The confines and landmarks3 of this strange country have, fortunately for us, been authoritatively4 established. Bohemia, according to the painter Marcel, of whom we shall hear more anon, and who certainly knew well what he was talking about, is “bounded on the north by hope, work, and gayety; on the south by necessity and courage; on the west and east by calumny5 and the 182hospital.”[20] Yet it is just possible that these cryptic6 phrases may fail to convey to some readers any very definite geographical7 information; since even Rodolphe, to whom they were first addressed, is reported to have shrugged9 his shoulders and responded with a simple “Je ne comprends pas.” Hence, it may be well at the outset to attempt to describe, as succinctly10 as possible, the limits of that seductive land through which our road is now to lie.
This is far from being an easy task, however. Often as the word Bohemia is used, in the broad sense here attached to it, so many writers have colored it with so many different shades of meaning, that, though we may understand vaguely11 its general significance, it seems well-nigh impossible to bring it satisfactorily within the terms of a strict definition. “Vive la Bohème!” cries George Sand, at the end of her novel, “La Dernière Aldini”; and “Vive la Bohème!” has found many an echo and re-echo in the pages of French literature, down to the present day, when it would seem that, as a free and independent country, Bohemia is practically disappearing from the face of the earth. But each one of the many explorers of this dark and 183mysterious corner of our modern world, has brought back with him his own report of the territory and its inhabitants; and these travellers’ stories by no means tally12 one with another. To some it has seemed to be peopled by the lowest classes of those who, as the phrase goes, live upon their wits; by beggars, petty swindlers of all descriptions, and men and women who, through idleness or misfortune, are unable to obtain a livelihood13, we will not say in honest ways, but in any way that society chooses to recognize as honest. To others the population has appeared to be composed of those who follow undignified and precarious15 careers, as cheap-jacks, circus-riders, street-conjurers, acrobats16, bear-trainers, sword-swallowers, and itinerant17 mountebanks of kindred descriptions. A third class of writers has made Bohemia a regular sink of society, the receptacle of all such outcasts and human abominations as Eugène Sue and his followers18 loved to depict19; villains20 of the deepest dye—vitriol-throwers, house-breakers, assassins. While to a fourth group this same domain21 has been the land of literature and the arts, where philosophy and beer, music and debt, painting and hunger, criticism and tobacco-smoke, combine to make life picturesque22 and 184inspiring; a land the denizens23 of which either die of penury24 in the streets or the hospital, uncared for, unknown, or, living, at last take their rightful places in the front rank, among the painters, composers, and writers of their time.
Wherein these various critics agree, is in describing Bohemia as a country lying on the outskirts25 of ordinary society, and inhabited by those who cannot, or will not, yield to that society’s conventions—the failures or the incompatibles of decent modern civilization. It is hardly worth while to try to decide as to what particular portion of this vast and complex community has the best right to a name which has thus been used with great elasticity26 of meaning. It will be sufficient if we say at once that the phase of Bohemian life with which we here purpose to deal is not that reflected in the romances of Xavier de Montépin, Féval, or Sue. Our Bohemia is the Bohemia of art and letters; and, as our guide through this romantic region, we will take the man who has drawn27 its life for us with such marvellous power and vividness—Henri Murger, himself the representative Bohemian, alike in the struggles and lurid28 contradictions of his career, and alas29! in his early and tragic30 death.
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“To-day, as of old, every man who devotes himself to art, with no other means of subsistence than art itself, will be forced to tread the pathways of Bohemia. The majority of our contemporaries who display the most beautiful heraldry of art have been Bohemians; and, in their calm and prosperous glory, they often recall, sometimes perhaps with regret, the time when, climbing the green slopes of youth, they had no other fortune, in the sunshine of their twenty years, than courage, which is the virtue31 of the young, and hope, which is the fortune of the poor. For the uneasy reader, for the timorous32 bourgeois33, for all those who can never have too many dots on the i’s of a definition, we will repeat in the form of an axiom: Bohemia is the probation34 of artistic35 life; it is the preface to the academy, the hospital, or the morgue.”
Thus writes Murger, in the preface to his immortal36 “Scènes de la Vie de Bohème,” and the words will be found to furnish a startling commentary about the kind of life with which his volume deals—a life made up of extraordinary contrasts; of dazzling dreams and the most sordid37 of realities; of hope alternating with despair; of high talents ruined by reckless excesses; of splendid promises defeated by the Fates; of brilliant careers cut short by premature38 death. “The true Bohemians,” continues this writer, who, more than any other, speaks as their accredited40 mouthpiece and historian, “are really 186the called of art, and stand a chance of being also the chosen.” But the country of their adoption41 literally42 “bristles with dangers. Chasms43 yawn on either side—misery44 and doubt. Yet between these two chasms, there is at least a road, leading to a goal, which the Bohemians can already reach with their eyes, while awaiting the time when they shall touch it with their hands.” But till such time shall come, even if it ever comes at all, the young enthusiast45 must turn a brave face upon all the troubles, the anxieties, the privations, the fears, the petty worries and distractions46, by which his self-chosen career will be everywhere begirt. For those who have once set their feet in the alluring47 but perilous48 pathway, which will lead to fame or misery, to immortality49 or death, there must be no trembling, no hesitation50, no looking backward with regretful eyes to the safe, though humble51, beaten tracks which they have left below. They have dared to devote themselves, brain and soul, to art, in a world which cannot understand their aims, which sneers52 at their aspirations54, which is very likely to leave them to starve, and will at best yield them only a grudging55 and tardy56 welcome. Hence, every day’s existence becomes for them “a work of genius, an ever-recurring 187problem.”[21] Nor is it surprising that, in the haphazard57 life which they are thus forced to lead, they should inevitably58 acquire those habits of carelessness, that easy-going morality, and often enough that want of settled purpose, which make them the black sheep of respectable society.
“If a little good fortune falls into their hands, they forthwith begin to pursue the most ruinous fancies ... not finding windows enough to throw their money out of; and then, when the last écu is dead and buried, they begin again to dine at the table d’h?te of chance, where their cover is always laid; and to chase, from morning till night, that ferocious60 beast, the hundred-sous-piece.”[22]
Such is the tenor61 of their way; certainly not a noiseless one, nor one running through the cool, sequestered62 vale of life. Little wonder, then, that with all the frivolities and uncertainties63 of their journey, with all its physical hardships and moral perils65, so few should survive their pilgrimage through Bohemia, or, when they finally reach a quieter resting-place, should have the heart to recount, with frankness and simplicity66, their varied67 experiences in the probationary68 land.
Yet the Bohemians are a great race, and may boast a proud extraction. The founder69 of their illustrious family was none other than the great 188father of Western song, who, “living by chance from day to day, wandered about the fertile country of Ionia, eating the bread of charity, and stopped at eventide to hang beside the hearth70 of hospitality, the harmonious71 lyre that had chanted the loves of Helen and the fall of Troy.”[23] Descending73 the centuries to modern times, the Bohemian reckons his ancestors among the prominent figures of every great literary epoch74. In the middle ages, the great family tradition is perpetuated75 among the minstrels and ballad-makers, the devotees of the gay science, the whole tribe of the melodious76 vagabonds of Touraine; while, as we pass from the days of chivalry77 to the dawn of the Renaissance78, we find “Bohemia still strolling about all the highways of the kingdom, and already invading the streets of Paris itself.” Who does not know of Pierre Gringoire, friend of vagrants79 and foe80 to fasting? Who cannot picture him as “he beats the pavements of the town, nose in air, like a dog’s, sniffing81 the odors of the kitchens and the cook-shops”; and “jingling in imagination—alas, not in his pockets!—the ten crowns, which the aldermen have promised him for the very pious83 189and devout84 farce85 he has written for their theatre in the hall of the Palais de Justice”? Who, again, does not recall Master Fran?ois Villon, “poet and vagabond, par2 excellence86,” whose ballads87 to-day may still make us forget the ruffian, the vagabond, the debauchee? These are names with strange power still over the imagination. And, when we come to the splendid outburst of the Renaissance, is it not to find ourselves face to face with men in whose veins88 the rich old blood was fierce and strong, with Clément Marot, and the ill-starred Tasso, with Jean Goujon, Pierre Ronsard, Mathurin Regnier, and who shall say how many more? Shakspere, and Molière, Jean Jacques Rousseau, and d’Alembert—these, too, the historian of Bohemia must include in his annals, to say nothing of the long line of great writers in England (whom Murger does not even allude89 to), by whom the name of Grub Street was made illustrious in the chronicles of the eighteenth century.
