There is a rare serenity5 in the thought of death when it is known to be the gate of life. This conviction Browning had, and so his grief was rather that of one whose joy has westered earlier. The sweetest music of his life had withdrawn6: but there was still music for one to whom life in itself was a happiness. He had his son, and was not void of other solace8: but even had it been otherwise he was of the strenuous9 natures who never succumb10, nor wish to die--whatever accident of mortality overcome the will and the power.
It was in the autumn following his wife's death that he wrote the noble poem to which allusion11 has already been made: "Prospice." Who does not thrill to its close, when all of gloom or terror
"Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,
Then a light, then thy breast,
O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest."
There are few direct allusions13 to his wife in Browning's poems. Of those prior to her death the most beautiful is "One Word More," which has been already quoted in part: of the two or three subsequent to that event none surpasses the magic close of the first part of "The Ring and the Book."
Thereafter the details of his life are public property. He all along lived in the light, partly from his possession of that serenity which made Goethe glad to be alive and to be able to make others share in that gladness. No poet has been more revered15 and more loved. His personality will long be a stirring tradition. In the presence of his simple manliness16 and wealth of all generous qualities one is inclined to pass by as valueless, as the mere17 flying spray of the welcome shower, the many honours and gratifications that befell him. Even if these things mattered, concerning one by whose genius we are fascinated, while undazzled by the mere accidents pertinent18 thereto, their recital19 would be wearisome--of how he was asked to be Lord Rector of this University, or made a doctor of laws at that: of how letters and tributes of all kinds came to him from every district in our Empire, from every country in the world: and so forth20. All these things are implied in the circumstance that his life was throughout "a noble music with a golden ending."
In 1866 his father died in Paris, strenuous in life until the very end. After this event Miss Sarianna Browning went to reside with her brother, and from that time onward21 was his inseparable companion, and ever one of the dearest and most helpful of friends. In latter years brother and sister were constantly seen together, and so regular attendants were they at such functions as the "Private Views" at the Royal Academy and Grosvenor Gallery, that these never seemed complete without them. A Private View, a first appearance of Joachim or Sarasate, a first concert of Richter or Henschel or Hallé, at each of these, almost to a certainty, the poet was sure to appear. The chief personal happiness of his later life was in his son. Mr. R. Barrett Browning is so well known as a painter and sculptor22 that it would be superfluous23 for me to add anything further here, except to state that his successes were his father's keenest pleasures.
Two years after his father's death, that is in 1868, the "Poetical25 Works of Robert Browning, M.A., Honorary Fellow of Baliol College, Oxford," were issued in six volumes. Here the equator of Browning's genius may be drawn7. On the further side lie the "Men and Women" of the period anterior26 to "The Ring and the Book": midway is the transitional zone itself: on the hither side are the "Men and Women" of a more temperate27 if not colder clime.
The first part of "The Ring and the Book" was not published till November. In September the poet was staying with his sister and son at Le Croisic, a picturesque28 village at the mouth of the Loire, at the end of the great salt plains which stretch down from Guérande to the Bay of Biscay. No doubt, in lying on the sand-dunes in the golden September glow, in looking upon the there somewhat turbid30 current of the Loire, the poet brooded on those days when he saw its inland waters with her who was with him no longer save in dreams and memories. Here he wrote that stirring poem, "Hervé Riel," founded upon the valorous action of a French sailor who frustrated31 the naval32 might of England, and claimed nothing as a reward save permission to have a holiday on land to spend a few hours with his wife, "la belle33 Aurore." "Hervé Riel" (which has been translated into French, and is often recited, particularly in the maritime34 towns, and is always evocative of enthusiastic applause) is one of Browning's finest action-lyrics, and is assured of the same immortality36 as "How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix," or the "Pied Piper" himself.
In 1872 there was practical proof of the poet's growing popularity. Baron38 Tauchnitz issued two volumes of excellently selected poems, comprising some of the best of "Men and Women," "Dramatis Person?," and "Dramatic Romances," besides the longer "Soul's Tragedy," "Luria," "In a Balcony," and "Christmas Eve and Easter Day"--the most Christian39 poem of the century, according to one eminent40 cleric, the heterodox self-sophistication of a free-thinker, according to another: really, the reflex of a great crisis, that of the first movement of the tide of religious thought to a practically limitless freedom. This edition also contained "Bishop41 Blougram," then much discussed, apart from its poetic24 and intellectual worth, on account of its supposed verisimilitude in portraiture42 of Cardinal43 Wiseman. This composition, one of Browning's most characteristic, is so clever that it is scarcely a poem. Poetry and Cleverness do not well agree, the muse44 being already united in perfect marriage to Imagination. In his Essay on Truth, Bacon says that one of the Fathers called poetry Vinum D?monum, because it filleth the imagination. Certainly if it be not vinum d?monum it is not Poetry.
In this year also appeared the first series of "Selections" by the poet's latest publishers: "Dedicated45 to Alfred Tennyson. In Poetry--illustrious and consummate46: In Friendship--noble and sincere." It was in his preface to this selection that he wrote the often-quoted words: "Nor do I apprehend47 any more charges of being wilfully48 obscure, unconscientiously careless, or perversely50 harsh." At or about the date of these "Selections" the poet wrote to a friend, on this very point of obscurity, "I can have little doubt that my writing has been in the main too hard for many I should have been pleased to communicate with; but I never designedly tried to puzzle people, as some of my critics have supposed. On the other hand, I never pretended to offer such literature as should be a substitute for a cigar or a game at dominoes to an idle man. So perhaps, on the whole, I get my deserts, and something over--not a crowd, but a few I value more."
In 1877 Browning, ever restless for pastures new, went with his sister to spend the autumn at La Saisiaz (Savoyard for "the sun"), a villa29 among the mountains near Geneva; this time with the additional company of Miss Anne Egerton Smith, an intimate and valued friend. But there was an unhappy close to the holiday. Miss Smith died on the night of the fourteenth of September, from heart complaint. "La Saisiaz" is the direct outcome of this incident, and is one of the most beautiful of Browning's later poems. Its trochaics move with a tide-like sound.
At the close, there is a line which might stand as epitaph for the poet--
"He, at least, believed in Soul, was very sure of God."
In the following year "La Saisiaz" was published along with "The Two Poets of Croisic," which was begun and partly written at the little French village ten years previously51. There is nothing of the eight-score stanzas52 of the "Two Poets" to equal its delightful53 epilogue, or the exquisite54 prefatory lyric35, beginning
"Such a starved bank of moss55
Till that May-morn
Blue ran the flash across:
Violets were born."
Extremely interesting--and for myself I cannot find "The Two Poets of Croisic" to be anything more than "interesting"--it is as a poem distinctly inferior to "La Saisiaz." Although detached lines are often far from truly indicative of the real poetic status of a long poem, where proportion and harmony are of more importance than casual exfoliations of beauty, yet to a certain extent they do serve as musical keys that give the fundamental tone. One certainly would have to search in vain to find in the Croisic poem such lines as
"Five short days, scarce enough to
Bronze the clustered wilding apple, redden ripe the mountain ash."
Or these of Mont Blanc, seen at sunset, towering over icy pinnacles56 and teeth-like peaks,
"Blanc, supreme57 above his earth-brood, needles red and white and
green,
Horns of silver, fangs58 of crystal set on edge in his demesne59."
Or, again, this of the sun swinging himself above the dark shoulder of Jura--
"Gay he hails her, and magnific, thrilled her black length burns to gold."
