In October, 1908, I began to publish in Vienna a Russian paper, Pravda (The Truth) a paper with an appeal to the masses of workers. It was smuggled6 into Russia either across the Galician frontier or by way of the Black Sea. The paper was published for three and a half years as a bi-monthly, but even at that it involved a great deal of work. The secret correspondence with Russia took a lot of time. In addition, I was in contact with the underground union of Black Sea seamen8 and helped them to publish their organ.
My chief contributor to the Pravda was A.A. Joffe, who later became a well-known Soviet9 diplomatist. The Vienna days were the beginning of our friendship. Joffe was a man of great intellectual ardour, very genial11 in all personal relations, and unswervingly loyal to the cause. He gave to the Pravda both money and all his strength. Joffe suffered from a nervous complaint and was then being psychoanalysed by the well-known Viennese specialist, Alfred Adler, who began as a pupil of Freud but later opposed his master and founded his own school of individual psychology12. Through Joffe, I became acquainted with the problems of psycho-analysis, which fascinated me, although much in this field is still vague and unstable13 and opens the way for fanciful and arbitrary ideas. My other contributor was a student named Skobelev, who later became the minister of labour in Kerensky’s government; we met in 1917 as enemies. I had Victor Kopp for a while as secretary of the Pravda; he is now Soviet ambassador to Sweden.
In connection with the activities of the Pravda, Joffe went to Russia for revolutionary work. He was arrested in Odessa, spent a long time in prison, and was later exiled to Siberia. He was not set free until February, 1917, as a result of the revolution of that month. In the October revolution which followed, he played one of the most active parts. The personal bravery of this very sick man was really magnificent. I can still see him in the autumn of 1919 as clearly as if it were to-day with his rather thick-set figure on the shell-ridden field below St. Petersburg. In the immaculate dress of a diplomat10, with a gentle smile on his calm face and a cane14 in his hand, as if he were merely walking along Unter den1 Linden, Joffe watched the shells exploding nearby, curiously16, without speeding or slowing his steps. He was a good speaker, thoughtful and earnest in appeal, and he showed the same qualities as a writer. In everything he did, he paid the most exacting17 attention to de tail a quality that not many revolutionaries have. Lenin had a very high opinion of his diplomatic work. For a great many years I was bound to him more closely than any one else. His loyalty18 to friendship as well as to principle was unequalled. Joffe ended his life tragically19. Grave hereditary21 diseases were undermining his health. Just as seriously, too, he was being undermined by the unbridled baiting of Marxists led by the epigones. Deprived of the chance of fighting his illness, and so deprived of the political struggle, Joffe committed suicide in the autumn of 1927. The letter he wrote me before his death was stolen from his dressing-table by Stalin’s agents. Lines intended for the eyes of a friend were torn from their context, distorted and belied22 by Yaroslavsky and others intrinsically demoralised. But this will not prevent Joffe from being inscribed23 as one of the noblest names in the book of the revolution.
In the darkest days of the reaction, Joffe and I were confidently waiting for a new revolution, and we pictured it in the very way in which it actually evolved in 1917. Sverchkov, at that time a Menshevik and to-day a follower24 of Stalin, writes of the Vienna Pravda in his memoirs25: “In this paper, he [Trotsky] continued to advocate, insistently26 and unswervingly, the idea of the ‘permanency’ of the Russian revolution, which argues that after the revolution has begun it cannot come to an end until it effects the overthrow27 of capitalism and establishes the socialist28 system throughout the world. He was laughed at, accused of romanticism and the seven mortal sins by both the Bolsheviks and the Mensheviks. But he stuck to his point with tenacity29 and firmness, impervious30 to the at tacks31.”
In 1909, writing in the Polish magazine of Rosa Luxemburg, I characterised the revolutionary relationship between the proletariat and the peasantry in the following words: “Local cretinism is the historical curse of the peasant movements. It was on the circumscribed32 political intelligence of the peasant who while in his village plundered33 his landlord in order to seize his land, but then, decked out in a soldier’s coat, shot down the workers, that the first wave of the Russian revolution (1905) broke. The events of that revolution may be regarded as a series of ruthless object-lessons by means of which history is hammering into the head of the peasant the consciousness of the ties which connect his local demand for land with the central problem of the state power.”
Quoting the example of Finland, where the Social Democracy won great influence among the peasants by its stand on the question of the small-farmer, I concluded: “What great influence will our party then wield34 over the peasantry, in the exercise of its leadership of a new and much more widespread movement of the masses in town and country! Provided, of course, that we do not lay down our arms in our fear of the temptations of political power to which we will inevitably35 be subjected by the new wave to come.”