Two groups of Bohemians in Paris—where perhaps alone to-day artistic Bohemianism is still possible—have within more recent years made their voices heard and their influence felt in the literature and art of their time. The first was that which gathered about poor Gérard 190Labrunie, better known as Gérard de Nerval, the unfortunate young writer whose works have yet to reap their due appreciation90, but whose translation of “Faust,” as Goethe told Eckermann, made the great German proud “to find such an interpreter.” That group was composed of such men as Corot, Chesseriau, Arsène Houssaye, Théophile Gautier, Jules Janin, and Stadler; the mere91 recital92 of whose names is enough. Shortly after this band was broken up—some, like Nerval, dying tragically93 and long before their time; others reaching high rank in the world of French letters—another famous cénacle arose, the central figure of which was the prince of modern Bohemia, Henri Murger himself. Among those who toiled94 and suffered with him, we may make passing mention of Auguste Vitu, Schaune, and Alfred Delvau; but there were, of course, others, whose names are less familiar to the reading public of to-day, especially in this country. The romance of this second Bohemia has been written for us by Murger in the “Scènes de la Vie de Bohème”; and it is to the pages of this fascinating book that we purpose presently to turn. But to understand these aright, to appreciate their pathos97 and their comedy, to realize their intensity98 of meaning, we must first of all know 191something of the writer’s personality and career. I do not mean that it will be necessary for us to retell in detail the whole sad story of Murger’s life. But so much of his character and experiences find embodiment in this book of his, that we should miss half its charm and more than half its significance, if we did not, to begin with, make ourselves acquainted with at least the larger facts of his existence.
Henri Murger was born in 1822. His father, a Savoyard, moved to Paris either just before or just after his son’s birth; obtained a situation as janitor100; and while attending to the demands of this position, carried on at the same time his trade as a tailor. Murger père was a hard, severe, unsympathetic man, totally unable to understand his son’s early-developed literary propensities101, and with no higher ambition in life than that of making a decent income by the exercise of his craft. His intention from the beginning was to bring young Henri up as an adept102 at shears103 and thimble, so that he might by-and-by turn out a hard-working, thrifty104 ninth part of a man, like himself. But Henri rebelled; and as his mother sided with him, having, as it would seem, some faith in the child’s talents, or perhaps 192only a womanly yearning106 to make a gentleman of him, the long struggle with paternal107 authority finally closed, though not without the breeding of bitterness, in his favor. The original scheme of training him to manual labor108 was abandoned, and he received such education as his parents could afford, which, after all, was poor enough.
While still a mere boy he entered the practical business of life through the narrow and dingy109 portals of a lawyer’s office; but like many another youth under similar conditions, the itch82 for verse was too strong for him, and he relieved with the inditing110 of stanzas111 the dry technicalities of the legal routine. Meanwhile, an academician, M. de Jouy, had taken a fancy to him; and through his influence, at the age of sixteen, he obtained an appointment as secretary to Count Tolsto?, a Russian diplomatist then resident in Paris. Forty francs a month represented the material advantages of this position; not a lordly remuneration, certainly, but acceptable enough, none the less; more especially as the duties, anything but cumbersome112 at the start, dwindled113 considerably114 with lapse115 of time and presently became almost nominal116. With a small definite income to fall back upon, and plenty of leisure on his 193hands, Murger now began to give free scope to his literary impulses, passing his hours in the study of the poets, and making a humble start in his own productive career. But his good fortune was destined117 to be of short duration; for through a rather ludicrous misadventure his connection with Tolsto? was after a while brought to a sudden close. At that time he was engaged to furnish a certain amount of daily copy to one of the Parisian papers. It so chanced that during the Revolution of 1848 Tolsto? found it necessary to put his secretarial services once more into active requisition; and, what with getting off his daily supply of matter for the press and preparing dispatches for the Czar of all the Russias, the young man unexpectedly found his energies taxed to the full. One memorable120 day the functions of diplomatist and author unfortunately became entangled121, and in his hurry and excitement he sent off his feuilleton to the Russian Court and his dispatch to the “Corsaire.” With this ill-timed performance, Murger’s political career ignominiously122 ended, and—what was by far the most serious part of the matter—the monthly recompense of forty francs, which had seemed to him a veritable Peruvian gold-mine, ended also. Nor was this all. Ere this his 194mother had died, and with the cessation of her mediatorial influence, the feud123 between himself and his father had broken out afresh. Thus Murger was thrown entirely124 on his own resources, with nothing but his pen to look to for the means of support. His father peremptorily125 refused to have anything to do with him. “He contents himself with giving me advice,” wrote Henri to a friend, in a season of special tribulation126, “and with insulting me whenever we meet.” And it is well known that one cannot live on advice, while insults, though more stimulating127, are not a whit128 more nutritious129.
It was at this point, then, that Henri Murger became a dweller130 in Bohemia. He was now one of those who, in his own words, have no other means of subsistence beyond that afforded by art itself; one of those described by Balzac, “whose religion is hope, whose code is faith in oneself, whose budget is charity.” Through nearly all the varied experiences of which he was afterwards to write with such wonderfully sustained graphic8 power, the young man himself now passed; through the days of careless idleness or strenuous131 exertion132; through the nights of homeless wandering or furious dissipation; through all the grim poverty and suffering, all the doubt and 195restlessness, all the fierce fluctuations133 of assurance and despair, which presently went to the making of his book. Even while he had still been in receipt of Count Tolsto?’s allowance, things had sometimes gone hardly enough with him; for, needless to state, he was not of the thrifty or frugal134 kind, “Your friend,” he writes in a letter, as early as 1841, “has found the means of swallowing forty francs in a fortnight; but happily for him there are still forty sous left to carry him to the end of the month. His existence, then, has been during the past fortnight diversified135 with beefsteaks ... and Havana cigars”; while for the remaining two ill-omened weeks, recourse must be had to that “table d’h?te of chance” already referred to. With the discontinuance of this tiny but periodic dropping from the great Cornucopia136 of Providence137, the beefsteaks and Havana cigars became less and less frequent apparitions138 in his life, and the famous inn which bears the “Belle Etoile” as its sign and trading token, found in him a pretty constant guest. To make his shoes last more than six months, and his debts forever, now became an urgent problem for him. Sometimes fortune would pay him a flying visit, and on such occasions he describes himself as being 196temporarily in possession of more money than he knows what to do with; but libraries, tailors, restaurants, cafés, theatres, Turkish tobacco-pipes, and friends, combined to help him over this perplexing difficulty with extraordinary ease and rapidity. Once, in the intense excitement of a sudden windfall, he went to bed and dreamed that he was the Emperor of Morocco and was marrying the Bank of France. But such seasons of miraculous139 plenty were few and far between, and visions of this extraordinary kind, when they came at all, were less likely to arise from repletion140 than from an empty stomach; for sometimes he was brought face to face with actual starvation. Now, he reports borrowing right and left from any acquaintance who had a franc to lend; now, again, “S—— is paying me the thirty francs he owes me, fourteen sous at a time.” So from month to month he struggled on, without seeming to get any nearer to the goal he had in view, or, in point of fact, to any goal at all; often tortured with physical pain and privation; often driven half-wild with despair; but, after the fashion of the true Bohemian, keeping always a brave heart, and a ready jest for the good friends who stuck close to him through all, and who would have been only too willing to 197help him in his need, but for the single unfortunate circumstance that they were as badly off as himself.