Or, finally, this sounding verse--
"Past the city's congregated60 peace of homes and pomp of spires61."
The other poems later than "The Ring and the Book" are, broadly speaking, of two kinds. On the one side may be ranged the groups which really cohere62 with "Men and Women." These are "The Inn Album," the miscellaneous poems of the "Pacchiarotto" volume, the "Dramatic Idyls," some of "Jocoseria," and some of "Asolando." "Ferishtah's Fancies" and "Parleyings" are not, collectively, dramatic poems, but poems of illuminative63 insight guided by a dramatic imagination.[23] They, and the classical poems and translations (renderings, rather, by one whose own individuality dominates them to the exclusion64 of that nearness of the original author, which it should be the primary aim of the translator to evoke), the beautiful "Balaustion's Adventure," "Aristophanes' Apology," and "The Agamemnon of Aeschylus," and the third group, which comprises "Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau," "Red Cotton Nightcap Country," and "Fifine at the Fair"--these three groups are of the second kind.
[23] In a letter to a friend, Browning wrote:--"I hope and believe that one or two careful readings of the Poem [Ferishtah's Fancies] will make its sense clear enough. Above all, pray allow for the Poet's inventiveness in any case, and do not suppose there is more than a thin disguise of a few Persian names and allusions. There was no such person as Ferishtah--the stories are all inventions. ... The Hebrew quotations66 are put in for a purpose, as a direct acknowledgment that certain doctrines67 may be found in the Old Book, which the Concocters of Novel Schemes of Morality put forth as discoveries of their own."
Remarkable69 as are the three last-named productions, it is extremely doubtful if the first and second will be read for pleasure by readers born after the close of this century. As it is impossible, in my narrow limits, to go into any detail about poems which personally I do not regard as essential to the truest understanding of Browning, the truest because on the highest level, that of poetry--as distinct from dogma, or intellectual suasion of any kind that might, for all its ?sthetic charm, be in prose--it would be presumptuous71 to assert anything derogatory of them without attempting adequate substantiation72. I can, therefore, merely state my own opinion. To reiterate73, it is that, for different reasons, these three long poems are foredoomed to oblivion--not, of course, to be lost to the student of our literature and of our age, a more wonderful one even than that of the Renaissance74, but to lapse75 from the general regard. That each will for a long time find appreciative76 readers is certain. They have a fascination77 for alert minds, and they have not infrequent ramifications78 which are worth pursuing for the glimpses afforded into an always evanishing Promised Land. "Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau" (the name, by the way, is not purely79 fanciful, being formed from Hohen Schwangau, one of the castles of the late King of Bavaria) is Browning's complement80 to his wife's "Ode to Napoleon III." "Red Cotton Nightcap Country" is a true story, the narrative81 of the circumstances pertinent to the tragic82 death of one Antonio Mellerio, a Paris jeweller, which occurred in 1870 at St. Aubin in Normandy, where, indeed, the poet first heard of it in all its details. It is a story which, if the method of poetry and the method of prose could for a moment be accepted as equivalent, might be said to be of the school of a light and humorously grotesque83 Zola. It has the fundamental weakness of "The Ring and the Book"--the weakness of an inadequate84 ethical85 basis. It is, indeed, to that great work what a second-rate novelette is to a masterpiece of fiction.
"Fifine at the Fair," on the other hand, is so powerful and often so beautiful a poem that one would be rash indeed were he, with the blithe86 critical assurance which is so generally snuffed out like a useless candle by a later generation, to prognosticate its inevitable87 seclusion88 from the high place it at present occupies in the estimate of the poet's most uncompromising admirers. But surely equally rash is the assertion that it will be the "poem of the future." However, our concern is not with problematical estimates, but with the poem as it appears to us. It is one of the most characteristic of Browning's productions. It would be impossible for the most indolent reader or critic to attribute it, even if anonymous89, to another parentage. Coleridge alludes90 somewhere to certain verses of Wordsworth's, with the declaration that if he had met them howling in the desert he would have recognised their authorship. "Fifine" would not even have to howl.
Browning was visiting Pornic one autumn, when he saw the gipsy who was the original of "Fifine." In the words of Mrs. Orr, "his fancy was evidently set roaming by the gipsy's audacity91, her strength--the contrast which she presented to the more spiritual types of womanhood; and this contrast eventually found expression in a pathetic theory of life, in which these opposite types and their corresponding modes of attraction became the necessary complement of each other. As he laid down the theory, Mr. Browning would be speaking in his own person. But he would turn into some one else in the act of working it out--for it insensibly carried with it a plea for yielding to those opposite attractions, not only successively, but at the same time; and a modified Don Juan would grow up under his pen."
One drawback to an unconditional92 enjoyment93 of Balzac is that every now and again the student of the Comédie Humaine resents the too obvious display of the forces that propel the effect--a lesser94 phase of the weariness which ensues upon much reading of the mere "human documents" of the Goncourt school of novelists. In the same way, we too often see Browning working up the electrical qualities, so that, when the fulmination comes, we understand "just how it was produced," and, as illogically as children before a too elaborate conjurer, conclude that there is not so much in this particular poetic feat95 as in others which, like Herrick's maids, continually do deceive. To me this is affirmable of "Fifine at the Fair." The poet seems to know so very well what he is doing. If he did not take the reader so much into his confidence, if he would rely more upon the liberal grace of his earlier verse and less upon the trained subtlety96 of his athletic97 intellect, the charm would be the greater. The poem would have a surer duration as one of the author's greater achievements, if there were more frequent and more prolonged insistence98 on the note struck in the lines (§ lxxiii.) about the hill-stream, infant of mist and dew, falling over the ledge99 of the fissured100 cliff to find its fate in smoke below, as it disappears into the deep, "embittered101 evermore, to make the sea one drop more big thereby102:" or in the cloudy splendour of the description of nightfall (§ cvi.): or in the windy spring freshness of
"Hence, when the earth began afresh its life in May,
And fruit-trees bloomed, and waves would wanton, and the bay
Ruffle103 its wealth of weed, and stranger-birds arrive,
And beasts take each a mate." . . .
But its chief fault seems to me to be its lack of that transmutive glow of rhythmic104 emotion without which no poem can endure. This rhythmic energy is, inherently, a distinct thing from intellectual emotion. Metric music may be alien to the adequate expression of the latter, whereas rhythmic emotion can have no other appropriate issue. Of course, in a sense, all creative art is rhythmic in kind: but here I am speaking only of that creative energy which evolves the germinal idea through the medium of language. The energy of the intellect under creative stimulus105 may produce lordly issues in prose: but poetry of a high intellectual order can be the outcome only of an intellect fused to white heat, of intellectual emotion on fire--as, in the fine saying of George Meredith, passion is noble strength on fire. Innumerable examples could be taken from any part of the poem, but as it would not be just to select the most obviously defective106 passages, here are two which are certainly fairly representative of the general level--
"And I became aware, scarcely the word escaped my lips, that swift ensued in silence and by stealth, and yet with certitude, a formidable change of the amphitheatre which held the Carnival107; although the human stir continued just the same amid that shift of scene." (No. CV.)
"And where i' the world is all this wonder, you detail so trippingly, espied108? My mirror would reflect a tall, thin, pale, deep-eyed personage, pretty once, it may be, doubtless still loving--certain grace yet lingers if you will--but all this wonder, where?" (No. XL.)