How much like “ignoring the peasantry” or “jumping over the agrarian36 question,” that is!
On December 4, 1909, at a time when the revolution seemed to have been hopelessly and permanently37 trampled38 under, I wrote in the Pravda: “Even to-day, through the black clouds of the reaction which have surrounded us, we envisage39 the victorious40 reflection of the new October.” Not only the liberals but the Mensheviks as well ridiculed41 these words, which they regarded as a mere15 slogan for agitation42, as a phrase without content. Professor Miliukoff, to whom the honour of coining the term “Trotskyism” belongs, retorted: “The idea of dictatorship by the proletariat is purely43 childish, and there is not a man in Europe who will support it.” And yet there were events in 1917 which must have shaken the magnificent confidence of the liberal professor.
During the years of the reaction I studied the questions of trade and industry both on a world scale and a national scale. I was prompted by a revolutionary interest. I wanted to find out the relationship between the fluctuations44 of trade and industry, on the one hand, and the progressive stages of the labour movement and revolutionary struggle, on the other. In this, as in all other questions like it, I was especially on my guard to avoid establishing an automatic dependence45 of politics on economics. The interaction must necessarily be the result of the whole process considered in its entirety.
I was still living in the little Bohemian town of Hirschberg when the New York stock exchange suffered the “Black Friday” catastrophe46. This was the harbinger of a world crisis which was bound to engulf47 Russia as well, shaken to her foundations as she was by the Russo-Japanese war, and by the ensuing revolution. What consequences could be expected? The point of view generally accepted in the party, without distinction of faction49, was that the crisis would serve to heighten the revolutionary struggle. I took a different stand. After a period of big battles and defeats, a crisis has the effect of depressing rather than arousing the working class. It under mines the workers’ confidence in their powers and demoralises them politically. Under such conditions, only an industrial revival51 can close the ranks of the proletariat, pour fresh blood into its veins52, restore its confidence in itself and make it capable of further struggle.
This analysis was met by criticism and incredulity. The official party economists53 also put forward the idea that under the counter-revolution a trade boom was impossible. In opposition54, I based my argument on the inevitability55 of an economic revival and of the new wave of strikes it would bring in its wake, after which a new economic crisis would be likely to provide the impetus56 for a revolutionary struggle. This prognosis was confirmed to the letter. An industrial boom came in 1910, in spite of the counter-revolution and with it came strikes. The shooting down of the workers at the Lena gold mines in 1912 gave rise to great protests all over the country. In 1914 when the crisis was unmistakable, St. Petersburg again became an arena57 of workers’ barricades58. They were witnessed by Poincaré, who visited the Czar on the eve of the war.
This theoretical and political test was invaluable59 in my future activities. At the Third Congress of the Communist International, I had an overwhelming majority of the delegates against me when I insisted on the inevitability of an economic revival in post-war Europe as a condition for further revolutionary crises. And again in recent times, I had to bring against the Sixth Congress of the Communist International the charge of utter failure to understand the break in the economic and political situation in China, a failure which found expression in unwarranted hopes that the Chinese revolution, in spite of the disastrous60 defeats it had suffered, would continue to progress because of the country’s growing economic crisis.
The dialectics of the process are really not very complex. But they are easier to formulate61 than to discover every time in the living facts. At any rate, in the discussions of this question I am constantly coming across the most tenacious62 prejudices, which lead in politics to grave errors and painful consequences.
In its view of the future of Menshevism, and of the problems of organisation63 within the party, the Pravda never arrived at the preciseness of Lenin’s attitude. I was still hoping that the new revolution would force the Mensheviks as had that of 1905 to follow a revolutionary path. But I under estimated the importance of preparatory ideological64 selection and of political case-hardening. In questions of the inner development of the party I was guilty of a sort of social-revolutionary fatalism. This was a mistaken stand, but it was vastly superior to that bureaucratic65 fatalism, devoid66 of ideas, which distinguishes the majority of my present-day critics in the camp of the Communist International.
In 1912, when the political curve in Russia took an unmistakable upward turn, I made an attempt to call a union conference of representatives of all the Social Democratic factions67. To show that I was not alone in the hope of restoring the unity68 of the Russian Social Democracy, I can cite Rosa Luxemburg. In the summer of 1911, she wrote: “Despite everything, the unity of the party could still be saved if both sides could be forced to call a conference together.” In August, 1911, she reiterated69: “The only way to save the unity is to bring about a general conference of people sent from Russia, for the people in Russia all want peace and unity, and they represent the only force that can bring the fighting-cocks abroad to their senses.”