Unhappily, Murger was, in one important respect, particularly ill-adapted for the kind of life into which he was thus driven. A man who trusts to his pen for daily bread should at least be a facile and ready writer, able to turn off indefinite quantities of copy in a given time, and willing to undertake the writing up of any subject upon which public interest may be temporarily aroused, and an article required. When literature becomes a business, the higher ambition to produce only good work must almost inevitably be subordinated to the lower and more practical aim of making the thing pay. Now, the difficulty with Murger was, that although literature was his livelihood, his regular trade and calling, he persistently141 refused to regard it mainly in that light—refused to sacrifice artistic excellence to temporary advantage, and to debase a sacred mission into mere routine work, the immediate142, if not indeed the sole, object of which was to turn so much intellectual labor into so much food and clothing. He himself has remarked concerning one of his characters that, after the fashion of genius—a generalization143 198which may or may not be partially144 true,—he had a tendency to be lazy. Murger was not exactly lazy; but he was whimsical and uncertain; his energies were not always under command; and he did not, with Anthony Trollope, put firmer faith in a piece of beeswax on the seat of his chair than in all the promptings of the divine afflatus145. Like Goldsmith, he recognized that the conditions of his life rendered it impossible for him to pay court to the “draggle-tail Muses”; they would simply have left him to starve outright146. So he turned to prose; but with prose things were nearly as bad. There were times when he could not and would not write—when the spirit was not upon him; and when he could not work as an artist, he would not work as a day-laborer or publisher’s drudge147. And even when he was in full swing, his delicate taste, his almost morbid148 care in composition, his constant desire to do his best, prevented him from ever producing with the rapidity necessary to make the results really remunerative149. Never, even under the greatest stress of circumstances, would he consent to write hastily, or allow his manuscript to leave his hands without what he conceived to be its proper share of thought and revision. Money to him was always the secondary 199consideration; even hunger had to wait, that the artistic sense might be satisfied. Rather than prove traitor150 to his lofty ideals, he would live for weeks on dry bread.
Thus he had more than the usual difficulty in making ends meet. But the misfortune did not stop there. A slow and exceedingly painstaking151 writer, he could produce but little in the normal hours of work; hence, the limit had to be frequently extended; and, for this purpose, recourse was had to the perilous aid of artificial stimulants152. We now touch the saddest part of Murger’s sad story. He wrote at night, and generally in bed—a practice which he had probably adopted in days when fuel was a luxury beyond his reach;[24] and his work was almost invariably done with the assistance of strong and incessant153 potations of coffee. When the house was perfectly154 quiet, when darkness and silence had fallen over the city, then Murger, like 200Balzac, commenced the labors155 of the day. With these desperate measures, there can be little doubt that he began very early to undermine a constitution which had never been robust156. The story of the habits thus formed, and of the tyranny they acquired over him, is a terribly tragic one, and might furnish a fearful warning to many a jaded157 brain-worker, did we not know that it is the everlasting158 law of human nature that no one shall profit by any one else’s experiences. “I am literally killing159 myself,” he writes to a friend. “You must break me of coffee. I count on you.” “There are nights,” he declares at another time, “when I have consumed as much as six ounces of coffee, and only end by convincing myself more than ever of my lack of power—and this, yes, this has lasted three months. So that at present I am broken down by the application of these Mochas.... And here I am still passing my nights drinking coffee like Voltaire, and smoking like Jean Bart.” As a direct consequence of these suicidal habits, he gradually contracted a terrible disease—known to medicine as “purpura”—which took him again and again to the hospital. Once, when the hand of sickness had smitten160 him with more than usual severity, he made a determined161 201attempt to reform. He banished162 his coffee, and strove, by closing the shutters163 and lighting164 the candles, to trick himself into working, not of course by daylight, but simply during the day. But it was too late to inaugurate so radical165 a change. Ere long his nocturnal instincts reasserted themselves, and continued in full force to the end of his career. Doubtless, it is in the pathological conditions thus brought about, that we have to seek the explanation of the fearful restlessness which presently came to characterize him, and which earned for him the nickname of the Wandering Christian167.
It was only after his constitution had been shattered, and he had grown prematurely168 old, that Murger found his way out of Bohemia. The path into that land of glamour169 and enchantments170 had been easy enough, like the road to Avernus; the passage back again into the common world was in his case, as in the case of so many others, a steep and difficult one. But after months and years of toil95 and waiting, success came at last, and little by little he was able to break with tenacious171 old associations, and settle down to a more steady and regular routine of life. He established a connection with the “Revue des Deux Mondes”; and with a 202position now practically assured, took up his abode172 at Marlotte, near Fontainebleau. Here he had every chance of restoring his enfeebled health, and starting his career anew upon a different and a wiser plan. But the hour had gone by. A brief period of work and quiet happiness was brought to a close in January, 1861, when Henri Murger breathed his last in the house where he had already spent so many weeks of suffering—in the H?pital St. Louis. He had not completed his thirty-ninth year.
Of the general work of Murger, this is not the place to speak. It is considerable in quantity, and much of it has substantial claim to critical attention; for his prose is finely wrought173, and his lyrics—instance the superb “Chanson de Musette,” so highly but justly praised by Gautier,—are sometimes of rare purity and sweetness. But it is by the “Scenes of Bohemian Life,” and by these alone, after all, that Murger keeps his hold to-day upon the broader reading public. It has been said that he only wrote at his best when he was writing straight out of his own life. This is perhaps at bottom the reason why this one singular book possesses vitality174 far in excess of all his other productions. These 203may still be read with enjoyment175, though in the tremendous stress of modern affairs, and with the ceaseless activity of the printing-press, they are more likely to be ignored by all but special students. But the “Scenes of Bohemian Life,” as Mr. Saintsbury has rightly insisted, take a permanent place in the literature of humanity. Here we may notice one more illustration of the curiously176 distorted judgments177 which authors often pass upon their own works. In later years he was accustomed to speak slightingly and almost petulantly179 of the volume which has carried his name over into a new generation; even, it is said, going so far as to affirm that “that devil of a book will hinder me from ever crossing the Pont des Arts”—that is, from entering the Academy, which was one of the unfulfilled ambitions of his life. But, in another and finer sense, it has placed his name among those of the Immortals180.
We may now pass from the author to his volume, on the title-page of which he might well have written the famous quorum181 pars182 magna fui of Virgil’s hero. “Murger, c’est la Bohème, comme la Bohème fut Murger,” was the declaration of one of his personal friends; and the stuff of his wonderful scenes, with all their extravagance 204and rollicking absurdity183, with all their poignant184 pathos and whimsical humor, is, as we have said, stuff furnished by close observation and intimate experience, though the crude material is transmuted185 into gold by the secret alchemy of genius. It has been said that many of Murger’s chapters were actually written—in the French phrase, for which we have no satisfactory equivalent—au jour le jour; that he made the scenes of his Bohemian life into literature, so to speak, while they were still being enacted186. To this effect Théophile de Banville reported that “that which was done by Rodolphe”—who, as we shall presently see, is generally to be identified with Murger himself—“during the month when he was Mademoiselle Mimi’s neighbor, has perhaps had no parallel since letters began. His days he passed in composing verses, sketching188 plots of plays, and covering Mimi’s hands with kisses as with a glove; but his daily bread was his feuilleton for the ‘Corsaire,’ and as Rodolphe had neither money nor books to invent anything but his own life, each evening he wrote as a feuilleton for the ‘Corsaire’ the life of that day, and each day he lived the feuilleton for the next. It was thus that the morrow of I know not what quarrel, after the 205fashion of the lovers of Horace, Mimi, leaning on her lover’s arm, was bowed to in the Luxembourg by the poet of the ‘Feuilles d’Automne,’ and returned home quite proud to the Rue39 des Canettes; and that same evening Rodolphe wrote on this theme one of his most delightful190 chapters.”[25] This account of the connection between Murger’s book and his daily life, probably overstates the matter, or is to be accepted as approximately true only in regard to exceptional occurrences, like the one directly referred to. But that the substance of the volume was throughout furnished by experience is certain. The principal characters, and even some of the minor191 ones, have long since been traced back to their archetypes; the spots rendered famous by 206many a memorable scene—such as the Café Momus and the shop of the old Jewish bric-a-brac dealer192, Father Médicis—are known to have actually existed in the old Latin Quarter, though in the evolution of modern Paris the historic landmarks have been swept away; while there is no question that in most of his stories Murger either drew immediately upon actual circumstances, or at least built his superstructure of fancy upon a very solid foundation of fact.
The heroes of the “Scenes of Bohemian Life” are four in number. To each member of the strange group—the “Quatuor Murger,” as it came to be called—we will yield the honor of a separate paragraph or two of characterization.