Here, and in a hundred other such passages, we have the rhythm, if not of the best prose, at least not that of poetry. Will "Fifine" and poems of its kind stand re-reading, re-perusal over and over? That is one of the most definite tests. In the pressure of life can we afford much time to anything but the very best--nay, to the vast mass even of that which closely impinges thereupon?
For myself, in the instance of "Fifine," I admit that if re-perusal be controlled by pleasure I am content (always excepting a few scattered109 noble passages) with the Prologue110 and Epilogue. A little volume of those Summaries of Browning's--how stimulating111 a companion it would be in those hours when the mind would fain breathe a more liberal air!
As for "Jocoseria,"[24] it seems to me the poorest of Browning's works, and I cannot help thinking that ultimately the only gold grain discoverable therein will be "Ixion," the beautiful penultimate poem beginning--
"Never the time and the place
And the loved one altogether;"
and the thrush-like overture112, closing--
"What of the leafage, what of the flower?
Roses embowering with nought113 they embower!
Come then! complete incompletion, O comer,
Pant through the blueness, perfect the summer!
Breathe but one breath
Rose-beauty above,
And all that was death
Grows life, grows love,
Grows love!"
[24] In a letter to a friend, along with an early copy of this book, Browning stated that "the title is taken from the work of Melander (Schwartzmann), reviewed, by a curious coincidence, in the Blackwood of this month. I referred to it in a note to 'Paracelsus.' The two Hebrew quotations (put in to give a grave look to what is mere fun and invention) being translated amount to (1) 'A Collection of Many Lies': and (2), an old saying, 'From Moses to Moses arose none like Moses'......"
In 1881 the "Browning Society" was established. It is easy to ridicule114 any institution of the kind--much easier than to be considerate of other people's earnest convictions and aims, or to be helpful to their object. There is always a ridiculous side to excessive enthusiasm, particularly obvious to persons incapable115 of enthusiasm of any kind. With some mistakes, and not a few more or less grotesque absurdities116, the members of the various English and American Browning Societies are yet to be congratulated on the good work they have, collectively, accomplished117. Their publications are most interesting and suggestive: ultimately they will be invaluable118. The members have also done a good work in causing some of Browning's plays to be produced again on the stage, and in Miss Alma Murray and others have found sympathetic and able exponents119 of some of the poet's most attractive dramatis person?. There can be no question as to the powerful impetus120 given by the Society to Browning's steadily-increasing popularity. Nothing shows his judicious121 good sense more than the letter he wrote, privately122, to Mr. Edmund Yates, at the time of the Society's foundation.
"The Browning Society, I need not say, as well as Browning himself, are fair game for criticism. I had no more to do with the founding it than the babe unborn; and, as Wilkes was no Wilkeite, I am quite other than a Browningite. But I cannot wish harm to a society of, with a few exceptions, names unknown to me, who are busied about my books so disinterestedly123. The exaggerations probably come of the fifty-years'-long charge of unintelligibility124 against my books; such reactions are possible, though I never looked for the beginning of one so soon. That there is a grotesque side to the thing is certain; but I have been surprised and touched by what cannot but have been well intentioned, I think. Anyhow, as I never felt inconvenienced by hard words, you will not expect me to wax bumptious125 because of undue126 compliment: so enough of 'Browning,'--except that he is yours very truly, 'while this machine is to him.'"
The latter years of the poet were full of varied127 interest for himself, but present little of particular significance for specification128 in a monograph129 so concise130 as this must perforce be. Every year he went abroad, to France or to Italy, and once or twice on a yachting trip in the Mediterranean131.[25] At home--for many years, at 19 Warwick Crescent, in what some one has called the dreary132 Mesopotamia of Paddington, and for the last three or four years of his life at 29 De Vere Gardens, Kensington Gore--his avocations133 were so manifold that it is difficult to understand where he had leisure for his vocation134. Everybody wished him to come to dine; and he did his utmost to gratify Everybody. He saw everything; read all the notable books; kept himself acquainted with the leading contents of the journals and magazines; conducted a large correspondence; read new French, German, and Italian books of mark; read and translated Euripides and ?schylus; knew all the gossip of the literary clubs, salons135, and the studios; was a frequenter of afternoon-tea parties; and then, over and above it, he was Browning: the most profoundly subtle mind that has exercised itself in poetry since Shakspere. His personal grace and charm of manner never failed. Whether he was dedicating "Balaustion's Adventure" in terms of gracious courtesy, or handing a flower from some jar of roses, or lilies, or his favourite daffodils, with a bright smile or merry glance, to the lady of his regard, or when sending a copy of a new book of poetry with an accompanying letter expressed with rare felicity, or when generously prophesying136 for a young poet the only true success if he will but listen and act upon "the inner voice,"--he was in all these, and in all things, the ideal gentleman. There is so charming and characteristic a touch in the following note to a girl-friend, that I must find room for it:--
29 De Vere Gardens, W.,
6th July 1889.
MY BELOVED ALMA,--I had the honour yesterday of dining with the Shah, whereupon the following dialogue:--
"Vous êtes po?te?"
"On s'est permis de me le dire12 quelquefois."
"Et vous avez fait des livres?"
"Trop de livres."
"Voulez-vous m'en donner un, afin que je puisse me ressouvenir de vous?"
"Avec plaisir."
I have been accordingly this morning to town, where the thing is procurable137, and as I chose a volume of which I judged the binding138 might take the imperial eye, I said to myself, "Here do I present my poetry to a personage for whom I do not care three straws; why should I not venture to do as much for a young lady I love dearly, who, for the author's sake, will not impossibly care rather for the inside than the outside of the volume?" So I was bold enough to take one and offer it for your kind acceptance, begging you to remember in days to come that the author, whether a good poet or no, was always, my Alma, your affectionate friend,
ROBERT BROWNING.
[25] It was on his first experience of this kind, more than a quarter of a century earlier, that he wrote the nobly patriotic139 lines of "Home Thoughts from the Sea," and that flawless strain of bird-music, "Home Thoughts from Abroad:" then, also, that he composed "How they brought the Good News." Concerning the last, he wrote, in 1881 (vide The Academy, April 2nd), "There is no sort of historical foundation about [this poem]. I wrote it under the bulwark140 of a vessel141 off the African coast, after I had been at it long enough to appreciate even the fancy of a gallop142 on the back of a certain good horse, 'York,' then in my stable at home. It was written in pencil on the fly-leaf of Bartoli's Simboli, I remember."
His look was a continual and serene143 gleam. Lamartine, who remarks this of Bossuet in his youth, adds a phrase which, as observant acquaintances of the poet will agree, might be written of Browning--"His lips quivered often without utterance144, as if with the wind of an internal speech."
Except for the touching145 and beautiful letter which he wrote from Asolo about two months before his death, to Mr. Wilfrid Meynell, about a young writer to whom the latter wished to draw the poet's kindly146 attention--a letter which has a peculiar147 pathos148 in the words, "I shall soon depart for Venice, on my way homeward"--except for this letter there is none so well worth repetition here as his last word to the Poet-Laureate. The friendship between these two great poets has in itself the fragrance149 of genius. The letter was written just before Browning left London.
29 De Vere Gardens, W.,
August 5th, 1889.
MY DEAR TENNYSON,--To-morrow is your birthday--indeed, a memorable150 one. Let me say I associate myself with the universal pride of our country in your glory, and in its hope that for many and many a year we may have your very self among us--secure that your poetry will be a wonder and delight to all those appointed to come after. And for my own part, let me further say, I have loved you dearly. May God bless you and yours.
