THE task of a translator is a thankless one at best. Be he never so skilful1 and accurate, be he never so amply endowed with the divine qualifications of the poet, it is still questionable2 if he can ever succeed in saying satisfactorily with new words that which has once been inimitably said — said for all time — with the old words. Psychologically, there is perhaps nothing more complex than an elaborate poem. The sources of its effect upon our minds may be likened to a system of forces which is in the highest degree unstable3; and the slightest displacement4 of phrases, by disturbing the delicate rhythmical5 equilibrium6 of the whole, must inevitably7 awaken8 a jarring sensation.” Matthew Arnold has given us an excellent series of lectures upon translating Homer, in which he doubtless succeeds in showing that some methods of translation are preferable to others, but in which he proves nothing so forcibly as that the simplicity9 and grace, the rapidity, dignity, and fire, of Homer are quite incommunicable, save by the very words in which they first found expression. And what is thus said of Homer will apply to Dante with perhaps even greater force. With nearly all of Homer’s grandeur10 and rapidity, though not with nearly all his simplicity, the poem of Dante manifests a peculiar11 intensity12 of subjective13 feeling which was foreign to the age of Homer, as indeed to all pre-Christian14 antiquity15. But concerning this we need not dilate17, as it has often been duly remarked upon, and notably18 by Carlyle, in his “Lectures on Hero-Worship.” Who that has once heard the wail19 of unutterable despair sounding in the line
“Ahi, dura terra, perche non t’ apristi?”
can rest satisfied with the interpretation20
“Ah, obdurate21 earth, wherefore didst thou not open?”
yet this rendering22 is literally23 exact.
34 As Dante himself observes, “E pero sappia ciascuno, che nulla cosa per legame musaico armonizzata si puo della sue loquela in altra trasmutare sanza rompere tutta sue dolcezza e armonia. E questa e la ragione per che Omero non si muto di greco in latino, come l’altre scritture che avemo da loro: e questa e la ragione per che i versi del Psaltero sono sanza dolcezza di musica e d’armonia; che essi furono trasmutati d’ ebreo in greco, e di greco in latino, e nella prima trasmutazione tutta quella dolcezza venne meno.” Convito, I. 7, Opere Minori, Tom. III. p. 80. The noble English version of the Psalms24 possesses a beauty which is all its own.
A second obstacle, hardly less formidable, hardly less fatal to a satisfactory translation, is presented by the highly complicated system of triple rhyme upon which Dante’s poem is constructed. This, which must ever be a stumbling-block to the translator, seems rarely to interfere26 with the free and graceful27 movement of the original work. The mighty28 thought of the master felt no impediment from the elaborate artistic29 panoply30 which must needs obstruct31 and harass32 the interpretation of the disciple33. Dante’s terza rima is a bow of Odysseus which weaker mortals cannot bend with any amount of tugging34, and which Mr. Longfellow has judiciously35 refrained from trying to bend. Yet no one can fail to remark the prodigious36 loss entailed37 by this necessary sacrifice of one of the most striking characteristics of the original poem. Let any one who has duly reflected upon the strange and subtle effect produced on him by the peculiar rhyme of Tennyson’s “In Memoriam,” endeavour to realize the very different effect which would be produced if the verses were to be alternated or coupled in successive pairs, or if rhyme were to be abandoned for blank verse. The exquisite38 melody of the poem would be silenced. The rhyme-system of the “Divine Comedy” refuses equally to be tampered39 with or ignored. Its effect upon the ear and the mind is quite as remarkable40 as that of the rhyme-system of “In Memoriam”; and the impossibility of reproducing it is one good reason why Dante must always suffer even more from translation than most poets.
Something, too, must be said of the difficulties inevitably arising from the diverse structure and genius of the Italian and English languages. None will deny that many of them are insurmountable. Take the third line of the first canto42 —
“Che la diritta via era smarrita,”
which Mr. Longfellow translates
“For the straightforward43 pathway had been lost.”
Perhaps there is no better word than “lost” by which to translate smarrita in this place; yet the two words are far from equivalent in force. About the word smarrita there is thrown a wide penumbra44 of meaning which does not belong to the word lost.35 By its diffuse45 connotations the word smarrita calls up in our minds an adequate picture of the bewilderment and perplexity of one who is lost in a trackless forest. The high-road with out, beaten hard by incessant46 overpassing of men and beasts and wheeled vehicles, gradually becomes metamorphosed into the shady lane, where grass sprouts47 up rankly between the ruts, where bushes encroach upon the roadside, where fallen trunks now and then intercept48 the traveller; and this in turn is lost in crooked49 by-ways, amid brambles and underbrush and tangled50 vines, growing fantastically athwart the path, shooting up on all sides of tile bewildered wanderer, and rendering advance and retreat alike hopeless. No one who in childhood has wandered alone in the woods can help feeling all this suggested by the word smarrita in this passage. How bald in comparison is the word lost, which might equally be applied51 to a pathway, a reputation, and a pocket-book!36 The English is no doubt the most copious52 and variously expressive53 of all living languages, yet I doubt if it can furnish any word capable by itself of calling up the complex images here suggested by smarrita.37 And this is but one example, out of many that might be cited, in which the lack of exact parallelism between the two languages employed causes every translation to suffer.
35 See Diez, Romance Dictionary, s. v. “Marrir.”
36 On literally retranslating lost into Italian, we should get the quite different word perduta.
37 The more flexible method of Dr. Parsons leads to a more satisfactory but still inadequate54 result:—
“Half-way on our life’s Journey, in a wood,
From the right path I found myself astray.”
All these, however, are difficulties which lie in the nature of things — difficulties for which the translator is not responsible; of which he must try to make the best that can be made, but which he can never expect wholly to surmount41. We have now to inquire whether there are not other difficulties, avoidable by one method of translation, though not by another; and in criticizing Mr. Longfellow, we have chiefly to ask whether he has chosen the best method of translation — that which most surely and readily awakens55 in the reader’s mind the ideas and feelings awakened56 by the original.
