“I MUST make one confession” Ivan began. “I could never understand how one can love one’s neighbours. It’s just one’s neighbours, to my mind, that one can’t love, though one might love those at a distance. I once read somewhere of John the Merciful, a saint, that when a hungry, frozen beggar came to him, he took him into his bed, held him in his arms, and began breathing into his mouth, which was putrid1 and loathsome2 from some awful disease. I am convinced that he did that from ‘self-laceration,’ from the self-laceration of falsity, for the sake of the charity imposed by duty, as a penance3 laid on him. For anyone to love a man, he must be hidden, for as soon as he shows his face, love is gone.”
“Father Zossima has talked of that more than once,” observed Alyosha; “he, too, said that the face of a man often hinders many people not practised in love, from loving him. But yet there’s a great deal of love in mankind, and almost Christ-like love. I know that myself, Ivan.”
“Well, I know nothing of it so far, and can’t understand it, and the innumerable mass of mankind are with me there. The question is, whether that’s due to men’s bad qualities or whether it’s inherent in their nature. To my thinking, Christ-like love for men is a miracle impossible on earth. He was God. But we are not gods. Suppose I, for instance, suffer intensely. Another can never know how much I suffer, because he is another and not I. And what’s more, a man is rarely ready to admit another’s suffering (as though it were a distinction). Why won’t he admit it, do you think? Because I smell unpleasant, because I have a stupid face, because I once trod on his foot. Besides, there is suffering and suffering; degrading, humiliating suffering such as humbles6 me — hunger, for instance — my benefactor7 will perhaps allow me; but when you come to higher suffering — for an idea, for instance — he will very rarely admit that, perhaps because my face strikes him as not at all what he fancies a man should have who suffers for an idea. And so he deprives me instantly of his favour, and not at all from badness of heart. Beggars, especially genteel beggars, ought never to show themselves, but to ask for charity through the newspapers. One can love one’s neighbours in the abstract, or even at a distance, but at close quarters it’s almost impossible. If it were as on the stage, in the ballet, where if beggars come in, they wear silken rags and tattered8 lace and beg for alms dancing gracefully9, then one might like looking at them. But even then we should not love them. But enough of that. I simply wanted to show you my point of view. I meant to speak of the suffering of mankind generally, but we had better confine ourselves to the sufferings of the children. That reduces the scope of my argument to a tenth of what it would be. Still we’d better keep to the children, though it does weaken my case. But, in the first place, children can be loved even at close quarters, even when they are dirty, even when they are ugly (I fancy, though, children never are ugly). The second reason why I won’t speak of grown-up people is that, besides being disgusting and unworthy of love, they have a compensation — they’ve eaten the apple and know good and evil, and they have become ‘like gods.’ They go on eating it still. But the children haven’t eaten anything, and are so far innocent. Are you fond of children, Alyosha? I know you are, and you will understand why I prefer to speak of them. If they, too, suffer horribly on earth, they must suffer for their fathers’ sins, they must be punished for their fathers, who have eaten the apple; but that reasoning is of the other world and is incomprehensible for the heart of man here on earth. The innocent must not suffer for another’s sins, and especially such innocents! You may be surprised at me, Alyosha, but I am awfully11 fond of children, too. And observe, cruel people, the violent, the rapacious12, the Karamazovs are sometimes very fond of children. Children while they are quite little — up to seven, for instance — are so remote from grown-up people they are different creatures, as it were, of a different species. I knew a criminal in prison who had, in the course of his career as a burglar, murdered whole families, including several children. But when he was in prison, he had a strange affection for them. He spent all his time at his window, watching the children playing in the prison yard. He trained one little boy to come up to his window and made great friends with him. . . . You don’t know why I am telling you all this, Alyosha? My head aches and I am sad.”
“You speak with a strange air,” observed Alyosha uneasily, “as though you were not quite yourself.”