At no moment from first to last of my acquaintance with your works, or friendship with yourself, have I had any other feeling, expressed or kept silent, than this which an opportunity allows me to utter--that I am and ever shall be, my dear Tennyson, admiringly and affectionately yours,
ROBERT BROWNING.
Shortly after this he was at Asolo once more, the little hill-town in the Veneto, which he had visited in his youth, and where he heard again the echo of Pippa's song--
"God's in His heaven,
All's right with the world!"
Mr. W.W. Story writes to me that he spent three days with the poet at this time, and that the latter seemed, except for a slight asthma152, to be as vigorous in mind and body as ever. Thence, later in the autumn, he went to Venice, to join his son and daughter-in-law at the home where he was "to have a corner for his old age," the beautiful Palazzo Rezzonico, on the Grand Canal. He was never happier, more sanguine153, more joyous154, than here. He worked for three or four hours each morning, walked daily for about two hours, crossed occasionally to the Lido with his sister, and in the evenings visited friends or went to the opera. But for some time past, his heart--always phenomenally slow in its action, and of late ominously155 intermittent--had been noticeably weaker. As he suffered no pain and little inconvenience, he paid no particular attention to the matter. Browning had as little fear of death as doubt in God. In a controlling Providence156 he did indeed profoundly believe. He felt, with Joubert, that "it is not difficult to believe in God, if one does not worry oneself to define Him."[26]
[26] "Browning's 'orthodoxy' brought him into many a combat with his rationalistic friends, some of whom could hardly believe that he took his doctrine68 seriously. Such was the fact, however; indeed, I have heard that he once stopped near an open-air assembly which an atheist157 was haranguing158, and, in the freedom of his incognito159, gave strenuous battle to the opinions uttered. To one who had spoken of an expected 'Judgment160 Day' as a superstition161, I heard him say: 'I don't see that. Why should there not be a settling day in the universe, as when a master settles with his workmen at the end of the week?' There was something in his tone and manner which suggested his dramatic conception of religious ideas and ideals."--MONCURE D. CONWAY.
"How should externals satisfy my soul?" was his cry in "Sordello," and it was the fundamental strain of all his poetry, as the fundamental motive162 is expressible in
"--a loving worm within its sod
Were diviner than a loveless god
Amid his worlds"--
love being with him the golden key wherewith to unlock the world of the universe, of the soul, of all nature. He is as convinced of the two absolute facts of God and Soul as Cardinal Newman in writing of "Two and two only, supreme and luminously163 self-evident beings, myself and my Creator." Most fervently164 he believes that
"Haply for us the ideal dawn shall break ...
And set our pulse in tune165 with moods divine"--
though, co-equally, in the necessity of "making man sole sponsor of himself." Ever and again, of course, he was betrayed by the bewildering and defiant166 puzzle of life: seeing in the face of the child the seed of sorrow, "in the green tree an ambushed167 flame, in Phosphor a vaunt-guard of Night." Yet never of him could be written that thrilling saying which Sainte-Beuve uttered of Pascal, "That lost traveller who yearns168 for home, who, strayed without a guide in a dark forest, takes many times the wrong road, goes, returns upon his steps, is discouraged, sits down at a crossing of the roads, utters cries to which no one responds, resumes his march with frenzy169 and pain, throws himself upon the ground and wants to die, and reaches home at last only after all sorts of anxieties and after sweating blood." No darkness, no tempest, no gloom, long confused his vision of 'the ideal dawn.' As the carrier-dove is often baffled, yet ere long surely finds her way through smoke and fog and din3 to her far country home, so he too, however distraught, soon or late soared to untroubled ether. He had that profound inquietude, which the great French critic says 'attests170 a moral nature of a high rank, and a mental nature stamped with the seal of the archangel.' But, unlike Pascal--who in Sainte-Beuve's words exposes in the human mind itself two abysses, "on one side an elevation171 toward God, toward the morally beautiful, a return movement toward an illustrious origin, and on the other side an abasement172 in the direction of evil"--Browning sees, believes in, holds to nothing short of the return movement, for one and all, toward an illustrious origin.
The crowning happiness of a happy life was his death in the city he loved so well, in the arms of his dear ones, in the light of a world-wide fame. The silence to which the most eloquent173 of us must all one day lapse came upon him like the sudden seductive twilight174 of the Tropics, and just when he had bequeathed to us one of his finest utterances175.
It seems but a day or two ago that the present writer heard from the lips of the dead poet a mockery of death's vanity--a brave assertion of the glory of life. "Death, death! It is this harping176 on death I despise so much," he remarked with emphasis of gesture as well as of speech--the inclined head and body, the right hand lightly placed upon the listener's knee, the abrupt change in the inflection of the voice, all so characteristic of him---"this idle and often cowardly as well as ignorant harping! Why should we not change like everything else? In fiction, in poetry, in so much of both, French as well as English, and, I am told, in American art and literature, the shadow of death--call it what you will, despair, negation177, indifference178--is upon us. But what fools who talk thus! Why, amico mio, you know as well as I that death is life, just as our daily, our momentarily dying body is none the less alive and ever recruiting new forces of existence. Without death, which is our crapelike churchyardy word for change, for growth, there could be no prolongation of that which we call life. Pshaw! it is foolish to argue upon such a thing even. For myself, I deny death as an end of everything. Never say of me that I am dead!"
On the evening of Thursday, the 12th of December (1889), he was in bed, with exceeding weakness. In the centre of the lofty ceiling of the room in which he lay, and where it had been his wont179 to work, there is a painting by his son. It depicts180 an eagle struggling with a serpent, and is illustrative of a superb passage in Shelley's "Revolt of Islam." What memories, what deep thoughts, it must have suggested; how significant, to us, the circumstance! But weak as the poet was, he yet did not see the shadow which had begun to chill the hearts of the watchers. Shortly before the great bell of San Marco struck ten, he turned and asked if any news had come concerning "Asolando," published that day. His son read him a telegram from the publishers, telling how great the demand was and how favourable182 were the advance-articles in the leading papers. The dying poet smiled and muttered, "How gratifying!" When the last toll183 of St. Mark's had left a deeper stillness than before, those by the bedside saw a yet profounder silence on the face of him whom they loved.
It is needless to dwell upon the grief everywhere felt and expressed for the irreparable loss. The magnificent closing lines of Shelley's "Alastor" must have occurred to many a mourner; for gone, indeed, was "a surpassing Spirit." The superb pomp of the Venetian funeral, the solemn grandeur184 of the interment in Westminster Abbey, do not seem worth recording185: so insignificant186 are all these accidents of death made by the supreme fact itself. Yet it is fitting to know that Venice has never in modern times afforded a more impressive sight, than those craped processional gondolas187 following the high flower-strewn funeral-barge through the thronged188 water-ways and out across the lagoon189 to the desolate190 Isle191 of the Dead: that London has rarely seen aught more solemn than the fog-dusked Cathedral spaces, echoing at first with the slow tramp of the pall-bearers, and then with the sweet aerial music swaying upward the loved familiar words of the 'Lyric Voice' hushed so long before. Yet the poet was as much honoured by those humble192 friends, Lambeth artizans and a few poor working-women, who threw sprays of laurel before the hearse--by that desolate, starving, woe-weary gentleman, shivering in his threadbare clothes, who seemed transfixed with a heart-wrung though silent emotion, ere he hurriedly drew from his sleeve a large white chrysanthemum193, and throwing it beneath the coffin194 as it was lifted inward, disappeared in the crowd, which closed again like the sea upon this lost wandering wave.