The translator of a poem may proceed upon either of two distinct principles. In the first case, he may render the text of his original into English, line for line and word for word, preserving as far as possible its exact verbal sequences, and translating each individual word into an English word as nearly as possible equivalent in its etymological57 force. In the second case, disregarding mere58 syntactic and etymologic equivalence, his aim will be to reproduce the inner meaning and power of the original, so far as the constitutional difference of the two languages will permit him.
It is the first of these methods that Mr. Longfellow has followed in his translation of Dante. Fidelity59 to the text of the original has been his guiding principle; and every one must admit that, in carrying out that principle, he has achieved a degree of success alike delightful60 and surprising. The method of literal translation is not likely to receive any more splendid illustration. It is indeed put to the test in such a way that the shortcomings now to be noticed bear not upon Mr. Longfellow’s own style of work so much as upon the method itself with which they are necessarily implicated61. These defects are, first, the too frequent use of syntactic inversion62, and secondly63, the too manifest preference extended to words of Romanic over words of Saxon origin.
To illustrate64 the first point, let me give a few examples. In Canto I. we have:—
“So bitter is it, death is little more;
But of the good to treat which there I found,
Speak will I of the other things I saw there”;
which is thus rendered by Mr. Cary —
“Which to remember only, my dismay
Renews, in bitterness not far from death.
Yet to discourse65 of what there good befell,
All else will I relate discovered there”;
and by Dr. Parsons —
“Its very thought is almost death to me;
Yet, having found some good there, I will tell
Of other things which there I chanced to see.”38
38
“Tanto e amara, che poco e piu morte:
Ma per trattar del teen ch’ i’ vi trovai,
Diro dell’ altre Bose, ch’ io v’ ho scorte.”
Inferno66, I. 7-10.
Again in Canto X. we find:—
“Their cemetery67 have upon this side
With Epicurus all his followers69,
Who with the body mortal make the soul”; —
an inversion which is perhaps not more unidiomatic than Mr. Cary’s —
“The cemetery on this part obtain
With Epicurus all his followers,
Who with the body make the spirit die”;
but which is advantageously avoided by Mr. Wright —
“Here Epicurus hath his fiery70 tomb,
And with him all his followers, who maintain
That soul and body share one common doom”;
and is still better rendered by Dr. Parsons —
“Here in their cemetery on this side,
With his whole sect71, is Epicurus pent,
Who thought the spirit with its body died.”39
39 Inferno, X. 13-15.
“Suo cimitero da questa parte hanno
Con16 Epieuro tutti i suoi seguaci,
Che l’anima col corpo morta fanno.”
And here my eyes, reverting72 to the end of Canto IX.,
fall upon a similar contrast between Mr. Longfellow’s lines —
“For flames between the sepulchres were scattered73,
By which they so intensely heated were,
That iron more so asks not any art,”—
and those of Dr. Parsons —
“For here mid25 sepulchres were sprinkled fires,
Wherewith the enkindled tombs all-burning gleamed;
Metal more fiercely hot no art requires.”40
40 Inferno, IX. 118-120.
“Che tra gli avelli flamme erano sparte,
Per le quali eran si del tutto accesi,
Che ferro piu non chiede verun’ arte.”
Does it not seem that in all these cases Mr. Longfellow, and to a slightly less extent Mr. Cary, by their strict adherence74 to the letter, transgress75 the ordinary rules of English construction; and that Dr. Parsons, by his comparative freedom of movement, produces better poetry as well as better English? In the last example especially, Mr. Longfellow’s inversions76 are so violent that to a reader ignorant of the original Italian, his sentence might be hardly intelligible77. In Italian such inversions are permissible78; in English they are not; and Mr. Longfellow, by transplanting them into English, sacrifices the spirit to the letter, and creates an obscurity in the translation where all is lucidity79 in the original. Does not this show that the theory of absolute literality, in the case of two languages so widely different as English and Italian, is not the true one?
Secondly, Mr. Longfellow’s theory of translation leads him in most cases to choose words of Romanic origin in preference to those of Saxon descent, and in many cases to choose an unfamiliar80 instead of a familiar Romanic word, because the former happens to be etymologically81 identical with the word in the original. Let me cite as an example the opening of Canto III.:—
“Per me si va nella eitti dolente,
Per me si va nell’ eterno dolore,
Per me si va tra la perduta gente.”
Here are three lines which, in their matchless simplicity and grandeur, might well excite despair in the breast of any translator. Let us contrast Mr. Longfellow’s version. —
“Through me the way is to the city dolent;
Through me the way is to eternal dole83;
Through me the way among the people lost,”—
with that of Dr. Parsons —,
“Through me you reach the city of despair;
Through me eternal wretchedness ye find;
Through me among perdition’s race ye fare.”
I do not think any one will deny that Dr. Parsons’s version, while far more remote than Mr. Longfellow’s from the diction of the original, is somewhat nearer its spirit. It remains84 to seek the explanation of this phenomenon. It remains to be seen why words the exact counterpart of Dante’s are unfit to call up in our minds the feelings which Dante’s own words call up in the mind of an Italian. And this inquiry85 leads to some general considerations respecting the relation of English to other European languages.