“By the way, a Bulgarian I met lately in Moscow,” Ivan went on, seeming not to hear his brother’s words, “told me about the crimes committed by Turks and Circassians in all parts of Bulgaria through fear of a general rising of the Slavs. They burn villages, murder, outrage13 women and children, they nail their prisoners by the ears to the fences, leave them so till morning, and in the morning they hang them — all sorts of things you can’t imagine. People talk sometimes of bestial14 cruelty, but that’s a great injustice15 and insult to the beasts; a beast can never be so cruel as a man, so artistically17 cruel. The tiger only tears and gnaws18, that’s all he can do. He would never think of nailing people by the ears, even if he were able to do it. These Turks took a pleasure in torturing children, — too; cutting the unborn child from the mothers womb, and tossing babies up in the air and catching19 them on the points of their bayonets before their mothers’ eyes. Doing it before the mothers’ eyes was what gave zest20 to the amusement. Here is another scene that I thought very interesting. Imagine a trembling mother with her baby in her arms, a circle of invading Turks around her. They’ve planned a diversion: they pet the baby, laugh to make it laugh. They succeed, the baby laughs. At that moment a Turk points a pistol four inches from the baby’s face. The baby laughs with glee, holds out its little hands to the pistol, and he pulls the trigger in the baby’s face and blows out its brains. Artistic16, wasn’t it? By the way, Turks are particularly fond of sweet things, they say.”
“Brother, what are you driving at?” asked Alyosha.
“I think if the devil doesn’t exist, but man has created him, he has created him in his own image and likeness21.”
“Just as he did God, then?” observed Alyosha.
“‘It’s wonderful how you can turn words,’ as Polonius says in Hamlet,” laughed Ivan. “You turn my words against me. Well, I am glad. Yours must be a fine God, if man created Him in his image and likeness. You asked just now what I was driving at. You see, I am fond of collecting certain facts, and, would you believe, I even copy anecdotes22 of a certain sort from newspapers and books, and I’ve already got a fine collection. The Turks, of course, have gone into it, but they are foreigners. I have specimens23 from home that are even better than the Turks. You know we prefer beating — rods and scourges24 — that’s our national institution. Nailing ears is unthinkable for us, for we are, after all, Europeans. But the rod and the scourge25 we have always with us and they cannot be taken from us. Abroad now they scarcely do any beating. Manners are more humane26, or laws have been passed, so that they don’t dare to flog men now. But they make up for it in another way just as national as ours. And so national that it would be practically impossible among us, though I believe we are being inoculated27 with it, since the religious movement began in our aristocracy. I have a charming pamphlet, translated from the French, describing how, quite recently, five years ago, a murderer, Richard, was executed — a young man, I believe, of three and twenty, who repented28 and was converted to the Christian29 faith at the very scaffold. This Richard was an illegitimate child who was given as a child of six by his parents to some shepherds on the Swiss mountains. They brought him up to work for them. He grew up like a little wild beast among them. The shepherds taught him nothing, and scarcely fed or clothed him, but sent him out at seven to herd30 the flock in cold and wet, and no one hesitated or scrupled31 to treat him so. Quite the contrary, they thought they had every right, for Richard had been given to them as a chattel32, and they did not even see the necessity of feeding him. Richard himself describes how in those years, like the Prodigal33 Son in the Gospel, he longed to eat of the mash34 given to the pigs, which were fattened35 for sale. But they wouldn’t even give that, and beat him when he stole from the pigs. And that was how he spent all his childhood and his youth, till he grew up and was strong enough to go away and be a thief. The savage36 began to earn his living as a day labourer in Geneva. He drank what he earned, he lived like a brute37, and finished by killing38 and robbing an old man. He was caught, tried, and condemned39 to death. They are not sentimentalists there. And in prison he was immediately surrounded by pastors40, members of Christian brotherhoods41, philanthropic ladies, and the like. They taught him to read and write in prison, and expounded42 the Gospel to him. They exhorted43 him, worked upon him, drummed at him incessantly44, till at last he solemnly confessed his crime. He was converted. He wrote to the court himself that he was a monster, but that in the end God had vouchsafed45 him light and shown grace. All Geneva was in excitement about him — all philanthropic and religious Geneva. All the aristocratic and well-bred society of the town rushed to the prison, kissed Richard and embraced him; ‘You are our brother, you have found grace.’ And Richard does nothing but weep with emotion, ‘Yes, I’ve found grace! All my youth and childhood I was glad of pigs’ food, but now even I have found grace. I am dying in the Lord.’ ‘Yes, Richard, die in the Lord; you have shed blood and must die. Though it’s not your fault that you knew not the Lord, when you coveted46 the pigs’ food and were beaten for stealing it (which was very wrong of you, for stealing is forbidden); but you’ve shed blood and you must die.‘And on the last day, Richard, perfectly47 limp, did nothing but cry and repeat every minute: ‘This is my happiest day. I am going to the Lord.’ ‘Yes,’ cry the pastors and the judges and philanthropic ladies. ‘This is the happiest day of your life, for you are going to the Lord!’ They all walk or drive to the scaffold in procession behind the prison van. At the scaffold they call to Richard: ‘Die, brother, die in the Lord, for even thou hast found grace!’ And so, covered with his brothers’ kisses, Richard is dragged on to the scaffold, and led to the guillotine. And they chopped off his head in brotherly fashion, because he had found grace. Yes, that’s characteristic. That pamphlet is translated into Russian by some Russian philanthropists of aristocratic rank and evangelical aspirations48, and has been distributed gratis49 for the enlightenment of the people. The case of Richard is interesting because it’s national. Though to us it’s absurd to cut off a man’s head, because he has become our brother and has found grace, yet we have our own speciality, which is all but worse. Our historical pastime is the direct satisfaction of inflicting51 pain. There are lines in Nekrassov describing how a peasant lashes52 a horse on the eyes, ‘on its meek53 eyes,’ everyone must have seen it. It’s peculiarly Russian. He describes how a feeble little nag55 has foundered56 under too heavy a load and cannot move. The peasant beats it, beats it savagely57, beats it at last not knowing what he is doing in the intoxication58 of cruelty, thrashes it mercilessly over and over again. ‘However weak you are, you must pull, if you die for it.’ The nag strains, and then he begins lashing59 the poor defenceless creature on its weeping, on its ‘meek eyes.’ The frantic60 beast tugs61 and draws the load, trembling all over, gasping62 for breath, moving sideways, with a sort of unnatural63 spasmodic action — it’s awful in Nekrassov. But that only a horse, and God has horses to be beaten. So the Tatars have taught us, and they left us the knout as a remembrance of it. But men, too, can be beaten. A well-educated, cultured gentleman and his wife beat their own child with a birch-rod, a girl of seven. I have an exact account of it. The papa was glad that the birch was covered with twigs64. ‘It stings more,’ said he, and so be began stinging his daughter. I know for a fact there are people who at every blow are worked up to sensuality, to literal sensuality, which increases progressively at every blow they inflict50. They beat for a minute, for five minutes, for ten minutes, more often and more savagely. The child screams. At last the child cannot scream, it gasps65, ‘Daddy daddy!’ By some diabolical66 unseemly chance the case was brought into court. A counsel is engaged. The Russian people have long called a barrister ‘a conscience for hire.’ The counsel protests in his client’s defence. ‘It’s such a simple thing,’ he says, ‘an everyday domestic event. A father corrects his child. To our shame be it said, it is brought into court.’ The jury, convinced by him, give a favourable67 verdict. The public roars with delight that the torturer is acquitted68. Ah, pity I wasn’t there! I would have proposed to raise a subscription69 in his honour! Charming pictures.
“But I’ve still better things about children. I’ve collected a great, great deal about Russian children, Alyosha. There was a little girl of five who was hated by her father and mother, ‘most worthy10 and respectable people, of good education and breeding.’ You see, I must repeat again, it is a peculiar54 characteristic of many people, this love of torturing children, and children only. To all other types of humanity these torturers behave mildly and benevolently70, like cultivated and humane Europeans; but they are very fond of tormenting71 children, even fond of children themselves in that sense. it’s just their defencelessness that tempts72 the tormentor73, just the angelic confidence of the child who has no refuge and no appeal, that sets his vile74 blood on fire. In every man, of course, a demon75 lies hidden — the demon of rage, the demon of lustful76 heat at the screams of the tortured victim, the demon of lawlessness let off the chain, the demon of diseases that follow on vice77, gout, kidney disease, and so on.