Among the Bolsheviks themselves, conciliatory tendencies were then still very strong, and I had hoped that this would induce Lenin also to take part in a general conference. Lenin, however, came out with all his force against union. The en tire course of the events that followed proved conclusively70 that Lenin was right. The conference met in Vienna in August, 1912, without the Bolsheviks, and I found myself formally in a “bloc71” with the Mensheviks and a few disparate groups of Bolshevik dissenters72. This “bloc” had no common political basis, because in all important matters I disagreed with the Mensheviks. My struggle against them was resumed immediately after the conference. Every day, bitter conflicts grew out of the deep-rooted opposition of the two tendencies, the social-revolutionary and the democratic-reformist.
“From Trotsky’s letter,” writes Axelrod on May 4, shortly before the conference, “I got the very painful impression that he had not the slightest desire to come to a real and friendly understanding with us and our friends in Russia . . . for a joint73 fight against the common enemy.” Nor had I, in fact, nor could I possibly have had, an intention of allying myself with the Mensheviks to fight against the Bolsheviks. After the conference, Martov complained in a letter to Axelrod that Trotsky was reviving the “worst habits of the Lenin-Plekhanov literary individualism.” The correspondence between Axelrod and Martov, published a few years ago, testifies to this perfectly74 unfeigned hatred75 of me. Despite the great gulf48 which separated me from them, I never had any such feeling toward them. Even to-day, I gratefully remember that in earlier years I was indebted to them for many things.
The episode of the August bloc has been included in all the “anti-Trotsky” text-books of the epigone period. For the benefit of the novices77 and the ignorant, the past is there presented in such a way as to suggest that Bolshevism came out of the laboratory of history fully76 armed whereas the history of the struggle of the Bolsheviks against the Mensheviks is also a history of ceaseless efforts toward unity. After his return to Russia in 1917, Lenin made the last effort to come to terms with the Mensheviks-Internationalists. When I arrived from America in May of the same year, the majority of the Social Democratic organisations in the provinces consisted of united Bolsheviks and Mensheviks. At the party conference in March, 1917, a few days before Lenin’s arrival, Stalin was preaching union with the party of Tzereteli. Even after the October revolution, Zinoviev, Kamenev, Rykov, Lunacharsky and dozens of others were fighting madly for a coalition78 with the Social Revolutionaries and the Mensheviks. And these are the men who are now trying to sustain their ideological existence by hair-raising stories about the Vienna unity conference of 1912!
The Kievskaya Mysl (The Kiev Thought) made me an offer to go to the Balkans as its military correspondent. The proposal was all the more timely because the August conference had already proved to be abortive79. I felt that I must break away, if only for a short time, from the interests of the Russian émigrés. The few months that I spent in the Balkans were the months of the war, and they taught me much.
In September, 1912, I was on my way to the East, believing that war was not only probable but inevitable80. But when I found myself on the pavements of Belgrade, and saw long lines of reservists; when I saw with my own eyes that there was no way back, that war was coming, almost any day; when I learned that a number of men whom I knew well were already in arms on the frontier, and that they would be the first to kill or be killed, then war, which I had treated so lightly in my thoughts and my articles, seemed utterly81 incredible and impossible. I watched, as if it were a phantom82, a regiment83 going to war the eighteenth infantry84 regiment, in uniforms of protective colouring and bark sandals, and wearing a sprig of green in their caps. The sandals on their feet and the little sprig of green in their caps, in combination with the full fighting outfit85, gave the soldiers the look of men doomed86 for sacrifice. At that moment, nothing so deeply burned the madness of war into my consciousness as those sprigs and bark sandals. How far the present generation has come from the habits and moods of 1912! I understood even then that the humanitarian87, the moral, point of view of the historical process was the most sterile88 one. But it was the emotion, not its explanation, that mattered then. A sense of the tragedy of history, which words cannot suggest, was taking possession of me; a feeling of impotence before fate, a burning compassion89 for the human locust90.
War was declared two or three days later. “You in Russia know it, and believe in it,” I wrote, “but here, on the spot, I do not believe in it. My mind does not accept this combination of the things of everyday life, of chicken, cigarettes, bare footed and smut-nosed boys, with the incredibly tragic20 fact of war. I know that war has been declared, and that it has already begun, but I have not yet learned to believe in it.” I had to learn this, however, decisively and for a long time.