Every one is aware that French poetry, as compared with German poetry, seems to the English reader very tame and insipid86; but the cause of this fact is by no means so apparent as the fact itself. That the poetry of Germany is actually and intrinsically superior to that of France, may readily be admitted; but this is not enough to account for all the circumstances of the case. It does not explain why some of the very passages in Corneille and Racine, which to us appear dull and prosaic87, are to the Frenchman’s apprehension88 instinct with poetic89 fervour. It does not explain the undoubted fact that we, who speak English, are prone90 to underrate French poetry, while we are equally disposed to render to German poetry even more than its due share of merit. The reason is to be sought in the verbal associations established in our minds by the peculiar composition of the English language. Our vocabulary is chiefly made up on the one hand of indigenous91 Saxon words, and on the other hand of words derived92 from Latin or French. It is mostly words of the first class that we learn in childhood, and that are associated with our homeliest and deepest emotions; while words of the second class — usually acquired somewhat later in life and employed in sedate93 abstract discourse — have an intellectual rather than an emotional function to fulfil. Their original significations, the physical metaphors94 involved in them, which are perhaps still somewhat apparent to the Frenchman, are to us wholly non-existent. Nothing but the derivative95 or metaphysical signification remains. No physical image of a man stepping over a boundary is presented to our minds by the word transgress, nor in using the word comprehension do we picture to ourselves any manual act of grasping. It is to this double structure of the English language that it owes its superiority over every other tongue, ancient or modern, for philosophical96 and scientific purposes. Albeit97 there are numerous exceptions, it may still be safely said, in a general way, that we possess and habitually98 use two kinds of language — one that is physical, for our ordinary purposes, and one that is metaphysical, for purposes of abstract reasoning and discussion. We do not say like the Germans, that we “begripe” (begreifen) an idea, but we say that we “conceive” it. We use a word which once had the very same material meaning as begreifen, but which has in our language utterly99 lost it. We are accordingly able to carry on philosophical inquiries100 by means of words which are nearly or quite free from those shadows of original concrete meaning which, in German, too often obscure the acquired abstract signification. Whoever has dealt in English and German metaphysics will not fail to recognize the prodigious superiority of English in force and perspicuity101, arising mainly from the causes here stated. But while this homogeneity of structure in German injures it for philosophical purposes, it is the very thing which makes it so excellent as an organ for poetical102 expression, in the opinion of those who speak English. German being nearly allied103 to Anglo-Saxon, not only do its simple words strike us with all the force of our own homely104 Saxon terms, but its compounds also, preserving their physical significations almost unimpaired, call up in our minds concrete images of the greatest definiteness and liveliness. It is thus that German seems to us pre-eminently a poetical language, and it is thus that we are naturally inclined to overrate rather than to depreciate106 the poetry that is written in it.
With regard to French, the case is just the reverse. The Frenchman has no Saxon words, but he has, on the other hand, an indigenous stock of Latin words, which he learns in early childhood, which give outlet107 to his most intimate feelings, and which retain to some extent their primitive108 concrete picturesqueness109. They are to him just as good as our Saxon words are to us. Though cold and merely intellectual to us, they are to him warm with emotion; and this is one reason why we cannot do justice to his poetry, or appreciate it as he appreciates it. To make this perfectly110 clear, let us take two or three lines from Shakespeare:—
“Blow, blow, thou winter wind!
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude111,
Thy tooth is not so keen,” etc., etc.;
which I have somewhere seen thus rendered into French:
“Souffle, souffle, vent112 d’hiver!
Tu n’es pas si cruel
Que l’ingratitude de l’homme.
Ta dent82 n’est pas si penetrante,” etc., etc.
Why are we inclined to laugh as we read this? Because it excites in us an undercurrent of consciousness which, if put into words, might run something like this:—
“Insufflate, insufflate, wind hibernal!
Thou art not so cruel
As human ingratitude.
Thy dentition is not so penetrating,” etc., etc.
No such effect would be produced upon a Frenchman. The translation would strike him as excellent, which it really is. The last line in particular would seem poetical to us, did we not happen to have in our language words closely akin113 to dent and penetrante, and familiarly employed in senses that are not poetical.
Applying these considerations to Mr. Longfellow’s choice of words in his translation of Dante, we see at once the unsoundness of the principle that Italian words should be rendered by their Romanic equivalents in English. Words that are etymologically identical with those in the original are often, for that very reason, the worst words that could be used. They are harsh and foreign to the English ear, however homelike and musical they may be to the ear of an Italian. Their connotations are unlike in the two languages; and the translation which is made literally exact by using them is at the same time made actually inaccurate114, or at least inadequate. Dole and dolent are doubtless the exact counterparts of dolore and dolente, so far as mere etymology115 can go. But when we consider the effect that is to be produced upon the mind of the reader, wretchedness and despairing are fat better equivalents. The former may compel our intellectual assent116, but the latter awaken our emotional sympathy.
Doubtless by long familiarity with the Romanic languages, the scholar becomes to a great degree emancipated117 from the conditions imposed upon him by the peculiar composition of his native English. The concrete significance of the Romanic words becomes apparent to him, and they acquire energy and vitality118. The expression dolent may thus satisfy the student familiar with Italian, because it calls up in his mind, through the medium of its equivalent dolente, the same associations which the latter calls up in the mind of the Italian himself.41 But this power of appreciating thoroughly119 the beauties of a foreign tongue is in the last degree an acquired taste — as much so as the taste for olives and kirschenwasser to the carnal palate. It is only by long and profound study that we can thus temporarily vest ourselves, so to speak, with a French or Italian consciousness in exchange for our English one. The literary epicure121 may keenly relish122 such epithets123 as dolent; but the common English reader, who loves plain fare, can hardly fail to be startled by it. To him it savours of the grotesque124; and if there is any one thing especially to be avoided in the interpretation of Dante, it is grotesqueness125.
41 A consummate126 Italian scholar, the delicacy127 of whose taste is questioned by no one, and whose knowledge of Dante’s diction is probably not inferior to Mr. Longfellow’s, has told me that he regards the expression as a noble and effective one, full of dignity and solemnity.