“This poor child of five was subjected to every possible torture by those cultivated parents. They beat her, thrashed her, kicked her for no reason till her body was one bruise78. Then, they went to greater refinements79 of cruelty — shut her up all night in the cold and frost in a privy80, and because she didn’t ask to be taken up at night (as though a child of five sleeping its angelic, sound sleep could be trained to wake and ask), they smeared81 her face and filled her mouth with excrement82, and it was her mother, her mother did this. And that mother could sleep, hearing the poor child’s groans83! Can you understand why a little creature, who can’t even understand what’s done to her, should beat her little aching heart with her tiny fist in the dark and the cold, and weep her meek unresentful tears to dear, kind God to protect her? Do you understand that, friend and brother, you pious84 and humble5 novice85? Do you understand why this infamy86 must be and is permitted? Without it, I am told, man could not have existed on earth, for he could not have known good and evil. Why should he know that diabolical good and evil when it costs so much? Why, the whole world of knowledge is not worth that child’s prayer to dear, kind God’! I say nothing of the sufferings of grown-up people, they have eaten the apple, damn them, and the devil take them all! But these little ones! I am making you suffer, Alyosha, you are not yourself. I’ll leave off if you like.”
“Nevermind. I want to suffer too,” muttered Alyosha.
“One picture, only one more, because it’s so curious, so characteristic, and I have only just read it in some collection of Russian antiquities87. I’ve forgotten the name. I must look it up. It was in the darkest days of serfdom at the beginning of the century, and long live the Liberator88 of the People! There was in those days a general of aristocratic connections, the owner of great estates, one of those men — somewhat exceptional, I believe, even then — who, retiring from the service into a life of leisure, are convinced that they’ve earned absolute power over the lives of their subjects. There were such men then. So our general, settled on his property of two thousand souls, lives in pomp, and domineers over his poor neighbours as though they were dependents and buffoons89. He has kennels90 of hundreds of hounds and nearly a hundred dog-boys — all mounted, and in uniform. One day a serf-boy, a little child of eight, threw a stone in play and hurt the paw of the general’s favourite hound. ‘Why is my favourite dog lame91?’ He is told that the boy threw a stone that hurt the dog’s paw. ‘So you did it.’ The general looked the child up and down. ‘Take him.’ He was taken — taken from his mother and kept shut up all night. Early that morning the general comes out on horseback, with the hounds, his dependents, dog-boys, and huntsmen, all mounted around him in full hunting parade. The servants are summoned for their edification, and in front of them all stands the mother of the child. The child is brought from the lock-up. It’s a gloomy, cold, foggy, autumn day, a capital day for hunting. The general orders the child to be undressed; the child is stripped naked. He shivers, numb92 with terror, not daring to cry. . . . ‘Make him run,’ commands the general. ‘Run! run!’ shout the dog-boys. The boy runs. . . . ‘At him!’ yells the general, and he sets the whole pack of hounds on the child. The hounds catch him, and tear him to pieces before his mother’s eyes! . . . I believe the general was afterwards declared incapable93 of administering his estates. Well — what did he deserve? To be shot? To be shot for the satisfaction of our moral feelings? Speak, Alyosha!
“To be shot,” murmured Alyosha, lifting his eyes to Ivan with a pale, twisted smile.
“Bravo!” cried Ivan delighted. “If even you say so . . . You’re a pretty monk94! So there is a little devil sitting in your heart, Alyosha Karamazov!”
“What I said was absurd, but-”
“That’s just the point, that ‘but’!” cried Ivan. “Let me tell you, novice, that the absurd is only too necessary on earth. The world stands on absurdities95, and perhaps nothing would have come to pass in it without them. We know what we know!”
“What do you know?”
“I understand nothing,” Ivan went on, as though in delirium96. “I don’t want to understand anything now. I want to stick to the fact. I made up my mind long ago not to understand. If I try to understand anything, I shall be false to the fact, and I have determined97 to stick to the fact.”
“Why are you trying me?” Alyosha cried, with sudden distress98. “Will you say what you mean at last?”
“Of course, I will; that’s what I’ve been leading up to. You are dear to me, I don’t want to let you go, and I won’t give you up to your Zossima.”
Ivan for a minute was silent, his face became all at once very sad.