Who would not honour this mighty195 dead? All who could be present were there, somewhere in the ancient Abbey. One of the greatest, loved and admired by the dead poet, had already put the mourning of many into the lofty dignity of his verse:--
"Now dumb is he who waked the world to speak,
And voiceless hangs the world beside his bier,
Our words are sobs196, our cry of praise a tear:
We are the smitten197 mortal, we the weak.
We see a spirit on Earth's loftiest peak
Shine, and wing hence the way he makes more clear:
See a great Tree of Life that never sere4
Dropped leaf for aught that age or storms might wreak198:
Such ending is not Death: such living shows
What wide illumination brightness sheds
From one big heart--to conquer man's old foes199:
The coward, and the tyrant200, and the force
Of all those weedy monsters raising heads
When Song is murk from springs of turbid source."[27]
[27] George Meredith.
One word more of "light and fleeting201 shadow." In the greatness of his nature he must be ranked with Milton, Defoe, and Scott. His very shortcomings, such as they were, were never baneful202 growths, but mere weeds, with a certain pleasant though pungent203 savour moreover, growing upon a rich, an exuberant204 soil. Pluck one of the least lovely--rather call it the unworthy arrow shot at the body of a dead comrade, so innocent of ill intent: yet it too has a beauty of its own, for the shaft205 was aflame from the fulness of a heart whose love had withstood the chill passage of the years.
On the night of Browning's death a new star suddenly appeared in Orion. The coincidence is suggestive if we like to indulge in the fancy that in that constellation--
"No more subjected to the change or chance
Of the unsteady planets----"
gleam those other "abodes206 where the Immortals207 are." Certainly, a wandering fire has passed away from us. Whither has it gone? To that new star in Orion: or whirled to remote silences in the trail of lost meteors? Whence, and for how long, will its rays reach our storm and gloom-beleaguered earth?
Such questions cannot meanwhile be solved. Our eyes are still confused with the light, with that ardent208 flame, as we knew it here. But this we know, it was indeed "a central fire descending209 upon many altars." These, though touched with but a spark of the immortal37 principle, bear enduring testimony210. And what testimony! How heartfelt: happily also how widespread, how electrically stimulative211!
But the time must come when the poet's personality will have the remoteness of tradition: when our perplexed212 judgments213 will be as a tale of sound and fury, signifying nothing. It is impossible for any student of literature, for any interested reader, not to indulge in some forecast as to what rank in the poetic hierarchy214 Robert Browning will ultimately occupy. The commonplace as to the impossibility of prognosticating the ultimate slow decadence215, or slower rise, or, it may be, sustained suspension, of a poet's fame, is often insincere, and but an excuse of indolence. To dogmatise were the height of presumption216 as well as of folly217: but to forego speculation218, based upon complete present knowledge, for an idle contentment with narrow horizons, were perhaps foolisher still. But assuredly each must perforce be content with his own prevision. None can answer yet for the generality, whose decisive franchise219 will elect a fit arbiter220 in due time.
So, for myself, let me summarise221 what I have already written in several sections of this book, and particularly in the closing pages of Chapter VI. There, it will be remembered--after having found that Browning's highest achievement is in his second period--emphasis was laid on the primary importance of his life-work in its having compelled us to the assumption of a fresh critical standpoint involving the construction of a new definition. In the light of this new definition I think Browning will ultimately be judged. As the sculptor in "Pippa Passes" was the predestinated novel thinker in marble, so Browning himself appears as the predestinated novel thinker in verse; the novel thinker, however, in degree, not in kind. But I do not for a moment believe that his greatness is in his status as a thinker: even less, that the poet and the thinker are indissociable. Many years ago Sainte-Beuve destroyed this shallow artifice222 of pseudo-criticism: "Venir nous dire que tout223 po?te de talent est, par14 essence, un grand penseur, et que tout vrai penseur est nécessairement artiste et po?te, c'est une prétention insoutenable et que dément à chaque instant la réalité."
When Browning's enormous influence upon the spiritual and mental life of our day--an influence ever shaping itself to wise and beautiful issues--shall have lost much of its immediate224 import, there will still surely be discerned in his work a formative energy whose resultant is pure poetic gain. It is as the poet he will live: not merely as the "novel thinker in verse." Logically, his attitude as 'thinker' is unimpressive. It is the attitude, as I think some one has pointed151 out, of acquiescence226 with codified227 morality. In one of his Causeries, the keen French critic quoted above has a remark upon the great Bossuet, which may with singular aptness be repeated of Browning:--"His is the Hebrew genius extended, fecundated by Christianity, and open to all the acquisitions of the understanding, but retaining some degree of sovereign interdiction228, and closing its vast horizon precisely229 where its light ceases." Browning cannot, or will not, face the problem of the future except from the basis of assured continuity of individual existence. He is so much in love with life, for life's sake, that he cannot even credit the possibility of incontinuity; his assurance of eternity230 in another world is at least in part due to his despair at not being eternal in this. He is so sure, that the intellectually scrupulous231 detect the odours of hypotheses amid the sweet savour of indestructible assurance. Schopenhauer says, in one of those recently-found Annotations232 of his which are so characteristic and so acute, "that which is called 'mathematical certainty' is the cane233 of a blind man without a dog, or equilibrium234 in darkness." Browning would sometimes have us accept the evidence of his 'cane' as all-sufficient. He does not entrench235 himself among conventions: for he already finds himself within the fortified236 lines of convention, and remains237 there. Thus is true what Mr. Mortimer says in a recent admirable critique--"His position in regard to the thought of the age is paradoxical, if not inconsistent. He is in advance of it in every respect but one, the most important of all, the matter of fundamental principles; in these he is behind it. His processes of thought are often scientific in their precision of analysis; the sudden conclusion which he imposes upon them is transcendental and inept238." Browning's conclusions, which harmonise so well with our haphazard239 previsionings, are sometimes so disastrously241 facile that they exercise an insurrectionary influence. They occasionally suggest that wisdom of Gotham which is ever ready to postulate242 the certainty of a fulfilment because of the existence of a desire. It is this that vitiates so much of his poetic reasoning. Truth may ring regnant in the lines of Abt Vogler--
"And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence
For the fulness of the days?"--
but, unfortunately, the conclusion is, in itself, illogical.