Those who have read over Dante without reading into him, and those who have derived their impressions of his poem from M. Dore’s memorable128 illustrations, will here probably demur129. What! Dante not grotesque! That tunnel-shaped structure of the infernal pit; Minos passing sentence on the damned by coiling his tail; Charon beating the lagging shades with his oar130; Antaios picking up the poets with his fingers and lowering them in the hollow of his hand into the Ninth Circle; Satan crunching131 in his monstrous132 jaws133 the arch-traitors, Judas, Brutus and Cassius; Ugolino appeasing134 his famine upon the tough nape of Ruggieri; Bertrand de Born looking (if I may be allowed the expression) at his own dissevered head; the robbers exchanging form with serpents; the whole demoniac troop of Malebolge — are not all these things grotesque beyond everything else in poetry? To us, nurtured135 in this scientific nineteenth century, they doubtless seem so; and by Leigh Hunt, who had the eighteenth-century way of appreciating other ages than his own, they were uniformly treated as such. To us they are at first sight grotesque, because they are no longer real to us. We have ceased to believe in such things, and they no longer awaken any feeling akin to terror. But in the thirteenth century, in the minds of Dante and his readers, they were living, terrible realities. That Dante believed literally in all this unearthly world, and described it with such wonderful minuteness because he believed in it, admits of little doubt. As he walked the streets of Verona the people whispered, “See, there is the man who has been in hell!” Truly, he had been in hell, and described it as he had seen it, with the keen eyes of imagination and faith. With all its weird137 unearthliness, there is hardly another book in the whole range of human literature which is marked with such unswerving veracity138 as the “Divine Comedy.” Nothing is there set down arbitrarily, out of wanton caprice or for the sake of poetic effect, but because to Dante’s imagination it had so imposingly139 shown itself that he could not but describe it as he saw it. In reading his cantos we forget the poet, and have before us only the veracious140 traveller in strange realms, from whom the shrewdest cross-examination can elicit141 but one consistent account. To his mind, and to the mediaeval mind generally, this outer kingdom, with its wards142 of Despair, Expiation143, and Beatitude, was as real as the Holy Roman Empire itself. Its extraordinary phenomena144 were not to be looked on with critical eyes and called grotesque, but were to be seen with eyes of faith, and to be worshipped, loved, or shuddered145 at. Rightly viewed, therefore, the poem of Dante is not grotesque, but unspeakably awful and solemn; and the statement is justified146 that all grotesqueness and bizarrerie in its interpretation is to be sedulously147 avoided.
Therefore, while acknowledging the accuracy with which Mr. Longfellow has kept pace with his original through line after line, following the “footing of its feet,” according to the motto quoted on his title-page, I cannot but think that his accuracy would have been of a somewhat higher kind if he had now and then allowed himself a little more liberty of choice between English and Romanic words and idioms.
A few examples will perhaps serve to strengthen as well as to elucidate148 still further this position.
“Inferno,” Canto III., line 22, according to Longfellow:—
“There sighs, complaints, and ululations loud
Resounded149 through the air without a star,
Whence I at the beginning wept thereat.”
According to Cary:—
“Here sighs, with lamentations and loud moans
Resounded through the air pierced by no star,
That e’en I wept at entering.”
According to Parsons:—
“Mid sighs, laments150, and hollow howls of woe151,
Which, loud resounding152 through the starless air,
Forced tears of pity from mine eyes at first.”42
42
“Quivi sospiri, pianti ed alti guai
Risonavan per l’ ner senza stelle,
Perch’ io al cominciar ne lagrimai.”
Canto V., line 84:—
LONGFELLOW. —“Fly through the air by their volition153 borne.”
CARY. —“Cleave the air, wafted154 by their will along.”
PARSONS. —“Sped ever onward155 by their wish alone.”43
43 “Volan per l’ aer dal voler portate.”
Canto XVII., line 42:—
LONGFELLOW. —“That he concede to us his stalwart shoulders.”
CARY—“That to us he may vouchsafe156 / The aid of his strong shoulders.”
PARSONS. —“And ask for us his shoulders’ strong support.”44
44 “Che ne conceda i suoi omeri forti.”
Canto XVII., line 25:—
LONGFELLOW. —
“His tail was wholly quivering in the void,
Contorting upwards157 the envenomed fork
That in the guise158 of scorpion159 armed its point.”
CARY. —
“In the void
Glancing, his tail upturned its venomous fork,
With sting like scorpions160 armed.”
PARSONS. —
“In the void chasm161 his trembling tail he showed,
As up the envenomed, forked point he swung,
Which, as in scorpions, armed its tapering162 end.”45
45 “Nel vano tutta sue coda guizzava, / Torcendo in su la venenosa forca, / Che, a guisa di scorpion, la punta armava.”
Canto V., line 51:—
LONGFELLOW. —“People whom the black air so castigates163.
CARY. —“By the black air so scourged164.”46
46 “Genti che l’ aura nera si gastiga.”
Line 136:—
LONGFELLOW. —“Kissed me upon the mouth all palpitating.”
CARY. —“My lips all trembling kissed.”47
47 “La bocca mi bacio tutto tremante.”
“Purgatorio,” Canto XV., line 139:—
LONGFELLOW. —
“We passed along, athwart the twilight165 peering
Forward as far as ever eye could stretch
Against the sunbeams serotine and lucent.”48
48 “Noi andavam per lo vespero attenti / Oltre, quanto potean gli occhi allungarsi, / Contra i raggi serotini e lucenti.”
Mr. Cary’s “bright vespertine ray” is only a trifle better; but Mr. Wright’s “splendour of the evening ray” is, in its simplicity, far preferable.
Canto XXXI., line 131:—
LONGFELLOW. —“Did the other three advance Singing to their angelic saraband.”
CARY. —“To their own carol on they came Dancing, in festive166 ring angelical ”
WRIGHT. —“And songs accompanied their angel dance.”
Here Mr. Longfellow has apparently167 followed the authority of the Crusca, reading
“Cantando al loro angelico carribo,”
and translating carribo by saraband, a kind of Moorish168 dance. The best manuscripts, however, sanction M. Witte’s reading:—
“Danzando al loro angelico carribo.”
If this be correct, carribo cannot signify “a dance,” but rather “the song which accompanies the dance”; and the true sense of the passage will have been best rendered by Mr. Cary.49
49 See Blanc, Vocabolario Dantesco, s. v. “caribo.”
Whenever Mr. Longfellow’s translation is kept free from oddities of diction and construction, it is very animated169 and vigorous. Nothing can be finer than his rendering of “Purgatorio,” Canto VI., lines 97-117:—
“O German Albert! who abandonest
Her that has grown recalcitrant170 and savage171,
And oughtest to bestride her saddle-bow,
May a just judgment172 from the stars down fall
Upon thy blood, and be it new and open,
That thy successor may have fear thereof:
Because thy father and thyself have suffered,
By greed of those transalpine lands distrained,
The garden of the empire to be waste.
Come and behold173 Montecchi and Cappelletti,
Monaldi and Filippeschi, careless man!
Those sad already, and these doubt-depressed!
Come, cruel one! come and behold the oppression
Of thy nobility, and cure their wounds,
And thou shalt see how safe [?] is Santafiore.
Come and behold thy Rome that is lamenting174,
Widowed, alone, and day and night exclaims
‘My Caesar, why hast thou forsaken175 me?’
