this austere monk who had hitherto treated him sternly. It was as though Father Zossima had bequeathed him to him at his death, and “perhaps that’s just what had passed between them,” Alyosha thought suddenly. The philosophic87 reflections he had just heard so unexpectedly testified to the warmth of Father Paissy’s heart. He was in haste to arm the boy’s mind for conflict with temptation and to guard the young soul left in his charge with the strongest defence he could imagine.
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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inmates
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hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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covetousness
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expound
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| v.详述；解释；阐述 | |
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hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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anticipation
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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opportune
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| adj.合适的，适当的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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brotherhood
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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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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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standing
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apiary
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| n.养蜂场，蜂房 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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antagonistic
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| adj.敌对的 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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previously
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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rations
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| 定量( ration的名词复数 )； 配给量； 正常量； 合理的量 | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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stewed
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| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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hemp
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| n.大麻；纤维 | |
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remitting
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| v.免除（债务），宽恕( remit的现在分词 )；使某事缓和；寄回，传送 | |
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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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squealed
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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meddlesome
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| adj.爱管闲事的 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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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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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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