First we have Alexandre Schaunard, who, though he cultivates “the two liberal arts of painting and music,” devotes the larger part of his attention to the latter, and is indeed particularly engaged at the time when we make his acquaintance, in the composition of an elaborate symbolic193 symphony which might almost be said to anticipate some of the crazy theories of more recent doctrinaires, representing as it does “the influence of blue in the arts.” This strange production had a real existence, and its originator in 207the book has been identified with Alexandre Schaune, who also drove an artistic tandem194 with much enthusiasm for a season, though he subsequently forsook195 Bohemia and adopted a more profitable career in the toy-making business. He and Murger became acquainted in 1841, lived together at one time in the closest intimacy196 in the Rue de la Harpe, and remained friends till the latter’s death. Schaune survived among “new faces, other minds,” till 1887, and only a short time before he died published some memoirs197 which contain many matters of interest for the Murger student. He bore among his companions the nickname of Schannard-sauvage, and in Murger’s original manuscript the name was so written—Schannard. By a printer’s error, however, the first n was turned into a u, and the historian thought well, in reading the proof, to let the blunder pass.
Schaunard in the book is specially96 distinguished198 among his acquaintances for having raised borrowing to the level of a fine art. By dint199 of many careful observations and delicate experiments he has discovered the days when each one of his friends is accustomed to receive money, and thus, following the periodic ebb200 and flow of the financial tide, spares himself the 208trouble and annoyance201 of appealing to the generosity202 of those who, at the given moment, are likely to be in as low water as himself. Having, furthermore, “learned the way to borrow five francs in all the languages of the globe,” the painter-musician is able, as a rule, to keep pretty firmly on his feet. By a critical friend he was once described as “passing one half of his time in looking for money to pay his creditors204, and the other half in eluding205 his creditors when the money has been found.”[26] But it should be remembered that this calls for some discount as a friend’s judgment178, and likely, therefore, to be a trifle over-colored; and it is but doing justice to Schaunard to say that, towards the immediate companions who had come to his rescue from time to time, he behaved upon a more honorable plan. To facilitate, and at the same time to equalize so far as possible, the “taxes” which he levied206, he “had drawn up, in order of districts and streets, an alphabetical207 list containing the names of all his friends and acquaintances. 209Opposite each name was inscribed208 the maximum sum which, having regard to their state of fortune, he might borrow from them, the times when they were in funds, their dinner-hour, and the ordinary bill of fare of the house. Beside this list, Schaunard kept in perfect order a little ledger209, in which he entered the amounts lent to him, down to the minutest fractions; for he would never go beyond a certain figure, which was within the fortune of a Norman uncle whose heir he was.[27] As soon as he owed twenty francs to an individual, he closed the account, and liquidated210 it at a single payment, even if for the purpose he had to borrow from others to whom he owed less. In this way he always kept up a certain credit, which he called his floating debt, and as people knew that he was accustomed to pay when his personal resources permitted, they willingly obliged him when they could.”
Schaunard plays his part to the amusement, if not always to the edification, of the reader in many delightful episodes in the “Scenes.” It is through his misadventures with his landlord that the establishment of the club is largely, though indirectly211, brought about; it is he who 210paints the provincial212 Blancheron’s portrait in fancy dressing-gown, while Marcel goes off to dine with a deputy in his—the said Blancheron’s—coat; it is he, again, who is hired by an Englishman to play the piano from morning till night, as a means of getting even with an actress living near by, whose parrot and shrill213 declamation214 combined, have proved rather too much for even British nerves,—a transaction out of which, we need scarcely add, the virtuoso215 made a good deal more money than he did from his famous symphony. On the whole, however, of the four friends with whose doings our volume is mainly occupied, Schaunard is by far the least attractive figure. He is coarse and morose216; has a harsh, rasping voice; is apt to be put out about trifles; sometimes treats his male friends with scant217 courtesy; and has an unpleasant habit of employing, with his more intimate associates of the other sex, Captain Marryatt’s argumentum ad feminam—in other words, of conversing219 with them occasionally through the medium of a stout220 cane189. Poor Phémie—the melancholy221 Phémie—had every right more than once or twice to complain of the strength and efficacy of his logic166; nor were matters made very much better for her, we may opine, when, after one of their 211quarrels, he gave her in grim joke, and as a keepsake, the stick with which he had addressed to her so many telling remarks.
After Schaunard comes Marcel the painter, a character of more amiable222 type, who appears to be a compound portrait of the two artists, Tabar and Lazare. He is essentially223 a good fellow, bright, enthusiastic, happy-go-lucky, and shiftless; and though, after the fashion of the world in which he lives, he has an “insolent confidence in luck,” he is manly105 enough, upon occasion, to “give fortune a helping224 hand.” He is the hero of many amazing and some very ludicrous adventures, of which we can find space here only for a single specimen225. Like Schaunard, he is devoting as much of his time and energy as he can save from the manufacture of pot-boilers and the consideration of the “terrible daily problem of how to get breakfast,” to the composition of one great work, which is to be his open sesame to fame—“The Passage of the Red Sea.”[28] Was ever so much labor expended226 with such little practical result, one may wonder, by any artist whatsoever227—painter, musician, or 212poet? For five or six years Marcel had worked away at his canvas with unflagging diligence and courage, and “for five or six years this masterpiece of color had been obstinately228 refused by the jury”; so that, by dint of going and returning from the artist’s studio to the exhibition, and from the exhibition back to the studio, the picture had come to know the way so well, that, had it been set on wheels, it could have gone to the Louvre by itself. Marcel, of course, attributed the policy of the jury to the personal spite of its members, and persisted, in the teeth of all discouragement, in regarding his production as the pendant to “The Marriage in Cana.” Hence, nothing daunted229, he returned again and again to his vast design, after indulging in a sufficient amount of abuse to relieve his ruffled230 temper. At length, under conviction that the child of this world might possibly succeed where the child of light had failed, he began to seek for means whereby, without altering the general plan of his gigantic undertaking231, he might deceive the jury in supposing it to be an entirely fresh and hitherto unexamined work. Thus, one year he turned Pharaoh into C?sar, and the “Passage of the Red Sea” became “The Passage of the Rubicon.” This ruse232 failing, he 213covered, as by miracle, the Red Sea with snow, planted a fir-tree in one corner thereof, dressed an Egyptian in the costume of the Imperial Guard, and sent forth59 his canvas as “The Passage of the Beresina.” But, unfortunately, the jury had wiped its glasses that day and was not to be duped. It recognized the inexorable picture by dint of a multi-colored horse—his “synoptic table of fine colors,” Marcel privately233 called this astonishing steed—that went prancing234 about on the top of a wave of the Red Sea; and again the masterpiece was churlishly blackballed. “Till my dying day I will send my picture to the judges,” vowed235 Marcel, after this new repulse236; “it shall be engraved237 on their memories.”—“The surest way of ever getting it engraved,” remarked Colline, who chanced to be near by. And so the poor painter might have been left to try further and still wilder experiments, but for the kindly238 intervention239 of Daddy Médicis, an old Jew who had constant dealings with the Bohemians, and often managed to do them a friendly turn without, as may be imagined, sacrificing himself overmuch in the transaction. This singular individual, coming one evening to Marcel’s room, offered to purchase the famous picture “for the collection of a rich amateur,” 214and proposed one hundred and fifty francs as a fair price. At first, the artist grumbled240; there was at least a hundred and fifty francs’ worth of cobalt in the dress of Pharaoh alone, he protested. But the Jew stood firm, and at last the painter yielded; whereupon Daddy Médicis gave the Bohemians a dinner, at which “the lobster241 ceased to be a myth for Schaunard, who contracted for this amphibious creature a passion bordering on madness.” As for Marcel himself, his intoxication242 came near upon having deplorable results. Passing his tailor’s shop, at two o’clock in the morning, he actually wanted to wake up his creditor203, and give him on account the hundred and fifty francs he had just received. A ray of reason, which still flitted in the mind of Colline, stopped the artist on the brink243 of this precipice244.
And now for the sequel of the story.