The years 1912-13 gave me a close acquaintance with Serbia, Bulgaria, Roumania and with war. In many respects, this was an important preparation not only for 1914, but for 1917 as well. In my articles, I launched attacks on the falsity of Slavophilism, on chauvinism in general, on the illusions of war, on the scientifically organised system for duping public opinion. The editors of the Kievskaya Mysl had the courage to print my article describing the Bulgarian atrocities91 on the wounded and captured Turks, and exposing the conspiracy92 of silence on the part of the Russian press. This brought forth93 a storm of indignant protests from the liberal papers. On January 30, 1913, I published in the newspaper an “ex-parliamentary question” to Miliukoff concerning the Slav atrocities to the Turks. Miliukoff, the permanent defence-attorney of official Bulgaria, was cornered and answered stammeringly94. The controversy95 lasted for several weeks, with the government papers as was inevitable dropping hints that the pen name “Antid Oto” disguised not only an émigré but also an agent of Austria-Hungary.
The month I spent in Roumania brought me into close co tact7 with Dobrudjanu-Gherea, and cemented my friendship with Rakovsky, whom I had known since 1903, forever.
A Russian revolutionary of the seventies stopped in Roumania in passing, on the very eve of the Russo-Turkish war; he was detained for a while by circumstances beyond his control; a few years later, under the name of Gherea, he had won far-reaching influence over the Roumanian intelligentsia, extending it later to the more advanced among the workers as well. Literary criticism on a social basis was Gherea’s chief medium for shaping the more advanced groups among the Roumanian intelligentsia. Then, from questions of aesthetics96 and personal ethics97, he led them to scientific socialism. The majority of Roumanian politicians of almost every party passed through, at least in their younger days, a brief school of Marxism under Gherea’s guidance. It did not prevent them, however, from pursuing a policy of reactionary98 banditry in their riper age.
Ch.G. Rakovsky is, internationally, one of the best-known figures in the European socialist movement. A Bulgarian by birth, Rakovsky comes from the town of Kotel, in the very heart of Bulgaria, but he is a Roumanian subject by dint99 of the Balkan map, a French physician by education, a Russian by connections, by sympathies and literary work. He speaks all the Balkan and four European languages; he has at various times played an active part in the inner workings of four Socialist parties the Bulgarian, Russian, French, and Roumanian to become eventually one of the leaders of the Soviet Federation100, a founder101 of the Communist International, president of the Ukrainian Soviet of People’s Commissaries, and the diplomatic Soviet representative in England and France only to share finally the fate of all the “left” opposition. Rakovsky’s personal traits, his broad international outlook, his profound nobility of character, have made him particularly odious102 to Stalin, who personifies the exact opposite of these qualities.
In 1913, Rakovsky was the organiser and leader of the Roumanian Socialist party, which later joined the Communist International. The party was showing considerable growth. Rakovsky edited a daily paper, which he financed as well. On the coast of the Black Sea, not far from Mangalia, he owned a small estate which he had inherited, and with the income from it he supported the Roumanian Socialist party and several revolutionary groups and individuals in other countries. Every week he spent three days in Bucharest, writing articles, directing the sessions of the Central Committee, and speaking at meetings and street demonstrations103. Then he would dash over to the Black Sea coast by train, carrying with him to his estate binder-twine, nails and other appurtenances of country life; he would drive out into the fields, watching the work of a new tractor, running behind it along the furrow104 in his frock-coat; then, a day later, he would be speeding back to town so as not to be late for a public meeting, or for some private session. I accompanied him on one of his trips, and could not but admire his superabundant energy, his tirelessness, his constant spiritual alertness, and his kindness to and concern for unimportant people. Within fifteen minutes on a street in Mangalia, Rakovsky would switch from Roumanian to Turkish, from Turkish to Bulgarian, and then to German and French when he was talking to colonists105 or to commercial agents; then, finally, he would speak Russian with the Russian Skoptsi, who are numerous in the adjoining district. He would carry on conversations as a landlord, as a doctor, as a Bulgarian, as a Roumanian subject, and chiefly, as a Socialist. In these aspects, he passed before my eyes like a living miracle on the streets of this remote, leisurely106 and carefree little maritime107 town. And the same night he would again be dashing to the field of battle by train. He was always at ease and self-confident, whether he was in Bucharest or Sophia, in Paris, St Petersburg, or Kharkoff.