Come and behold how loving are the people;
And if for us no pity moveth thee,
Come and be made ashamed of thy renown176.”50
50
“O Alberto Tedesco, che abbandoni
Costei ch’ e fatta indomita e selvaggia,
E dovresti inforcar li suoi arcioni,
Giusto gindizio dalle stelle caggia
Sopra il tuo sangue, e sia nuovo ed aperto,
Tal che il tuo successor temenza n’ aggia:
Cheavete tu e il tuo padre sofferto,
Per cupidigia di costa distretti,
Che il giardin dell’ imperio sia diserto.
Vieni a veder Montecchi e Cappelletti,
Monaldi e Filippeschi, uom senza cura:
Color gia tristi, e questi con sospetti.
Vien, crudel, vieni, e vedi la pressura
De’ tuoi gentili, e cure lor magagne,
E vedrai Santafior com’ e oscura [secura?].
Vieni a veder la tua Roma che piagne,
Vedova e sola, e di e notte chiama:
Cesare mio, perche non m’ accompagne?
Vieni a veder la gente quanto s’ ama;
E se nulla di noi pieta ti move,
A vergognar ti vien della tua fama.”
So, too, Canto III., lines 79-84:—
“As sheep come issuing forth177 from out the fold
By ones, and twos, and threes, and the others stand
Timidly holding down their eyes and nostrils178,
And what the foremost does the others do
Huddling179 themselves against her if she stop,
Simple and quiet, and the wherefore know not.”51
51
“Come le pecorelle escon del chiuso
Ad una, a due, a tre, e l’ altre stanno
Timidette atterrando l’ occhio e il muso;
E cio che fa la prima, e l’ altre sanno,
Addossandosi a lei s’ ella s’ arresta,
Semplici e quete, e lo ‘mperche non sanno.”
Francesca’s exclamation180 to Dante is thus rendered by Mr. Longfellow:—
“And she to me: There is no greater sorrow
Than to be mindful of the happy time
In misery181.”52
52 Inferno, V. 121-123.
“Ed ella a me: Nessun maggior dolore
Che ricordarsi del tempo120 felice Nella miseria.”
This is admirable — full of the true poetic glow, which would have been utterly quenched182 if some Romanic equivalent of dolore had been used instead of our good Saxon sorrow.53 So, too, the “Paradiso,” Canto I., line 100:—
“Whereupon she, after a pitying sigh,
Her eyes directed toward me with that look
A mother casts on a delirious183 child.”54
53 Yet admirable as it is, I am not quite sure that Dr. Parsons, by taking further liberty with the original, has not surpassed it:—
“And she to me: The mightiest184 of all woes185
Is in the midst of misery to be cursed
With bliss186 remembered.”
54
“Ond’ ella, appresso d’un pio sospiro,
Gli occhi drizzo ver me con quel sembiante,
Che madre fa sopra figlinol deliro.”
And, finally, the beginning of the eighth canto of the “Purgatorio”:—
“‘T was now the hour that turneth back desire
In those who sail the sea, and melts the heart,
The day they’ve said to their sweet friends farewell;
And the new pilgrim penetrates187 with love,
If he doth hear from far away a bell
That seemeth to deplore188 the dying day.”55
55
“Era gia l’ ora che volge il disio
Ai naviganti, e intenerisce il core
Lo di ch’ hen detto ai dolci amici addio;
E che lo nuovo peregrin d’ amore
Punge, se ode squilla di lontano,
Che paia il giorno pianger che si more.”
This passage affords an excellent example of what the method of literal translation can do at its best. Except in the second line, where “those who sail the sea” is wisely preferred to any Romanic equivalent of naviganti the version is utterly literal; as literal as the one the school-boy makes, when he opens his Virgil at the Fourth Eclogue, and lumberingly reads, “Sicilian Muses189, let us sing things a little greater.” But there is nothing clumsy, nothing which smacks190 of the recitation-room, in these lines of Mr. Longfellow. For easy grace and exquisite beauty it would be difficult to surpass them. They may well bear comparison with the beautiful lines into which Lord Byron has rendered the same thought:—
“Soft hour which wakes the wish, and melts the heart,
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart;
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way,
As the far bell of vesper makes him start,
Seeming to weep the dying day’s decay.
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?
Ah, surely nothing dies but something mourns!”56
56 Don Juan, III. 108.
Setting aside the concluding sentimental191 generalization192 — which is much more Byronic than Dantesque — one hardly knows which version to call more truly poetical; but for a faithful rendering of the original conception one can hardly hesitate to give the palm to Mr. Longfellow.
Thus we see what may be achieved by the most highly gifted of translators who contents himself with passively reproducing the diction of his original, who constitutes himself, as it were, a conduit through which the meaning of the original may flow. Where the differences inherent in the languages employed do not intervene to alloy193 the result, the stream of the original may, as in the verses just cited, come out pure and unweakened. Too often, however, such is the subtle chemistry of thought, it will come out diminished in its integrity, or will appear, bereft194 of its primitive properties as a mere element in some new combination. Our channel is a trifle too alkaline perhaps; and that the transferred material may preserve its pleasant sharpness, we may need to throw in a little extra acid. Too often the mere differences between English and Italian prevent Dante’s expressions from coming out in Mr. Longfellow’s version so pure and unimpaired as in the instance just cited. But these differences cannot be ignored. They lie deep in the very structure of human speech, and are narrowly implicated with equally profound nuances in the composition of human thought. The causes which make dolente a solemn word to the Italian ear, and dolent a queer word to the English ear, are causes which have been slowly operating ever since the Italican and the Teuton parted company on their way from Central Asia. They have brought about a state of things which no cunning of the translator can essentially195 alter, but to the emergencies of which he must graciously conform his proceedings196. Here, then, is the sole point on which we disagree with Mr. Longfellow, the sole reason we have for thinking that he has not attained197 the fullest possible measure of success. Not that he has made a “realistic” translation — so far we conceive him to be entirely198 right; but that, by dint199 of pushing sheer literalism beyond its proper limits, he has too often failed to be truly realistic. Let us here explain what is meant by realistic translation.