“A week after these festivities, Marcel found out the gallery in which his picture had been placed. In passing through the Faubourg St. Honoré, he stopped in the midst of a group which seemed to be watching with curious interest a sign that was being placed over a shop. This sign was neither more nor less than Marcel’s picture, which had been sold by Médicis to a grocer. Only, ‘The Passage of the Red Sea’ had undergone one more change, and bore a new name. 215A steamboat had been added, and it was now called ‘The Harbor of Marseilles.’ The curious onlookers245, when they saw the picture, burst out in a flattering ovation246; and Marcel returned home in ecstasy247 over the triumph, murmuring—‘The voice of the people is the voice of God.’”
What part the synoptic charger was now called on to fill, unfortunately we cannot say.
The third member of our quartet is Gustave Colline, student of “hyperphysical philosophy,” and inveterate248 perpetrator of alarming puns. He too is a composite character, the principal ingredients of his make-up being furnished by two of Murger’s old associates—Jean Walton and Trapadoux, both of whom were men of immense and curious erudition and many eccentricities249. Colline himself, of a somewhat more steady way of life than his companions, gains a fairly regular income by teaching mathematics, botany, Arabic, and various other subjects, as occasion demands, and spends the greater part of it in the accumulation of second-hand250 books. “What he did with all these volumes,” remarks the historian, “so numerous that the life of a man would never have sufficed to read them, no one knew—he least of all.” But still he goes on adding tome to tome, and when he chances to return to his lodgings251 at night without bringing 216a new specimen to his store, he feels that, like the good Titus, he has wasted his day. Thus his strange, shapeless mouth, pouting252 lips, double chin, shaggy light hair, and threadbare, hazel-colored overcoat, are well known upon the quays253 and wherever ancient volumes are exposed for sale. His tastes are catholic in the extreme; for he will buy anything and everything that is to be bought, provided only it is rare, out of the way, and for all practical purposes useless. Some idea of the range and versatility254 of his interests may be given by reference to a single episode in his history. When, in company with Marcel, Rodolphe gave that famous Christmas entertainment, whereof the record is to be found in its proper place in the annals of Bohemia, he insisted on borrowing for the occasion the philosopher’s famous swallowtail coat. Now, this coat, as the chronicler justly suggests, deserves a word or two. By courtesy it was held to be black by candle-light, though it was really of a decided255 blue. It was also cut upon a wild and startling plan, very short in the waist and exceedingly long in the tails. But its most astonishing features were the pockets—“positive gulfs, in which Colline was accustomed to lodge256 some thirty of the volumes which he everlastingly257 carried about with 217him; which caused his friends to say that during the times when the libraries were closed scientists and men of letters could always seek information in the skirts of Colline’s coat—a library always open to readers.” Well, on this particular day, strange to relate, the great swallowtail apparently258 harbored only a quarto volume of Bayle, a treatise259 in three volumes on the hyperphysical faculties260, a volume of Condillac, two of Swedenborg, and Pope’s “Essay on Man.” “Hullo!” exclaimed Rodolphe, when the philosopher had turned out this odd collection and allowed the other to don the imposing261 habit; “the left pocket still feels very heavy; there is still something in it.”—“Ah!” replied Colline, “that is true; I forgot to empty the foreign language pocket.” Whereupon he drew out two Arabic grammars, a Malay dictionary, and “The Perfect Stock-Breeder” in Chinese—his favorite reading.[29] Nor was this quite all. Later on, in looking for his handkerchief, Rodolphe came accidentally upon a small Tartar volume, overlooked in the department of foreign literature.
218For the rest, Colline is a very agreeable companion, pleasant of manner, and courteous262 of bearing; and his conversation is amusingly spiced with quaint99 technical expressions and the most outrageous263 puns. Unlike his three companions, who are in perpetual bondage264 to love, he passes on, for the most part, in bachelor meditation265, fancy free, as becomes a philosopher of the “hyperphysical school.” Once in a while, we find him flirting266 a little with the bonne amie of one of his friends, and we recall a single occasion on which, according to his own statement, he had an appointment of a romantic character. We read also, in the most incidental way, of his devotion to a waistcoat-maker, whom he keeps day and night copying the manuscripts of his philosophical267 works. But at these, as at all other times, the lady of his affections remains268 “invisible and anonymous269.” In general, it may be said that he shows himself markedly superior to the human weakness which does so much to disturb the byways of Bohemia no less than the highways of the outer world.
Music, painting, and philosophy are thus well represented in the Bohemian cénacle, and in Rodolphe, the last of the group, the sister art of poetry finds a worthy270 exponent271. Rodolphe 219is the real hero of the book, and is indeed an approximately faithful sketch187 of the author himself. In the fancy-poet of the Latin Quarter, the man who, in the very cut of his clothes, manners, appearance, conversation, “confessed his association with the Muses,” many of Murger’s well-known traits of character and personal idiosyncrasies are frankly272 reproduced. We have a brief but sufficiently273 detailed274 description of him when he makes his first appearance in the Café Momus, and there can be no doubt as to the artist’s model from which the study is made. He is presented as “a young man whose face was almost lost in an enormous thicket275 of many-colored beard. But, as a set-off against this abundance of hair on the chin, a precocious276 baldness had dismantled277 his forehead, which looked like a knee, and the nakedness of which a few stray hairs that one might have counted vainly endeavored to cover. He wore a black coat, tonsured278 at the elbows, and with practical ventilators under the armpits, which could be seen whenever he raised his arm too high. His trousers might once have been black, but his shoes, which had never been new, seemed to have several times made the tour of the world on the feet of the Wandering Jew.” In all this—in the precocious 220baldness and parti-colored beard especially—we have the historian of Bohemia himself. We do not, therefore, wonder that the character of Rodolphe should stand out from among the other figures of the “Scenes,” by reason of a certain autobiographic distinctness of outline and color, nor that he should prevail upon us by a kind of personal charm which his companions rarely possess.
To follow Rodolphe’s various adventures and enterprises back to their originals in Murger’s life, would be an interesting task, but it is one that cannot be attempted here; and for the time being we must keep to the poet in the book. Like his friends Schaunard and Marcel, this young man has pinned his faith to one ambitious work, a drama called the “The Avenger,” which has already gone the round of all the theatres of Paris, and of which in the course of a couple of years, he has accumulated a dozen or so huge manuscript copies, weighing collectively something like fifteen pounds. “The Avenger” was ultimately produced, and ran for five successive nights, after large portions of these carefully wrought versions had been used up in the humble service of lighting the fire. But this does not come till towards the end of the story; and 221during the days when we know him best, Rodolphe, awaiting his dramatic triumph, is willing enough to turn his literary talents to account in less dignified14 ways. The main sources of his income appear to be “The Scarf of Iris,” a fashion-journal, and “The Castor,” a paper devoted279 to the interests of the hat-trade, both of which he edits, and in which he publishes from time to time his opinions on tragedy and kindred subjects. It is to the columns of the latter periodical, by-the-by, that Gustave Colline contributes a discussion on “The Philosophy of Hats, and Other Things in General”—how much to the amusement and instruction of its readers we are unfortunately not told. Probably the financial advantages of these two undertakings280 are of a rather slight and unsubstantial character; at any rate, the editor-in-chief shows himself at all times ready to supplement his official emoluments281 whensoever occasion offers. Witness his most famous piece of hack-work, the composition of “The Perfect Chimney Constructor.” Rodolphe, who has been sadly down on his luck for a time—fluctuating between going to bed without supper and supping without going to bed—happens accidentally to run across his Uncle Monetti, a stove-maker and physician of 222smoky chimneys, whom he has not seen for an age. Now, Monsieur Monetti is an enthusiast in his art, and has conceived the idea of drawing up for the benefit of future generations, a manual of chimney-construction, in which his own numerous patents shall be given adequate presentation. Finding his nephew fallen upon evil days, he intrusts him with this literary enterprise, promising282 him a remuneration of three hundred francs, and rashly giving him outright fifty francs on account. Of course, Rodolphe incontinently disappears, and only turns up again when the money has disappeared also. Uncle Monetti then resorts to drastic measures. He locks the volatile283 young gentleman in a small room, six stories up, with stoves and ovens for his company, and takes away his clothes, leaving in their stead a ridiculous Turkish dressing-gown. In this attic284 solitude285 the unfortunate young poet is fain to wax eloquent286 over ventilators, till he is rescued in the most romantic way by a certain Mademoiselle Sidonia, as the reader will find recorded at length in its proper place in the Bohemian chronicles.