The years of my second foreign exile were years spent in writing for the Russian democratic press. I made my debut108 in the Kievskaya Mysl with a long article on the Munich journal, Simplicissimus, which at one time interested me so much that I went through all its issues from the very first one, when the cartoons by T.T. Heine were still impregnated with a poignant109 social feeling. My closer acquaintance with the new German fiction belongs to the same period. I even wrote a long social-critical essay on Wedekind, because interest in him was increasing in Russia with the decline of the revolutionary moods.
In the south of Russia, the Kievskaya Mysl was the most popular radical110 paper of the Marxist hue111. A paper like it could exist only in Kiev, with its feeble industrial life, its undeveloped class contradictions, and its long-standing traditions of intellectual radicalism112. Mutatis mutandis, one can say that a radical paper appeared in Kiev for the same reason that Simplicissimus appeared in Munich. I wrote there on the most diverse subjects, sometimes very risky113 as regards censorship. Short articles were often the result of long preparatory work. Of course I couldn’t say all that I wanted to in a legally published, non-partisan paper. But I never wrote what I did not want to say. My articles in the Kievskaya Mysl have been republished by a Soviet publishing house in several volumes; I didn’t have to recant a thing. It may not be superfluous114 for the present moment to mention that I contributed to the bourgeois115 press with the formal consent of the Central Committee, on which Lenin had a majority.
I have already mentioned that immediately after our arrival in Vienna, we took quarters out of town. “Hütteldorf pleased me,” wrote my wife. “The house was better than we could usually get, as the villas116 here were usually rented in the spring, and we rented ours for the autumn and winter. From the windows we could see the mountains, all dark-red autumn colours. One could get into the open country through a back gate without going to the street. In the winter, on Sundays, the Viennese came by on their way to the mountains, with sleds and skis, in little coloured caps and sweaters. In April, when we had to leave our house because of the doubling of the rent, the violets were already blooming in the garden and their fragrance117 filled the rooms from the open windows. Here Seryozha was born. We had to move to the more democratic Sievering.
“The children spoke118 Russian and German. In the kindergarten and school they spoke German, and for this reason they continued to talk German when they were playing at home. But if their father or I started talking to them, it was enough to make them change instantly to Russian. If we addressed them in German, they were embarrassed, and answered us in Russian. In later years, they also acquired the Viennese dialect and spoke it excellently.
“They liked to visit the Klyachko family, where they received great attention from everybody the head of the family, his wife, and the grown-up children and were shown many interesting things and treated to others. The children were also fond of Ryazanov, the well-known Marxian scholar, who was then living in Vienna. He caught the imagination of the boys with his gymnastic feats50, and appealed to them with his boisterous119 manner. Once when the younger boy Seryozha was having his hair cut by a barber and I was sitting near him, he beckoned120 to me to come over and then whispered in my ear: ‘I want him to cut my hair like Ryazanov’s.’ He had been impressed by Ryazanov’s huge smooth bald patch; it was not like every one else’s hair; but much better.
“When Lyovik entered the school, the question of religion came up. According to the Austrian law then in force, children up to the age of fourteen had to have religious instruction in the faith of their parents. As no religion was listed in our documents, we chose the Lutheran for the children because it was a religion which seemed easier on the children’s shoulders as well as their souls. It was taught in the hours after school by a woman teacher, in the schoolhouse; Lyovik liked this lesson, as one could see by his little face, but he did not think it necessary to talk about it. One evening I heard him muttering something when he was in bed. When I questioned him, he said, ’It’s a prayer. You know prayers can be very pretty, like poems.’”
Ever since my first foreign exile, my parents had been coming abroad. They visited me in Paris; then they came to Vienna with my oldest daughter 1, who was living with them in the country. In 1910 they came to Berlin. By that time they had become fully reconciled to my fate. The final argument was probably my first book in German.
My mother was suffering from a very grave illness (actinomycosis). For the last ten years of her life, she bore it as if it were simply another burden, without stopping her work. One of her kidneys was removed in Berlin; she was sixty then. For a few months after the operation, her health was marvellous, and the case became famous in medical circles. But her illness returned soon after, and in a few months she passed away. She died at Yanovka, where she had spent her working-life and had brought up her children.