Every thoroughly conceived and adequately executed translation of an ancient author must be founded upon some conscious theory or some unconscious instinct of literary criticism. As is the critical spirit of an age, so among other things will be its translations. Now the critical spirit of every age previous to our own has been characterized by its inability to appreciate sympathetically the spirit of past and bygone times. In the seventeenth century criticism made idols200 of its ancient models; it acknowledged no serious imperfections in them; it set them up as exemplars for the present and all future times to copy. Let the genial201 Epicurean henceforth write like Horace, let the epic68 narrator imitate the supreme202 elegance203 of Virgil — that was the conspicuous204 idea, the conspicuous error, of seventeenth-century criticism. It overlooked the differences between one age and another. Conversely, when it brought Roman patricians205 and Greek oligarchs on to the stage, it made them behave like French courtiers or Castilian grandees206 or English peers. When it had to deal with ancient heroes, it clothed them in the garb207 and imputed208 to them the sentiments of knights-errant. Then came the revolutionary criticism of the eighteenth century, which assumed that everything old was wrong, while everything new was right. It recognized crudely the differences between one age and another, but it had a way of looking down upon all ages except the present. This intolerance shown toward the past was indeed a measure of the crudeness with which it was comprehended. Because Mohammed, if he had done what he did, in France and in the eighteenth century, would have been called an impostor, Voltaire, the great mouthpiece and representative of this style of criticism, portrays209 him as an impostor. Recognition of the fact that different ages are different, together with inability to perceive that they ought to be different, that their differences lie in the nature of progress — this was the prominent characteristic of eighteenth-century criticism. Of all the great men of that century, Lessing was perhaps the only one who outgrew210 this narrow critical habit.
Now nineteenth-century criticism not only knows that in no preceding age have men thought and behaved as they now think and behave, but it also understands that old-fashioned thinking and behaviour was in its way just as natural and sensible as that which is now new-fashioned. It does not flippantly sneer211 at an ancient custom because we no longer cherish it; but with an enlightened regard for everything human, it inquires into its origin, traces its effects, and endeavours to explain its decay. It is slow to characterize Mohammed as an impostor, because it has come to feel that Arabia in the seventh century is one thing and Europe in the nineteenth another. It is scrupulous212 about branding Caesar as an usurper213, because it has discovered that what Mr. Mill calls republican liberty and what Cicero called republican liberty are widely different notions. It does not tell us to bow down before Lucretius and Virgil as unapproachable models, while lamenting our own hopeless inferiority; nor does it tell us to set them down as half-skilled apprentices214, while congratulating ourselves on our own comfortable superiority; but it tells us to study them as the exponents216 of an age forever gone, from which we have still many lessons to learn, though we no longer think as it thought or feel as it felt. The eighteenth century, as represented by the characteristic passage from Voltaire, cited by Mr. Longfellow, failed utterly to understand Dante. To the minds of Voltaire and his contemporaries the great mediaeval poet was little else than a Titanic217 monstrosity — a maniac218, whose ravings found rhythmical expression; his poem a grotesque medley219, wherein a few beautiful verses were buried under the weight of whole cantos of nonsensical scholastic220 quibbling. This view, somewhat softened221, we find also in Leigh Hunt, whose whole account of Dante is an excellent specimen222 of this sort of criticism. Mr. Hunt’s fine moral nature was shocked and horrified223 by the terrible punishments described in the “Inferno.” He did not duly consider that in Dante’s time these fearful things were an indispensable part of every man’s theory of the world; and, blinded by his kindly224 prejudices, he does not seem to have perceived that Dante, in accepting eternal torments225 as part and parcel of the system of nature, was nevertheless, in describing them, inspired with that ineffable227 tenderness of pity which, in the episodes of Francesca and of Brunetto Latini, has melted the hearts of men in past times, and will continue to do so in times to come. “Infinite pity, yet infinite rigour of law! It is so Nature is made: it is so Dante discerned that she was made.”57 This remark of the great seer of our time is what the eighteenth century could in no wise comprehend. The men of that day failed to appreciate Dante, just as they were oppressed or disgusted at the sight of Gothic architecture; just as they pronounced the scholastic philosophy an unmeaning jargon228; just as they considered mediaeval Christianity a gigantic system of charlatanry229, and were wont230 unreservedly to characterize the Papacy as a blighting231 despotism. In our time cultivated men think differently. We have learned that the interminable hair-splitting of Aquinas and Abelard has added precision to modern thinking.58 We do not curse Gregory VII. and Innocent III. as enemies of the human race, but revere232 them as benefactors233. We can spare a morsel234 of hearty235 admiration236 for Becket, however strongly we may sympathize with the stalwart king who did penance237 for his foul238 murder; and we can appreciate Dante’s poor opinion of Philip the Fair no less than his denunciation of Boniface VIII. The contemplation of Gothic architecture, as we stand entranced in the sublime239 cathedrals of York or Rouen, awakens in our breasts a genuine response to the mighty aspirations240 which thus became incarnate241 in enduring stone. And the poem of Dante — which has been well likened to a great cathedral — we reverently242 accept, with all its quaint243 carvings244 and hieroglyphic245 symbols, as the authentic246 utterance247 of feelings which still exist, though they no longer choose the same form of expression.
57 Carlyle, Heroes and Hero-Worship, p. 84.
58 See my Outlines of Cosmic Philosophy, Vol. I. p. 123.
A century ago, therefore, a translation of Dante such as Mr. Longfellow’s would have been impossible. The criticism of that time was in no mood for realistic reproductions of the antique. It either superciliously248 neglected the antique, or else dressed it up to suit its own notions of propriety249. It was not like a seven-league boot which could fit everybody, but it was like a Procrustes-bed which everybody must be made to fit. Its great exponent215 was not a Sainte-Beuve, but a Boileau. Its typical sample of a reproduction of the antique was Pope’s translation of the Iliad. That book, we presume, everybody has read; and many of those who have read it know that, though an excellent and spirited poem, it is no more Homer than the age of Queen Anne was the age of Peisistratos. Of the translations of Dante made during this period, the chief was unquestionably Mr. Cary’s.59 For a man born and brought up in the most unpoetical of centuries, Mr. Cary certainly made a very good poem, though not so good as Pope’s. But it fell far short of being a reproduction of Dante. The eighteenth-century note rings out loudly on every page of it. Like much other poetry of the time, it is laboured and artificial. Its sentences are often involved and occasionally obscure. Take, for instance, Canto IV. 25-36 of the “Paradiso”:
59 This work comes at the end of the eighteenth-century period, as Pope’s translation of Homer comes at the beginning.
“These are the questions which they will
Urge equally; and therefore I the first
Of that will treat which hath the more of gall250.