In connection with one extraordinary episode in Rodolphe’s career—his sudden receipt of five hundred francs in hard cash—we have an 223excellent opportunity of studying some of the mysteries of Bohemian finance. He and Marcel, who was then his fellow-lodger, regarded this colossal287 sum as practically inexhaustible; they were not a little surprised, therefore, to find, before a fortnight had gone by, that it had vanished into air, as though by magic. The strictest frugality288 had presided over all their expenditures289, and the question was, where in the world the money could have gone to. Into this problem the two economists290 forthwith made inquisition, analyzing291 their accounts, and carefully weighing them item by item. This is about the way in which the audit292 was conducted:—
“March 19.—Received five hundred francs. Paid, one Turkish pipe, twenty-five francs; dinner, fifteen francs; miscellaneous expenses, forty francs,” Marcel read out.
“What in the world are these miscellaneous expenses?” asked Rodolphe.
“You know well enough,” said the other. “It was the evening when we didn’t come home till morning. At any rate, that saved us fuel and candles.”
There is nothing like rigid293 economy, as we see.
“March 20.—Breakfast, one franc, fifty centimes; tobacco, twenty centimes; dinner, two 224francs; an opera glass”—needed by Rodolphe, who, as editor of the “Scarf of Iris,” had to write a notice of an art exhibition; and so on, and so on. As the account continued, “miscellaneous expenses” reappeared with ever-increasing frequency; indeed, the two financiers had in the end to admit that this “vague and perfidious294 title,” as Rodolphe called it, had proved a delusion295 and a snare296.
Such, then, are the four principal characters with whose doings and misdoings the “Scenes of Bohemian Life” are mainly occupied. A word only about the women of the book.
It is while he is in their company, I suppose, more than at any other time, that the Anglo-Saxon reader feels how far the pathways of Bohemia lie outside the boundaries of respectable society. Louise, the fickle297 bird of passage; Musette, vagabond and careless; Mimi, charming, heartless, ill-fated; Phémie, beneath whose delicate exterior298 was concealed299 a veritable volcano of passion;—yes, the face of the moralist will certainly harden as he dwells on the giddy vagrancy300 of their lives, and the hopeless tragedy in which the music and the laughter inevitably find their earthly close. About this matter I 225shall try to say something presently. For the moment I want only to point out that, though the women of Murger’s book are drawn from known or conjectured301 originals, the portraiture302 does not seem to be nearly as close as it is throughout in the case of the men. This does not mean only that each girl in the “Scenes” is a more or less blurred303 compound of various famous figures of the old Latin Quarter; it means, also—and this is, of course, far more important,—that the characters have undergone much transfiguration. The magic and grace by which, amid all their personal shortcomings and delinquencies, these heedless adventurers of the studio and the café are actually marked, are largely, it is to be feared, the results of Murger’s own idealizing imagination and delicately poetic304 touch.
There is an important point, suggested by the present part of our subject, which demands a moment’s attention. The principle indicated in the well-known lines of Lafontaine—
“Deux coqs vivaient en paix: une poule survint,
Et voilà la guerre allumée!”—
is generally held to be one of universal applicability. But the life of our Bohemian brotherhood305 for once gives it the lie direct. Never, 226even in the most trying seasons of love and jealousy306, did the ties slacken which bound the four companions—Colline, the great philosopher; Marcel, the great painter; Schaunard, the great musician; and Rodolphe, the great poet—as they called one another. Rodolphe and Mimi might lead a cat-and-dog life; Marcel might quarrel with Musette, and make it up only to quarrel again; Schaunard might see fit to address some of his telling observations to the person of the melancholy Phémie; but artist and poet, philosopher and painter, rubbed on together in peace; and if the truth must be told, smoked many a pipe in company over the grave of their dead passions. Truly the domestic side of their life left much to be desired. At one time they all occupied the same house, and then the unfortunate neighbors lived, as it were, on a volcano. Six months went by; things grew daily more and more intolerable; and then the final breaking-up of the establishment came about. “But,” adds Murger—and the remark exhibits clearly the kind of understanding which existed among the strangely-assorted friends—“in this association, despite the three young and pretty women who formed part of it, no sign of discord307 appeared among the men. They frequently gave 227way to the most absurd caprices of their mistresses; but not one of them would have hesitated a moment between the woman and the friend.”
Amid all the uncertainties and anxieties, the follies308 and the vices118 of their daily life, these brother Bohemians are possessed309 of a very keen and genuine enthusiasm for art, and of a sturdy faith in themselves and their own high calling. This is one good aspect of their character; another and complementary aspect, upon which Murger lays much stress, is their complete freedom from stiff-necked virtuosity310 and dilettante311 affectations. There are Bohemians who chatter312 only of “art for art’s sake,” who hold with inflexible313 obstinacy314 and stoical pride to the narrow path they have marked out for themselves, who scorn to descend72, upon any pretext315, for any purpose whatsoever, to the plane of common affairs. But Murger takes pains to make it clear that Rodolphe and his friends do not belong to this unfortunate class—the “Buveurs d’Eau,” as they are called, the first tenet of whose creed316 is that no one of their number, on penalty of expulsion from the society, shall accept any work outside pure art itself.[30] Rodolphe, as we 228know, is working hard upon his great tragedy; Marcel, upon his “Passage of the Red Sea”; Schaunard, upon his symbolic symphony; Colline, upon his system of “Hyperphysical Philosophy”: but there are no cant218 phrases of art-worship everlastingly upon their lips, and they are ready enough to turn their energies, when opportunity offers, into more remunerative, if less ambitious, undertakings. We have seen something already of the practical means, sometimes adopted by them, of putting a figure before the cipher317, which unfortunately, as a rule, constitutes their entire available capital. If further evidence be demanded, we need only refer to the occasions when Rodolphe versifies an epitaph for an inconsolable widow and turns off a rhyming advertisement for a dentist, and when Marcel paints eight grenadiers at six francs apiece—likenesses guaranteed for a year, like a watch.
Of the “Scenes of Bohemian Life” as a whole, it would be hopeless to endeavor to give any general idea within the limits of a rapid sketch. It is little to say that from cover to 229cover of this wonderful book there is not a dull or indifferent page—not a page that does not teem318 with quaint description, brilliant bits of characterization, vivid pictures of manners and life. Of the range and opulence319 of its humor some hint has perhaps been given, though the merest hint only, in the personal delineations attempted above. Mirth-compelling the “Scenes” certainly are, and we feel in their case, as we cannot always feel with the masterpieces of the French comic genius, that the laughter they provoke is generous, hearty320, wholesome321—laughter without taint64 of cynicism or spite. But the humor of the volume, rich and racy as it is, and the ebullient322 wit that glitters and flashes in its dialogues and incidental touches of comment and criticism, are not by any means the only qualities that deserve attention. Murger was a true humorist, and, like all true humorists, he had the keenest realization323 of the pathos and tragedy of life, the most delicate apprehension324 of “the sense of tears in mortal things.” Though it can hardly be said of the “Scenes of Bohemian Life,” as it has been rightly said of the great body of the author’s work, that the dominant325 note is one of poignant melancholy, the minor chords are heavy and frequent enough to tone down the exuberant326 230gayety of the volume, and to cause the final impression left by it to be rather sombre than exhilarating. Murger saw much of the reckless and irresponsible life of the Latin Quarter on its grotesque327 side, and he has given this side extraordinary prominence328 in this particular book, reserving many of the harsher features, which from personal contact he knew equally well, for the “Scenes de la Vie de Jeunesse” and the “Buveurs d’Eau.” But the reader who follows to their close the chapters we have here more especially been considering—and who can put them down unfinished?—will find that their brilliancy of light and color are thrown up against a very dark background, and that the shadows gather and deepen about us as the story runs its course. At length, the wild music ceases altogether; the mad laughter is silenced; and the book is laid by, not with a burst of final merriment, but with a gulp330 and a pang331. Ah, comme nous avons ri! Yes, the struggles, the privations, the absurdities332 of Bohemia are comical enough; but life is stern, even in this Land of Romance; there is death in it, and many a heartbreak; and if we escape the suffering of failure, we must accept the inevitable333 disillusion334 of success. Life, too, is fleeting335; the golden sands slip through our fingers as we try 231to clutch them. Eheu fugaces! It is the old-world burden that we must needs end with—“La jeunesse n’a qu’un temps!”