The long Vienna episode in my life would not be complete without mention of the fact that our closest friends there were the family of an old émigré, S.L. Klyachko. The whole history of my second foreign exile is closely intertwined with this family. It was a centre of political and intellectual interests, of love of music, of four European languages, of various European connections. The death, in April, 1914, of the head of the family, Semyon Lvovich, was a great loss to me and my wife. Leo Tolstoy once wrote of his very talented brother, Sergey, that he lacked only a few small defects to make him a great artist. One could say the same of Semyon Lvovich. He had all the abilities necessary to attain121 great prominence122 in politics, except that he hadn’t the necessary defects. In the Klyachko family, we always found friendship and help, and we often needed both.
My earnings123 at the Kievskaya Mysl were quite enough for our modest living. But there were months when my work for the Pravda left me no time to write a single paying line. The crisis set in. My wife learned the road to the pawn-shops, and I had to resell to the booksellers books bought in more affluent124 days. There were times when our modest possessions were confiscated125 to pay the house-rent. We had two babies and no nurse; our life was a double burden on my wife. But she still found time and energy to help me in revolutionary work.
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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capitalism
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| n.资本主义 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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smuggled
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tact
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seamen
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Soviet
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diplomat
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| n.外交官，外交家；能交际的人，圆滑的人 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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mere
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curiously
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exacting
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loyalty
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tragically
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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belied
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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follower
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memoirs
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insistently
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overthrow
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socialist
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tenacity
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impervious
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31
tacks
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| 大头钉( tack的名词复数 )； 平头钉； 航向； 方法 | |
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32
circumscribed
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| adj.[医]局限的：受限制或限于有限空间的v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；划定…范围；限制；限定 | |
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33
plundered
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| 掠夺，抢劫( plunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
wield
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| vt.行使，运用，支配；挥，使用(武器等) | |
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35
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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36
agrarian
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| adj.土地的，农村的，农业的 | |
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37
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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38
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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39
envisage
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| v.想象，设想，展望，正视 | |
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40
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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41
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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43
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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44
fluctuations
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| 波动，涨落，起伏( fluctuation的名词复数 ) | |
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45
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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46
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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47
engulf
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| vt.吞没，吞食 | |
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48
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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49
faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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50
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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51
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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52
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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53
economists
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| n.经济学家，经济专家( economist的名词复数 ) | |
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54
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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55
inevitability
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| n.必然性 | |
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56
impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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57
arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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58
barricades
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| 路障，障碍物( barricade的名词复数 ) | |
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59
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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60
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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61
formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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62
tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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63
organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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64
ideological
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| a.意识形态的 | |
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65
bureaucratic
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| adj.官僚的，繁文缛节的 | |
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66
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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67
factions
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| 组织中的小派别，派系( faction的名词复数 ) | |
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68
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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69
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
conclusively
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| adv.令人信服地，确凿地 | |
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71
bloc
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| n.集团；联盟 | |
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72
dissenters
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| n.持异议者，持不同意见者( dissenter的名词复数 ) | |
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73
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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74
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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75
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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76
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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77
novices
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| n.新手( novice的名词复数 )；初学修士（或修女）；（修会等的）初学生；尚未赢过大赛的赛马 | |
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78
coalition
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| n.结合体，同盟，结合，联合 | |
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79
abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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80
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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81
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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82
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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83
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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84
infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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85
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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86
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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87
humanitarian
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| n.人道主义者，博爱者，基督凡人论者 | |
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88
sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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89
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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90
locust
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| n.蝗虫；洋槐，刺槐 | |
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91
atrocities
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| n.邪恶，暴行( atrocity的名词复数 )；滔天大罪 | |
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92
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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93
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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94
stammeringly
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| adv.stammering（口吃的）的变形 | |
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95
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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96
aesthetics
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| n.(尤指艺术方面之)美学，审美学 | |
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97
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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98
reactionary
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| n.反动者，反动主义者；adj.反动的，反动主义的，反对改革的 | |
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99
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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100
federation
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| n.同盟，联邦，联合，联盟，联合会 | |
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101
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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102
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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103
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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104
furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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105
colonists
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| n.殖民地开拓者，移民，殖民地居民( colonist的名词复数 ) | |
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106
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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107
maritime
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| adj.海的，海事的，航海的，近海的，沿海的 | |
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108
debut
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| n.首次演出，初次露面 | |
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109
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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110
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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111
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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112
radicalism
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| n. 急进主义, 根本的改革主义 | |
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113
risky
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| adj.有风险的，冒险的 | |
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114
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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115
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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116
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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117
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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118
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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119
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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120
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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122
prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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123
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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124
affluent
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| adj.富裕的，富有的，丰富的，富饶的 | |
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125
confiscated
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| 没收，充公( confiscate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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