“Listen! I took the case of children only to make my case clearer. Of the other tears of humanity with which the earth is soaked from its crust to its centre, I will say nothing. I have narrowed my subject on purpose. I am a bug99, and I recognise in all humility100 that I cannot understand why the world is arranged as it is. Men are themselves to blame, I suppose; they were given paradise, they wanted freedom, and stole fire from heaven, though they knew they would become unhappy, so there is no need to pity them. With my pitiful, earthly, Euclidian understanding, all I know is that there is suffering and that there are none guilty; that cause follows effect, simply and directly; that everything flows and finds its level — but that’s only Euclidian nonsense, I know that, and I can’t consent to live by it! What comfort is it to me that there are none guilty and that cause follows effect simply and directly, and that I know it? — I must have justice, or I will destroy myself. And not justice in some remote infinite time and space, but here on earth, and that I could see myself. I have believed in it. I want to see it, and if I am dead by then, let me rise again, for if it all happens without me, it will be too unfair. Surely I haven’t suffered simply that I, my crimes and my sufferings, may manure101 the soil of the future harmony for somebody else. I want to see with my own eyes the hind4 lie down with the lion and the victim rise up and embrace his murderer. I want to be there when everyone suddenly understands what it has all been for. All the religions of the world are built on this longing102, and I am a believer. But then there are the children, and what am I to do about them? That’s a question I can’t answer. For the hundredth time I repeat, there are numbers of questions, but I’ve only taken the children, because in their case what I mean is so unanswerably clear. Listen! If all must suffer to pay for the eternal harmony, what have children to do with it, tell me, please? It’s beyond all comprehension why they should suffer, and why they should pay for the harmony. Why should they, too, furnish material to enrich the soil for the harmony of the future? I understand solidarity103 in sin among men. I understand solidarity in retribution, too; but there can be no such solidarity with children. And if it is really true that they must share responsibility for all their fathers’ crimes, such a truth is not of this world and is beyond my comprehension. Some jester will say, perhaps, that the child would have grown up and have sinned, but you see he didn’t grow up, he was torn to pieces by the dogs, at eight years old. Oh, Alyosha, I am not blaspheming! I understand, of course, what an upheaval104 of the universe it will be when everything in heaven and earth blends in one hymn105 of praise and everything that lives and has lived cries aloud: ‘Thou art just, O Lord, for Thy ways are revealed.’ When the mother embraces the fiend who threw her child to the dogs, and all three cry aloud with tears, ‘Thou art just, O Lord!’ then, of course, the crown of knowledge will be reached and all will be made clear. But what pulls me up here is that I can’t accept that harmony. And while I am on earth, I make haste to take my own measures. You see, Alyosha, perhaps it really may happen that if I live to that moment, or rise again to see it, I, too, perhaps, may cry aloud with the rest, looking at the mother embracing the child’s torturer, ‘Thou art just, O Lord!’ but I don’t want to cry aloud then. While there is still time, I hasten to protect myself, and so I renounce106 the higher harmony altogether. It’s not worth the tears of that one tortured child who beat itself on the breast with its little fist and prayed in its stinking107 outhouse, with its unexpiated tears to ‘dear, kind God’! It’s not worth it, because those tears are unatoned for. They must be atoned108 for, or there can be no harmony. But how? How are you going to atone109 for them? Is it possible? By their being avenged110? But what do I care for avenging111 them? What do I care for a hell for oppressors? What good can hell do, since those children have already been tortured? And what becomes of harmony, if there is hell? I want to forgive. I want to embrace. I don’t want more suffering. And if the sufferings of children go to swell112 the sum of sufferings which was necessary to pay for truth, then I protest that the truth is not worth such a price. I don’t want the mother to embrace the oppressor who threw her son to the dogs! She dare not forgive him! Let her forgive him for herself, if she will, let her forgive the torturer for the immeasurable suffering of her mother’s heart. But the sufferings of her tortured child she has no right to forgive; she dare not forgive the torturer, even if the child were to forgive him! And if that is so, if they dare not forgive, what becomes of harmony? Is there in the whole world a being who would have the right to forgive and could forgive? I don’t want harmony. From love for humanity I don’t want it. I would rather be left with the unavenged suffering. I would rather remain with my unavenged suffering and unsatisfied indignation, even if I were wrong. Besides, too high a price is asked for harmony; it’s beyond our means to pay so much to enter on it. And so I hasten to give back my entrance ticket, and if I am an honest man I am bound to give it back as soon as possible. And that I am doing. It’s not God that I don’t accept, Alyosha, only I most respectfully return him the ticket.”
“That’s rebellion,” murmered Alyosha, looking down.
“Rebellion? I am sorry you call it that,” said Ivan earnestly. “One can hardly live in rebellion, and I want to live. Tell me yourself, I challenge your answer. Imagine that you are creating a fabric113 of human destiny with the object of making men happy in the end, giving them peace and rest at last, but that it was essential and inevitable114 to torture to death only one tiny creature — that baby beating its breast with its fist, for instance — and to found that edifice115 on its unavenged tears, would you consent to be the architect on those conditions? Tell me, and tell the truth.”