No—“ce n’est pas gai tous les jours, la Bohème.” For my own part, I know not whither one could turn to find pages of purer tenderness and pathos than those in which Murger has written of Francine’s muff and of the death of poor little Mimi. And yet, there is no effort, no melodramatic striving after effect. The lips quiver, the eyes grow dim as we read; but so admirably is the art concealed, so perfect is the reserve under which it is all done, that it is only when we come to turn back over the chapters for the express purpose of analyzing them, that we begin to realize the author’s exquisite336 perception and tact329, and the genius with which he carries his meaning straight home to our hearts. Poor Francine! Poor Mimi! These fragile slips of womanhood from the dingy old Latin Quarter are filled with the life that the poet alone can give. We meet them once in a few pages of print; and their hungry eyes and poor, worn faces linger with us forever.
And now we must revert337 for a moment to a question already touched on—the loose morality 232not infrequently charged against this record of Bohemian life. I promised that I should try to say something about this matter ere I brought these jottings to a close; but now that it is definitely before us, I do not feel, after all, that there is very much to be said. Our judgment on such a book as this, ethically338 considered, must finally depend on the point of view from which we regard it, and this point of view will always be at bottom so much an affair of temperament339, outlook, training, bias340, that it is not likely to be much affected341 by any arguments, adverse342 or favorable. “Certainly,” Murger once imagines one of his readers saying, “I shall not allow this story to fall into the hands of my daughter.” To this, doubtless, most Anglo-Saxon fathers would say amen, and there is little question that they would, on the whole, be wise in so doing. I readily admit that it would be better that the perusal343 of such a work as this, as of many other great and enduring pieces of literature, should be left for those whose minds have been schooled and sobered by the discipline of real life, and who are thus in a position to bring Murger’s imaginary scenes, with all their bewitching humor, magic of description, and charm of style, to the touchstone of actual experience. But 233while I concede this much, I cannot for a moment go with those who would, therefore, place the volume on their unofficial “Index Expurgatorius,” on the score that it will be found dangerous to morality. Such a notion seems to me simply absurd, and due to an entire misapprehension of what it is in literature that renders it injurious in its effects. Murger drew his material from a world he had known and lived in, and he incorporates all its irregularities of conduct, and very much of its wantonness. Yet I challenge any intelligent and broad-minded reader to deny that the atmosphere of his “Scenes” is almost always fresh and wholesome. Those at least who know something of the French novel, from “La Dame344 aux Camélias” onward345, and of some of the English fiction produced within recent decades, by writers who boldly claim place in the ranks of the moralists, will hardly feel called upon to attack our author on this particular head. Nowhere, let it be said emphatically, does Murger deliberately346 give himself up to the worship of the great Goddess of Lubricity; nowhere does he willingly throw the halo of poetry over mere physical passion; nowhere does he go out of his way to show vice119 as vice in glowing or attractive colors. These may read 234like phrases of the most conventional criticism, but they are here thoroughly347 to the point. The very story which the writer stops short for a moment to interject the imaginary comment quoted above, is as pure and delicate as a love-story well could be, and only a reader capable of sucking poison out of a lily, could be disturbed in the slightest degree by the irregularity of the relations existing between Jacques and poor Francine. It can never be often urged that in such a case as this—perhaps in all art whatsoever—the one fundamentally essential thing is treatment; and with Murger’s handling of his theme, no possible fault could be found, even by the most austere348 and exacting349 critic.
A more substantial charge may, I think, be brought against the “Scenes,” on the ground that in their delightful pages the shiftless, improvident350, hand-to-mouth existence of Rodolphe and his friends is made too engaging and seductive. Are there not, it may be asked, scores of young men who believe that they have (in very large capitals) Genius and a Mission in Art, and who need nothing but the incentive351 of such a volume as this to lead them to throw aside the sober concerns of law or commerce, and voluntarily exchange a career of useful, if monotonous352, toil, 235for one wherein immediate misery is practically certain, and ultimate success only a remote chance? Youths of some sensibility and ambition, who hate the counting-house and the desk; who have written verses or made sketches353 which have been praised by injudicious friends; and who have devoured354 the numerous biographies of those who, having commenced life in uncongenial labor, boldly kicked over the traces and finally made for themselves a position and a name, are prone355 enough, it may be alleged356, to mistake themselves for great men in embryo357, and to set up their backs against the daily routine and the common task, without the aid of a book which paints Bohemia so constantly on its pleasantest side, and gives to even its struggles and sufferings a romantic charm, which the jog-trot round of experience does not possess. All this, perhaps, is true. At any rate, I have myself known one young fellow of the class referred to who, under Murger’s inspiration, played for a time at Bohemianism, allowed his hair to grow down over his shoulders, wore by preference a threadbare coat, and posed as an unappreciated genius. His genius, I believe, remains unrecognized still; but he has long since assumed a respectable garb358, and given other outward and 236visible signs of his perversion359 to conventionality. And yet, even with this instructive case well in mind, I think too much might easily be made of the harmful tendencies of Murger’s book. The Sturm und Drang period of youth, the period of ferment360, and aimless experiment, and general unrest, will always be fraught361 with perils of one or another kind; and a few wild dreams of vague ambition, some spiritual green-sickness, an attack or two of the hysterics of social revolt, a little affectation of Byronism, or Shelleyism, or Murgerism, are not the worst of these. Fortunately, the real world is a businesslike and remorseless disciplinarian, and in the school of practical experience, a nature essentially healthy will presently right itself, and be none the worse—perhaps even the better—for a handful of battered362 illusions and some pricked363 bubbles of fancy. And as for the natures not fundamentally healthy—well, Life the Schoolmistress has her own effectual way with these also.
But should there perchance be any young man in danger of taking the Bohemian fever a trifle too seriously, we will refer him for treatment to a very satisfactory physician, a specialist, one may say, in the complaint—Murger himself. Properly read, and read through to the end, the 237“Scenes” should prove their own corrective; and if their full significance is not clear, the preface furnishes the needed commentary. It is but simple justice to Murger to say that he himself had no sympathy whatever with the indefinite ambitions and mawkish364 sentimentalism of a certain class of young men, who mistake the cravings of aspiration53 for the promptings of genius, and turn to art because they are fit for nothing else. Again and again does he insist upon the stern realities of the artist’s probation; again and again does he raise the voice of warning to those who would rashly decide to commit themselves to the artist’s career.
“Il en est dans les luttes de l’art à peu près comme à la guerre—toute la gloire conquise rejaillit sur le nom des chefs. L’armée se partage pour récompense les quelques lignes d’un ordre du jour. Quant aux soldats frappés dans le combat, on les enterre là où ils sont tombés, et une seule épitaphe suffit pour vingt mille morts.”[31]
These are solemn and uncompromising words. And scarcely less solemn are the phrases in which he describes the life of Bohemia as “charming but terrible, having its conquerors365 and its martyrs”—a life upon which no one should enter 238“who is not prepared beforehand to submit to the inexorable law of V? Victis!” Woe366 to the conquered indeed! In the brilliant pages of the world’s history, the name and fortune of the one who succeeds alone are inscribed; those of the nine hundred and ninety-nine who ignominiously and miserably367 fail pass into everlasting oblivion.