Of seraphim251 he who is most enskied,
Moses, and Samuel, and either John,
Choose which thou wilt252, nor even Mary’s self,
Have not in any other heaven their seats,
Than have those spirits which so late thou saw’st;
Nor more or fewer years exist; but all
Make the first circle beauteous, diversely
Partaking of sweet life, as more or less
Afflation of eternal bliss pervades253 them.”
Here Mr. Cary not only fails to catch Dante’s grand style; he does not even write a style at all. It is too constrained254 and awkward to be dignified255, and dignity is an indispensable element of style. Without dignity we may write clearly, or nervously256, or racily, but we have not attained to a style. This is the second shortcoming of Mr. Cary’s translation. Like Pope’s, it fails to catch the grand style of its original. Unlike Pope’s, it frequently fails to exhibit any style.
It is hardly necessary to spend much time in proving that Mr. Longfellow’s version is far superior to Mr. Cary’s. It is usually easy and flowing, and save in the occasional use of violent inversions, always dignified. Sometimes, as in the episode of Ugolino, it even rises to something like the grandeur of the original:
“When he had said this, with his eyes distorted,
The wretched skull257 resumed he with his teeth,
Which, as a dog’s, upon the bone were strong.”60
60 Inferno, XXXIII. 76.
“Quand’ ebbe detto cio, eon gli occhi torti
Riprese il teschio misero coi denti,
Che furo all’ osso, come d’un can, forti.”
That is in the grand style, and so is the following, which describes those sinners locked in the frozen lake below Malebolge:—
“Weeping itself there does not let them weep,
And grief that finds a barrier in the eyes
Turns itself inward to increase the anguish258.61
61 Inferno, XXXIII. 94.
“Lo pianto stesso li pianger non lascia,
E il duol, che trova in sugli occhi rintoppo,
Si volve in entro a far crescer l’ ambascia.”
And the exclamation of one of these poor “wretches of the frozen crust” is an exclamation that Shakespeare might have written:—
“Lift from mine eyes the rigid259 veils, that I
May vent the sorrow which impregns my heart.”62
62 Ib. 112.
“Levatemi dal viso i duri veli,
Si ch’ io sfoghi il dolor che il cor m’ impregna.”
There is nothing in Mr. Cary’s translation which can stand a comparison with that. The eighteenth century could not translate like that. For here at last we have a real reproduction of the antique. In the Shakespearian ring of these lines we recognize the authentic rendering of the tones of the only man since the Christian era who could speak like Shakespeare.
In this way Mr. Longfellow’s translation is, to an eminent105 degree, realistic. It is a work conceived and executed in entire accordance with the spirit of our time. Mr. Longfellow has set about making a reconstructive translation, and he has succeeded in the attempt. In view of what he has done, no one can ever wish to see the old methods of Pope and Cary again resorted to. It is only where he fails to be truly realistic that he comes short of success. And, as already hinted, it is oftenest through sheer excess of LITERALISM that he ceases to be realistic, and departs from the spirit of his author instead of coming nearer to it. In the “Paradiso,” Canto X. 1-6, his method leads him into awkwardness:—
“Looking into His Son with all the love
Which each of them eternally breathes forth,
The primal260 and unutterable Power
Whate’er before the mind or eye revolves261
With so much order made, there can be none
Who this beholds262 without enjoying Him.”
This seems clumsy and halting, yet it is an extremely literal paraphrase263 of a graceful and flowing original:—
“Guardando nel suo figlio con l’ amore
Che l’ uno e l’ altro eternalmente spire226,
Lo primo ed ineffabile Valore,
Quanto per mente o per loco si gira
Con tanto ordine fe’, ch’ esser non puote
Senza gustar di lui ehi cio rimira ”
Now to turn a graceful and flowing sentence into one that is clumsy and halting is certainly not to reproduce it, no matter how exactly the separate words are rendered, or how closely the syntactic constructions match each other. And this consideration seems conclusive264 as against the adequacy of the literalist method. That method is inadequate, not because it is too REALISTIC, but because it runs continual risk of being too VERBALISTIC. It has recently been applied to the translation of Dante by Mr. Rossetti, and it has sometimes led him to write curious verses. For instance, he makes Francesca say to Dante —
“O gracious and benignant ANIMAL!”
for
“O animal grazioso e benigno!”
Mr. Longfellow’s good taste has prevented his doing anything like this, yet Mr. Rossetti’s extravagance is due to an unswerving adherence to the very rules by which Mr. Longfellow has been guided.
Good taste and poetic genius are, however, better than the best of rules, and so, after all said and done, we can only conclude that Mr. Longfellow has given us a great and noble work not likely soon to be equalled. Leopardi somewhere, in speaking of the early Italian translators of the classics and their well-earned popularity, says, who knows but Caro will live in men’s remembrance as long as Virgil? “La belie136 destinee,” adds Sainte-Beuve, “de ne pouvoir plus mourir, sinon avec un immortel!” Apart from Mr. Longfellow’s other titles to undying fame, such a destiny is surely marked out for him, and throughout the English portions of the world his name will always be associated with that of the great Florentine.
June, 1867.