We are all familiar with, and in this book I have dwelt more than once upon, Browning's habitual243 attitude towards Death. It is not a novel one. The frontage is not so much that of the daring pioneer, as the sedate244 assurance of 'the oldest inhabitant.' It is of good hap2, of welcome significance: none the less there is an aspect of our mortality of which the poet's evasion245 is uncompromising and absolute. I cannot do better than quote Mr. Mortimer's noteworthy words hereupon, in connection, moreover, with Browning's artistic246 relation to Sex, that other great Protagonist247 in the relentless248 duel249 of Humanity with Circumstance. "The final inductive hazard he declines for himself; his readers may take it if they will. It is part of the insistent250 and perverse49 ingenuity251 which we display in masking with illusion the more disturbing elements of life. Veil after veil is torn down, but seldom before another has been slipped behind it, until we acquiesce225 without a murmur252 in the concealment253 that we ourselves have made. Two facts thus carefully shrouded254 from full vision by elaborate illusion conspicuously255 round in our lives--the life-giving and life-destroying elements, Sex and Death. We are compelled to occasional physiologic256 and economic discussion of the one, but we shrink from recognising the full extent to which it bases the whole social fabric257 carefully concealing258 its insurrections, and ignoring or misreading their lessons. The other, in certain aspects, we are compelled to face, but to do it we tipple259 on illusions, from our cradle upwards260, in dread261 of the coming grave, purchasing a drug for our poltroonery262 at the expense of our sanity263. We uphold our wayward steps with the promises and the commandments for crutches264, but on either side of us trudge265 the shadow Death and the bacchanal Sex, and we mumble266 prayers against the one, while we scourge267 ourselves for leering at the other. On one only of these can Browning be said to have spoken with novel force--the relations of sex, which he has treated with a subtlety and freedom, and often with a beauty, unapproached since Goethe. On the problem of Death, except in masquerade of robes and wings, his eupeptic temperament268 never allowed him to dwell. He sentimentalised where Shakspere thought." Browning's whole attitude to the Hereafter is different from that of Tennyson only in that the latter 'faintly,' while he strenuously269, "trusts the larger hope." To him all credit, that, standing70 upon the frontiers of the Past, he can implicitly270 trust the Future.
"High-hearted surely he;
But bolder they who first off-cast
Their moorings from the habitable Past."
The teacher may be forgotten, the prophet may be hearkened to no more, but a great poet's utterance is never temporal, having that in it which conserves271 it against the antagonism272 of time, and the ebb273 and flow of literary ideals. What range, what extent of genius! As Mr. Frederick Wedmore has well said, 'Browning is not a book--he is a literature.'
But that he will "stand out gigantic" in mass of imperishable work, in that far-off day, I for one cannot credit. His poetic shortcomings seem too essential to permit of this. That fatal excess of cold over emotive thought, of thought that, however profound, incisive274, or scrupulously275 clear, is not yet impassioned, is a fundamental defect of his. It is the very impetuosity of this mental energy to which is due the miscalled obscurity of much of Browning's work--miscalled, because, however remote in his allusions, however pedantic276 even, he is never obscure in his thought. His is that "palace infinite which darkens with excess of light." But mere excess in itself is nothing more than symptomatic. Browning has suffered more from intellectual exploitation than any writer. It is a ruinous process--for the poet. "He so well repays intelligent study." That is it, unfortunately. There are many, like the old Scotch277 lady who attempted to read Carlyle's French Revolution, who think they have become "daft" when they encounter a passage such as, for example,
"Rivals, who . . .
Tuned278, from Bocafoli's stark-naked psalms279,
To Plara's sonnets280 spoilt by toying with,
'As knops that stud some almug to the pith
'Prickèd for gum, wry281 thence, and crinkled worse
'Than pursèd eyelids282 of a river-horse
'Sunning himself o' the slime when whirrs the breeze--
Gad-fly, that is."
The old lady persevered283 with Carlyle, and, after a few days, found "she was nae sae daft, but that she had tackled a varra dee-fee-cult author." What would even that indomitable student have said to the above quotation65, and to the poem whence it comes? To many it is not the poetry, but the difficulties, that are the attraction. They rejoice, after long and frequent dippings, to find their plummet284, almost lost in remote depths, touch bottom. Enough 'meaning' has been educed285 from 'Childe Roland,' to cite but one instance, to start a School of Philosophy with: though it so happens that the poem is an imaginative fantasy, written in one day. Worse still, it was not inspired by the mystery of existence, but by 'a red horse with a glaring eye standing behind a dun one on a piece of tapestry286 that used to hang in the poet's drawing-room.'[28] Of all his faults, however, the worst is that jugglery287, that inferior legerdemain288, with the elements of the beautiful in verse: most obvious in "Sordello," in portions of "The Ring and the Book," and in so many of the later poems. These inexcusable violations289 are like the larv? within certain vegetable growths: soon or late they will destroy their environment before they perish themselves. Though possessive above all others of that science of the percipient in the allied290 arts of painting and music, wherein he found the unconventional Shelley so missuaded by convention, he seemed ever more alert to the substance than to the manner of poetry. In a letter of Mrs. Browning's she alludes to a friend's "melodious291 feeling" for poetry. Possibly the phrase was accidental, but it is significant. To inhale292 the vital air of poetry we must love it, not merely find it "interesting," "suggestive," "soothing," "stimulative": in a word, we must have a "melodious feeling" for poetry before we can deeply enjoy it. Browning, who has so often educed from his lyre melodies and harmonies of transcendent, though novel, beauty, was too frequently, during composition, without this melodious feeling of which his wife speaks. The distinction between literary types such as Browning or Balzac on the one hand, and Keats or Gustave Flaubert on the other, is that with the former there exists a reverence293 for the vocation and a relative indifference to the means, in themselves--and, with the latter, a scrupulous respect for the mere means as well as for that to which they conduce. The poet who does not love words for themselves, as an artist loves any chance colour upon his palette, or as the musician any vagrant294 tone evoked295 by a sudden touch in idleness or reverie, has not entered into the full inheritance of the sons of Apollo. The writer cannot aim at beauty, that which makes literature and art, without this heed--without, rather, this creative anxiety: for it is certainly not enough, as some one has said, that language should be used merely for the transportation of intelligence, as a wheelbarrow carries brick. Of course, Browning is not persistently296 neglectful of this fundamental necessity for the literary artist. He is often as masterly in this as in other respects. But he is not always, not often enough, alive to the paramount297 need. He writes with "the verse being as the mood it paints:" but, unfortunately, the mood is often poetically298 unformative. He had no passion for the quest for seductive forms. Too much of his poetry has been born prematurely299. Too much of it, indeed, has not died and been born again--for all immortal verse is a poetic resurrection. Perfect poetry is the deathless part of mortal beauty. The great artists never perpetuate300 gross actualities, though they are the supreme realists. It is Schiller, I think, who says in effect, that to live again in the serene beauty of art, it is needful that things should first die in reality. Thus Browning's dramatic method, even, is sometimes disastrous240 in its untruth, as in Caliban's analytical301 reasoning--an initial absurdity302, as Mr. Berdoe has pointed out, adding epigrammatically, 'Caliban is a savage303, with the introspective powers of a Hamlet, and the theology of an evangelical Churchman.' Not only Caliban, but several other of Browning's personages (Aprile, Eglamour, etc.) are what Goethe calls schwankende Gestalten, mere "wavering images."
[28] One account says 'Childe Roland' was written in three days; another, that it was composed in one. Browning's rapidity in composition was extraordinary. "The Return of the Druses" was written in five days, an act a day; so, also, was the "Blot304 on the 'Scutcheon."
Montaigne, in one of his essays, says that to stop gracefully305 is sure proof of high race in a horse: certainly to stop in time is imperative306 upon the poet. Of Browning may be said what Poe wrote of another, that his genius was too impetuous for the minuter technicalities of that elaborate art so needful in the building up of monuments for immortality. But has not a greater than Poe declared that "what distinguishes the artist from the amateur is architectoniké in the highest sense; that power of execution which creates, forms, and constitutes: not the profoundness of single thoughts, not the richness of imagery, not the abundance of illustration." Assuredly, no "new definition" can be an effective one which conflicts with Goethe's incontrovertible dictum.
But this much having been admitted, I am only too willing to protest against the uncritical outcry against Browning's musical incapacity.