The End
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1
commentators
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| n.评论员( commentator的名词复数 )；时事评论员；注释者；实况广播员 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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authoritatively
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| 命令式地，有权威地，可信地 | |
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calumny
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| n.诽谤，污蔑，中伤 | |
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cryptic
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| adj.秘密的，神秘的，含义模糊的 | |
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geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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succinctly
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| adv.简洁地；简洁地，简便地 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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tally
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| n.计数器，记分，一致，测量；vt.计算，记录，使一致；vi.计算，记分，一致 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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acrobats
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| n.杂技演员( acrobat的名词复数 )；立场观点善变的人，主张、政见等变化无常的人 | |
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itinerant
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| adj.巡回的；流动的 | |
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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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depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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denizens
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| n.居民，住户( denizen的名词复数 ) | |
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penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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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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probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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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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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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accredited
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| adj.可接受的；可信任的；公认的；质量合格的v.相信( accredit的过去式和过去分词 )；委托；委任；把…归结于 | |
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adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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43
chasms
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| 裂缝( chasm的名词复数 )； 裂口； 分歧； 差别 | |
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44
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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45
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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46
distractions
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| n.使人分心的事[人]( distraction的名词复数 )；娱乐，消遣；心烦意乱；精神错乱 | |
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47
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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48
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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49
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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50
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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51
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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52
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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53
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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54
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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55
grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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56
tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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57
haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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58
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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59
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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61
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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62
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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63
uncertainties
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| 无把握( uncertainty的名词复数 )； 不确定； 变化不定； 无把握、不确定的事物 | |
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64
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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probationary
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| 试用的，缓刑的 | |
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Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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71
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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72
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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74
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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perpetuated
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| vt.使永存（perpetuate的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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vagrants
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| 流浪者( vagrant的名词复数 )； 无业游民； 乞丐； 无赖 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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81
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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82
itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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83
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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84
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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85
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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88
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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89
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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92
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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93
tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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95
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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96
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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97
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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98
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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99
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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100
janitor
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| n.看门人，管门人 | |
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101
propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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102
adept
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| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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103
shears
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| n.大剪刀 | |
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104
thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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105
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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106
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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107
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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108
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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109
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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110
inditing
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作，赋诗，创作( indite的现在分词 ) | |
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111
stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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112
cumbersome
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| adj.笨重的，不便携带的 | |
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113
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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115
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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116
nominal
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| adj.名义上的；(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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117
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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118
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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119
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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120
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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121
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
ignominiously
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| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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123
feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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124
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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125
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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126
tribulation
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| n.苦难，灾难 | |
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127
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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128
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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129
nutritious
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| adj.有营养的，营养价值高的 | |
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130
dweller
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| n.居住者，住客 | |
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131
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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132
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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133
fluctuations
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| 波动，涨落，起伏( fluctuation的名词复数 ) | |
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134
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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135
diversified
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| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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136
cornucopia
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| n.象征丰收的羊角 | |
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137
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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138
apparitions
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| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
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139
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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140
repletion
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| n.充满，吃饱 | |
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141
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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142
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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143
generalization
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| n.普遍性，一般性，概括 | |
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144
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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145
afflatus
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| n.灵感，神感 | |
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146
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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147
drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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148
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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149
remunerative
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| adj.有报酬的 | |
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150
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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151
painstaking
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| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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152
stimulants
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| n.兴奋剂( stimulant的名词复数 )；含兴奋剂的饮料；刺激物；激励物 | |
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153
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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154
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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155
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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156
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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157
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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158
everlasting
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|
| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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159
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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160
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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161
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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162
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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163
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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164
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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165
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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166
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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167
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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168
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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169
glamour
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|
| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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170
enchantments
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| n.魅力( enchantment的名词复数 )；迷人之处；施魔法；着魔 | |
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171
tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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172
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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173
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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174
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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175
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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176
curiously
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|
| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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177
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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178
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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179
petulantly
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180
immortals
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| 不朽的人物( immortal的名词复数 )； 永生不朽者 | |
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181
quorum
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| n.法定人数 | |
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182
pars
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| n.部，部分；平均( par的名词复数 )；平价；同等；（高尔夫球中的）标准杆数 | |
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183
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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184
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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185
transmuted
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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186
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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187
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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188
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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189
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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190
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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191
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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192
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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193
symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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194
tandem
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| n.同时发生；配合；adv.一个跟着一个地；纵排地；adj.（两匹马）前后纵列的 | |
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195
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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196
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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197
memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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198
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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199
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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200
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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201
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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202
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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203
creditor
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| n.债仅人，债主，贷方 | |
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204
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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205
eluding
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的现在分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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206
levied
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| 征（兵）( levy的过去式和过去分词 )； 索取； 发动（战争）； 征税 | |
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207
alphabetical
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|
| adj.字母（表）的，依字母顺序的 | |
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208
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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209
ledger
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| n.总帐，分类帐；帐簿 | |
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210
liquidated
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| v.清算( liquidate的过去式和过去分词 )；清除（某人）；清偿；变卖 | |
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211
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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212
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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213
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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214
declamation
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| n. 雄辩，高调 | |
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215
virtuoso
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| n.精于某种艺术或乐器的专家，行家里手 | |
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216
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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217
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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218
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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219
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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221
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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222
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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223
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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224
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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225
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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226
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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227
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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228
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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229
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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230
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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231
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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232
ruse
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| n.诡计，计策；诡计 | |
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233
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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234
prancing
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
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235
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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236
repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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237
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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238
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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239
intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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240
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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241
lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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242
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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243
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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244
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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245
onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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246
ovation
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| n.欢呼，热烈欢迎，热烈鼓掌 | |
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247
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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248
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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249
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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250
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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251
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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252
pouting
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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253
quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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254
versatility
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| n.多才多艺，多样性，多功能 | |
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255
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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256
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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257
everlastingly
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| 永久地，持久地 | |
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258
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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259
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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260
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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261
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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262
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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263
outrageous
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|
| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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264
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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265
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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266
flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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267
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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268
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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269
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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270
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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271
exponent
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| n.倡导者，拥护者；代表人物；指数，幂 | |
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272
frankly
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|
| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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273
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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274
detailed
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|
| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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275
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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276
precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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277
dismantled
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|
| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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278
tonsured
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| v.剃( tonsure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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279
devoted
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|
| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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280
undertakings
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| 企业( undertaking的名词复数 )； 保证； 殡仪业； 任务 | |
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281
emoluments
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| n.报酬，薪水( emolument的名词复数 ) | |
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282
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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283
volatile
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|
| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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284
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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285
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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286
eloquent
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|
| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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287
colossal
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|
| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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288
frugality
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|
| n.节约，节俭 | |
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289
expenditures
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|
| n.花费( expenditure的名词复数 )；使用；（尤指金钱的）支出额；（精力、时间、材料等的）耗费 | |
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290
economists
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|
| n.经济学家，经济专家( economist的名词复数 ) | |
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291
analyzing
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|
| v.分析；分析( analyze的现在分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析n.分析 | |
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292
audit
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|
| v.审计；查帐；核对；旁听 | |
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293
rigid
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|
| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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294
perfidious
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| adj.不忠的，背信弃义的 | |
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295
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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296
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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297
fickle
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|
| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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298
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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299
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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300
vagrancy
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| （说话的，思想的）游移不定； 漂泊； 流浪； 离题 | |
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301
conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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302
portraiture
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| n.肖像画法 | |
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303
blurred
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|
| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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304
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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305
brotherhood
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|
| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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306
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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307
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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308
follies
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|
| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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309
possessed
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|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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310
virtuosity
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| n.精湛技巧 | |
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311
dilettante
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| n.半瓶醋，业余爱好者 | |
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312
chatter
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|
| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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313
inflexible
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|
| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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314
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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315
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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316
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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317
cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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318
teem
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| vi.(with)充满，多产 | |
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319
opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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320
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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321
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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322
ebullient
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|
| adj.兴高采烈的，奔放的 | |
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323
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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324
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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325
dominant
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|
| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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326
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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327
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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328
prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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329
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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330
gulp
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|
| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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331
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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332
absurdities
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|
| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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333
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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334
disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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335
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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336
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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337
revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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338
ethically
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| adv.在伦理上，道德上 | |
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339
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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340
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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341
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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342
adverse
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|
| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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343
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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344
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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345
onward
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|
| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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346
deliberately
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|
| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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347
thoroughly
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|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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348
austere
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|
| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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349
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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350
improvident
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|
| adj.不顾将来的，不节俭的，无远见的 | |
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351
incentive
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|
| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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352
monotonous
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|
| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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353
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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354
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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355
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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356
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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357
embryo
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| n.胚胎，萌芽的事物 | |
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358
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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359
perversion
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| n.曲解；堕落；反常 | |
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360
ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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361
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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362
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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363
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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364
mawkish
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| adj.多愁善感的的；无味的 | |
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365
conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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366
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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367
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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