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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displacement
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| n.移置，取代，位移，排水量 | |
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rhythmical
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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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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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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subjective
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| a.主观(上)的，个人的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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rendering
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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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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panoply
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| n.全副甲胄，礼服 | |
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obstruct
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| v.阻隔，阻塞(道路、通道等)；n.阻碍物，障碍物 | |
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harass
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| vt.使烦恼，折磨，骚扰 | |
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disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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tampered
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| v.窜改( tamper的过去式 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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surmount
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| vt.克服；置于…顶上 | |
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canto
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| n.长篇诗的章 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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penumbra
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| n.（日蚀）半影部 | |
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diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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sprouts
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| n.新芽，嫩枝( sprout的名词复数 )v.发芽( sprout的第三人称单数 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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intercept
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| vt.拦截，截住，截击 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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awakens
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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etymological
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| adj.语源的，根据语源学的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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inversion
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| n.反向，倒转，倒置 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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inferno
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| n.火海；地狱般的场所 | |
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67
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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68
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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69
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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70
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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71
sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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72
reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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73
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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74
adherence
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| n.信奉，依附，坚持，固着 | |
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75
transgress
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| vt.违反，逾越 | |
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76
inversions
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| 倒置( inversion的名词复数 )； （尤指词序）倒装； 转化； （染色体的）倒位 | |
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77
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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78
permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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79
lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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80
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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81
etymologically
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| adv.语源上 | |
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82
dent
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| n.凹痕，凹坑；初步进展 | |
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83
dole
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| n.救济，（失业）救济金；vt.（out）发放，发给 | |
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84
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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85
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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86
insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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87
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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88
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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89
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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90
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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91
indigenous
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| adj.土产的，土生土长的，本地的 | |
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92
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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93
sedate
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|
| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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94
metaphors
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| 隐喻( metaphor的名词复数 ) | |
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95
derivative
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| n.派(衍)生物；adj.非独创性的，模仿他人的 | |
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96
philosophical
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|
| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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97
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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98
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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99
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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100
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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101
perspicuity
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| n.（文体的）明晰 | |
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102
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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103
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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104
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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105
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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106
depreciate
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| v.降价，贬值，折旧 | |
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107
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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108
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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109
picturesqueness
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110
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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111
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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112
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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113
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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114
inaccurate
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| adj.错误的，不正确的，不准确的 | |
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115
etymology
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| n.语源；字源学 | |
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116
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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117
emancipated
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|
| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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119
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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120
tempo
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| n.(音乐的)速度；节奏，行进速度 | |
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121
epicure
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| n.行家，美食家 | |
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122
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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123
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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124
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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125
grotesqueness
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126
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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127
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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128
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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129
demur
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| v．表示异议，反对 | |
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130
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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131
crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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132
monstrous
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|
| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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133
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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134
appeasing
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的现在分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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135
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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136
belie
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| v.掩饰，证明为假 | |
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137
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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138
veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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139
imposingly
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140
veracious
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| adj.诚实可靠的 | |
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141
elicit
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| v.引出,抽出,引起 | |
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142
wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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143
expiation
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| n.赎罪，补偿 | |
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144
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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145
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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146
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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147
sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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148
elucidate
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| v.阐明，说明 | |
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149
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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150
laments
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| n.悲恸，哀歌，挽歌( lament的名词复数 )v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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151
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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152
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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153
volition
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| n.意志；决意 | |
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154
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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155
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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156
vouchsafe
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| v.惠予，准许 | |
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157
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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158
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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159
scorpion
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| n.蝎子，心黑的人，蝎子鞭 | |
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160
scorpions
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| n.蝎子( scorpion的名词复数 ) | |
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161
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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162
tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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163
castigates
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| v.严厉责骂、批评或惩罚（某人）( castigate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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164
scourged
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| 鞭打( scourge的过去式和过去分词 )； 惩罚，压迫 | |
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165
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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166
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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167
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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168
moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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169
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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170
recalcitrant
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| adj.倔强的 | |
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171
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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172
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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173
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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174
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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175
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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176
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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177
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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178
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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179
huddling
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| n. 杂乱一团, 混乱, 拥挤 v. 推挤, 乱堆, 草率了事 | |
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180
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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181
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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182
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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183
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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184
mightiest
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| adj.趾高气扬( mighty的最高级 )；巨大的；强有力的；浩瀚的 | |
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185
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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186
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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187
penetrates
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| v.穿过( penetrate的第三人称单数 )；刺入；了解；渗透 | |
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188
deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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189
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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190
smacks
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| 掌掴（声）( smack的名词复数 )； 海洛因； （打的）一拳； 打巴掌 | |
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191
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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192
generalization
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| n.普遍性，一般性，概括 | |
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193
alloy
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| n.合金，(金属的)成色 | |
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194
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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195
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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196
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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197
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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198
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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199
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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200
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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201
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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203
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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204
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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205
patricians
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| n.（古罗马的）统治阶层成员( patrician的名词复数 )；贵族，显贵 | |
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206
grandees
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| n.贵族，大公，显贵者( grandee的名词复数 ) | |
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207
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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208
imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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209
portrays
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| v.画像( portray的第三人称单数 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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210
outgrew
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去式 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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211
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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213
usurper
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| n. 篡夺者, 僭取者 | |
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214
apprentices
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的名词复数 ) | |
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215
exponent
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| n.倡导者，拥护者；代表人物；指数，幂 | |
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exponents
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| n.倡导者( exponent的名词复数 )；说明者；指数；能手 | |
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217
titanic
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| adj.巨人的，庞大的，强大的 | |
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218
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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219
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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220
scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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221
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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222
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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223
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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224
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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226
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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227
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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228
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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229
charlatanry
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| n.吹牛，骗子行为 | |
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230
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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231
blighting
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| 使凋萎( blight的现在分词 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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revere
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| vt.尊崇，崇敬，敬畏 | |
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233
benefactors
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| n.捐助者，施主( benefactor的名词复数 )；恩人 | |
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234
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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235
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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236
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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237
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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238
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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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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241
incarnate
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| adj.化身的，人体化的，肉色的 | |
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242
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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243
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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244
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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245
hieroglyphic
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| n.象形文字 | |
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246
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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247
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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248
superciliously
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| adv.高傲地；傲慢地 | |
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249
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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250
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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251
seraphim
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| n.六翼天使(seraph的复数)；六翼天使( seraph的名词复数 ) | |
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252
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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253
pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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254
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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255
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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256
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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257
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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258
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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259
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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260
primal
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| adj.原始的；最重要的 | |
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261
revolves
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的第三人称单数 )；细想 | |
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262
beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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263
paraphrase
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| vt.将…释义，改写；n.释义，意义 | |
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264
conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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