A deficiency is not incapacity, otherwise Coleridge, at his highest the most perfect of our poets, would be lowly estimated.
"Bid shine what would, dismiss into the shade
What should not be--and there triumphs the paramount
Surprise o' the master." . . .
Browning's music is oftener harmonic than melodic307: and musicians know how the general ear, charmed with immediately appellant melodies, resents, wearies of, or is deaf to the harmonies of a more remote, a more complex, and above all a more novel creative method. He is, among poets, what Wagner is among musicians; as Shakspere may be likened to Beethoven, or Shelley to Chopin. The common assertion as to his incapacity for metric music is on the level of those affirmations as to his not being widely accepted of the people, when the people have the chance; or as to the indifference of the public to poetry generally--and this in an age when poetry has never been so widely understood, loved, and valued, and wherein it is yearly growing more acceptable and more potent308!
A great writer is to be adjudged by his triumphs, not by his failures: as, to take up Montaigne's simile309 again, a famous race-horse is remembered for its successes and not for the races which it lost. The tendency with certain critics is to reverse the process. Instead of saying with the archbishop in Horne's "Gregory VII.," "He owes it all to his Memnonian voice! He has no genius:" or of declaring, as Prospero says of Caliban in "The Tempest," "He is as disproportioned in his manners as in his shape:" how much better to affirm of him what Ben Jonson wrote of Shakspere, "Hee redeemed310 his vices311 with his vertues: there was ever more in him to bee praysed than to bee pardoned." In the balance of triumphs and failures, however, is to be sought the relative measure of genius--whose equipoise should be the first matter of ascertainment312 in comparative criticism.
For those who would discriminate313 between what Mr. Traill succinctly314 terms his generic315 greatness as thinker and man of letters, and his specific power as poet, it is necessary to disabuse316 the mind of Browning's "message." The question is not one of weighty message, but of artistic presentation. To praise a poem because of its optimism is like commending a peach because it loves the sunshine, rather than because of its distinguishing bloom and savour. The primary concern of the artist must be with his vehicle of expression. In the instance of a poet, this vehicle is language emotioned to the white-heat of rhythmic music by impassioned thought or sensation. Schopenhauer declares it is all a question of style now with poetry; that everything has been sung, that everything has been duly cursed, that there is nothing left for poetry but to be the glowing forge of words. He forgets that in quintessential art there is nothing of the past, nothing old: even the future has part therein only in that the present is always encroaching upon, becoming, the future. The famous pessimistic philosopher has, in common with other critics, made, in effect, the same remark--that Style exhales317 the odour of the soul: yet he himself has indicated that the strength of Shakspere lay in the fact that 'he had no taste,' that 'he was not a man of letters.' Whenever genius has displayed epic181 force it has established a new order. In the general disintegration318 and reconstruction319 of literary ideals thus involved, it is easier to be confused by the novel flashing of strange lights than to discern the central vivifying altar-flame. It may prove that what seem to us the regrettable accidents of Browning's genius are no malfortunate flaws, but as germane320 thereto as his Herculean ruggednesses are to Shakspere, as the laboured inversions321 of his blank verse are to Milton, as his austere322 concision323 is to Dante. Meanwhile, to the more exigent among us at any rate, the flaws seem flaws, and in nowise essential.
But when we find weighty message and noble utterance in union, as we do in the magnificent remainder after even the severest ablation of the poor and mediocre324 portion of Browning's life-work, how beneficent seem the generous gods! Of this remainder most aptly may be quoted these lines from "The Ring and the Book,"
"Gold as it was, is, shall be evermore;
Prime nature with an added artistry."
How gladly, in this dubious325 hour--when, as an eminent writer has phrased it, a colossal326 Hand, which some call the hand of Destiny and others that of Humanity, is putting out the lights of Heaven one by one, like candles after a feast--how gladly we listen to this poet with his serene faith in God, and immortal life, and the soul's unending development! "Hope hard in the subtle thing that's Spirit," he cries in the Prologue to "Pacchiarotto": and this, in manifold phrasing, is his leit-motif, his fundamental idea, in unbroken line from the "Pauline" of his twenty-first to the "Asolando" of his seventy-sixth year. This superb phalanx of faith--what shall prevail against it?
How winsome327 it is, moreover: this, and the humanity of his song. Profoundly he realised that there is no more significant study than the human heart. "The development of a soul: little else is worth study," he wrote in his preface to "Sordello": so in his old age, in his last "Reverie"--
"As the record from youth to age
Of my own, the single soul--
So the world's wide book: one page
Deciphered explains the whole
Of our common heritage."
He had faith also that "the record from youth to age" of his own soul would outlast328 any present indifference or neglect--that whatever tide might bear him away from our regard for a time would ere long flow again. The reaction must come: it is, indeed, already at hand. But one almost fancies one can hear the gathering329 of the remote waters once more. We may, with Strafford,
"feel sure
That Time, who in the twilight comes to mend
All the fantastic day's caprice, consign330
To the low ground once more the ignoble331 Term,
And raise the Genius on his orb332 again,--
That Time will do me right." . . .
Indeed, Browning has the grand manner, for all it is more that of the Scandinavian Jarl than of the Italian count or Spanish grandee333.
And ever, below all the stress and failure, below all the triumph of his toil334, is the beauty of his dream. It was "a surpassing Spirit" that went from out our midst.
"One who never turned his back but marched breast forward,
Never doubted clouds would break,
Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph,
Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better,
Sleep to wake."
"Speed, fight on, fare ever There as here!" are the last words of this brave soul. In truth, "the air seems bright with his past presence yet."
"Sun-treader--life and light be thine for ever;
Thou art gone from us--years go by--and spring
Gladdens, and the young earth is beautiful,
Yet thy songs come not--other bards335 arise,
But none like thee--they stand--thy majesties336,
Like mighty works which tell some Spirit there
Hath sat regardless of neglect and scorn,
Till, its long task completed, it hath risen
And left us, never to return."