“No, I wouldn’t consent,” said Alyosha softly.
“And can you admit the idea that men for whom you are building it would agree to accept their happiness on the foundation of the unexpiated blood of a little victim? And accepting it would remain happy for ever?”
“No, I can’t admit it. Brother,” said Alyosha suddenly, with flashing eyes, “you said just now, is there a being in the whole world who would have the right to forgive and could forgive? But there is a Being and He can forgive everything, all and for all, because He gave His innocent blood for all and everything. You have forgotten Him, and on Him is built the edifice, and it is to Him they cry aloud, ‘Thou art just, O Lord, for Thy ways are revealed!’
“Ah! the One without sin and His blood! No, I have not forgotten Him; on the contrary I’ve been wondering all the time how it was you did not bring Him in before, for usually all arguments on your side put Him in the foreground. Do you know, Alyosha — don’t laugh I made a poem about a year ago. If you can waste another ten minutes on me, I’ll tell it to you.”
“You wrote a poem?”
“Oh, no, I didn’t write it,” laughed Ivan, and I’ve never written two lines of poetry in my life. But I made up this poem in prose and I remembered it. I was carried away when I made it up. You will be my first reader — that is listener. Why should an author forego even one listener?” smiled Ivan. “Shall I tell it to you?”
“I am all attention.” said Alyosha.
“My poem is called The Grand Inquisitor; it’s a ridiculous thing, but I want to tell it to you.
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putrid
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| adj.腐臭的；有毒的；已腐烂的；卑劣的 | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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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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humbles
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| v.使谦恭( humble的第三人称单数 )；轻松打败（尤指强大的对手）；低声下气 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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rapacious
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| adj.贪婪的，强夺的 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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bestial
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| adj.残忍的；野蛮的 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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artistically
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| adv.艺术性地 | |
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gnaws
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| 咬( gnaw的第三人称单数 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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scourges
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| 带来灾难的人或东西，祸害( scourge的名词复数 )； 鞭子 | |
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scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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inoculated
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| v.给…做预防注射( inoculate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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scrupled
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| v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chattel
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| n.动产；奴隶 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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34
mash
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| n.麦芽浆，糊状物，土豆泥；v.把…捣成糊状，挑逗，调情 | |
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fattened
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| v.喂肥( fatten的过去式和过去分词 )；养肥（牲畜）；使（钱）增多；使（公司）升值 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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38
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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condemned
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| 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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pastors
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| n.（基督教的）牧师( pastor的名词复数 ) | |
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41
brotherhoods
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| 兄弟关系( brotherhood的名词复数 )； （总称）同行； （宗教性的）兄弟会； 同业公会 | |
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42
expounded
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exhorted
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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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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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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gratis
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| adj.免费的 | |
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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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53
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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foundered
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| v.创始人( founder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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tugs
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| n.猛拉( tug的名词复数 )；猛拖；拖船v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的第三人称单数 ) | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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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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benevolently
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| adv.仁慈地，行善地 | |
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tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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tempts
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| v.引诱或怂恿（某人）干不正当的事( tempt的第三人称单数 )；使想要 | |
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tormentor
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| n. 使苦痛之人, 使苦恼之物, 侧幕 =tormenter | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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75
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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lustful
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| a.贪婪的；渴望的 | |
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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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bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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79
refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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80
privy
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| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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81
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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82
excrement
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| n.排泄物，粪便 | |
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83
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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84
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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85
novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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86
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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87
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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liberator
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| 解放者 | |
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buffoons
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| 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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kennels
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| n.主人外出时的小动物寄养处，养狗场；狗窝( kennel的名词复数 )；养狗场 | |
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91
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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92
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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93
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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94
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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95
absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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98
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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99
bug
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| n.虫子；故障；窃听器；vt.纠缠；装窃听器 | |
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100
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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101
manure
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| n.粪，肥，肥粒；vt.施肥 | |
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102
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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103
solidarity
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| n.团结；休戚相关 | |
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104
upheaval
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| n.胀起，(地壳)的隆起；剧变，动乱 | |
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105
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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106
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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107
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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108
atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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109
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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110
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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111
avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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112
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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113
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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114
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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115
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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