The End
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hap
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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withdrawn
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drawn
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succumb
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allusion
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dire
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allusions
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manliness
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forth
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onward
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22
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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23
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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24
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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25
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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26
anterior
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| adj.较早的；在前的 | |
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27
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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28
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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29
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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30
turbid
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| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
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31
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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32
naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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33
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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34
maritime
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| adj.海的，海事的，航海的，近海的，沿海的 | |
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35
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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36
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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37
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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38
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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39
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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40
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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41
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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42
portraiture
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|
| n.肖像画法 | |
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43
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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44
muse
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|
| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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45
dedicated
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|
| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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46
consummate
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|
| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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47
apprehend
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|
| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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48
wilfully
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|
| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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49
perverse
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|
| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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50
perversely
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|
| adv. 倔强地 | |
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51
previously
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|
| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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52
stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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53
delightful
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|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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54
exquisite
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|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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55
moss
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|
| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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56
pinnacles
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|
| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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57
supreme
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|
| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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58
fangs
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|
| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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59
demesne
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| n.领域，私有土地 | |
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60
congregated
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| （使）集合，聚集( congregate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
spires
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|
| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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62
cohere
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|
| vt.附着，连贯，一致 | |
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63
illuminative
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|
| adj.照明的，照亮的，启蒙的 | |
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64
exclusion
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|
| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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65
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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66
quotations
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|
| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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67
doctrines
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|
| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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68
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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69
remarkable
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|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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70
standing
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|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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71
presumptuous
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|
| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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72
substantiation
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|
| n. 实体化, 证实, 证明 | |
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73
reiterate
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|
| v.重申，反复地说 | |
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74
renaissance
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|
| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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75
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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76
appreciative
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|
| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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77
fascination
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|
| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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78
ramifications
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|
| n.结果，后果( ramification的名词复数 ) | |
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79
purely
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|
| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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80
complement
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|
| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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81
narrative
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|
| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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82
tragic
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|
| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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83
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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84
inadequate
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|
| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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85
ethical
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|
| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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86
blithe
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|
| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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87
inevitable
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|
| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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88
seclusion
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|
| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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89
anonymous
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|
| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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90
alludes
|
|
| 提及，暗指( allude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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91
audacity
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|
| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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92
unconditional
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|
| adj.无条件的，无限制的，绝对的 | |
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93
enjoyment
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|
| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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94
lesser
|
|
| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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95
feat
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|
| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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96
subtlety
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|
| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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97
athletic
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|
| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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98
insistence
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|
| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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99
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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100
fissured
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|
| adj.裂缝的v.裂开( fissure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
embittered
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|
| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
thereby
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|
| adv.因此，从而 | |
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103
ruffle
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|
| v.弄皱，弄乱；激怒，扰乱；n.褶裥饰边 | |
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104
rhythmic
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|
| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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105
stimulus
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|
| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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106
defective
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|
| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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107
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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108
espied
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|
| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
scattered
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|
| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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110
prologue
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|
| n.开场白，序言；开端，序幕 | |
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111
stimulating
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|
| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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112
overture
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| n.前奏曲、序曲，提议，提案，初步交涉 | |
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113
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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114
ridicule
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|
| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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115
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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116
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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117
accomplished
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|
| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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118
invaluable
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|
| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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119
exponents
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| n.倡导者( exponent的名词复数 )；说明者；指数；能手 | |
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120
impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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121
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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122
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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123
disinterestedly
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124
unintelligibility
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| 不可懂度，不清晰性 | |
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125
bumptious
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| adj.傲慢的 | |
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126
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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127
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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128
specification
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| n.详述；[常pl.]规格，说明书，规范 | |
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129
monograph
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| n.专题文章，专题著作 | |
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130
concise
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| adj.简洁的，简明的 | |
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131
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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132
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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133
avocations
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| n.业余爱好，嗜好( avocation的名词复数 )；职业 | |
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134
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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135
salons
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|
| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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136
prophesying
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|
| v.预告，预言( prophesy的现在分词 ) | |
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137
procurable
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| adj.可得到的，得手的 | |
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138
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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139
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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140
bulwark
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| n.堡垒，保障，防御 | |
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141
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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142
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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143
serene
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|
| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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144
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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145
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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146
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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147
peculiar
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|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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148
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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149
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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150
memorable
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|
| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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151
pointed
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|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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152
asthma
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|
| n.气喘病，哮喘病 | |
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153
sanguine
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|
| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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154
joyous
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|
| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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155
ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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157
atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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158
haranguing
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| v.高谈阔论( harangue的现在分词 ) | |
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159
incognito
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| adv.匿名地；n.隐姓埋名；adj.化装的，用假名的，隐匿姓名身份的 | |
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160
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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161
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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162
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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163
luminously
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| 发光的； 明亮的； 清楚的； 辉赫 | |
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164
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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165
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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166
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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167
ambushed
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| v.埋伏( ambush的过去式和过去分词 )；埋伏着 | |
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168
yearns
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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169
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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170
attests
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| v.证明( attest的第三人称单数 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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171
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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172
abasement
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| n.滥用 | |
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173
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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174
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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175
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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176
harping
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| n.反复述说 | |
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177
negation
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| n.否定；否认 | |
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178
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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179
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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180
depicts
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| 描绘，描画( depict的第三人称单数 )； 描述 | |
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181
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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182
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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183
toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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184
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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185
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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186
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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187
gondolas
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| n.狭长小船( gondola的名词复数 )；货架（一般指商店，例如化妆品店）；吊船工作台 | |
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188
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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189
lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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190
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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191
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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192
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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193
chrysanthemum
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| n.菊，菊花 | |
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194
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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195
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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196
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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197
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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198
wreak
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| v.发泄；报复 | |
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199
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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200
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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201
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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202
baneful
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| adj.有害的 | |
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203
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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204
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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205
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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206
abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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207
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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208
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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209
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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210
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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211
stimulative
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| n.刺激，促进因素adj.刺激的，激励的，促进的 | |
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212
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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213
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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214
hierarchy
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| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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215
decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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216
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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217
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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218
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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219
franchise
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| n.特许，特权，专营权，特许权 | |
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220
arbiter
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| n.仲裁人，公断人 | |
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221
summarise
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| vt.概括，总结 | |
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222
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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223
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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224
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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225
acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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226
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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227
codified
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| v.把（法律）编成法典( codify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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228
interdiction
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| n.禁止；封锁 | |
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229
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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230
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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231
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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232
annotations
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| n.注释( annotation的名词复数 )；附注 | |
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233
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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234
equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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235
entrench
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| v.使根深蒂固；n.壕沟；防御设施 | |
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236
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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237
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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238
inept
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| adj.不恰当的，荒谬的，拙劣的 | |
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239
haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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240
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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241
disastrously
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| ad.灾难性地 | |
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242
postulate
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| n.假定，基本条件；vt.要求，假定 | |
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243
habitual
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|
| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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244
sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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245
evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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246
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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247
protagonist
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| n.(思想观念的)倡导者；主角，主人公 | |
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248
relentless
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|
| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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249
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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250
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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251
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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252
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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253
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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254
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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255
conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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256
physiologic
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| a.生理学的 | |
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257
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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258
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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259
tipple
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| n.常喝的酒；v.不断喝，饮烈酒 | |
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260
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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261
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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262
poltroonery
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| n.怯懦，胆小 | |
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263
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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264
crutches
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| n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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265
trudge
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| v.步履艰难地走；n.跋涉，费力艰难的步行 | |
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266
mumble
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| n./v.喃喃而语，咕哝 | |
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267
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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268
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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269
strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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270
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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271
conserves
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| n.（含有大块或整块水果的）果酱，蜜饯( conserve的名词复数 )v.保护，保藏，保存( conserve的第三人称单数 ) | |
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272
antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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273
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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274
incisive
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| adj.敏锐的，机敏的，锋利的，切入的 | |
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275
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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276
pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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277
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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278
tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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279
psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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280
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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281
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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282
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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283
persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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284
plummet
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| vi.(价格、水平等)骤然下跌；n.铅坠；重压物 | |
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285
educed
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| v.引出( educe的过去式和过去分词 )；唤起或开发出（潜能）；推断（出）；从数据中演绎（出） | |
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286
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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287
jugglery
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| n.杂耍，把戏 | |
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288
legerdemain
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| n.戏法，诈术 | |
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289
violations
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| 违反( violation的名词复数 )； 冒犯； 违反（行为、事例）； 强奸 | |
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290
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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291
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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292
inhale
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| v.吸入(气体等)，吸(烟) | |
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293
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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294
vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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295
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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296
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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297
paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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298
poetically
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| adv.有诗意地，用韵文 | |
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299
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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300
perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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301
analytical
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| adj.分析的；用分析法的 | |
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302
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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303
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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304
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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305
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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306
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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307
melodic
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| adj.有旋律的，调子美妙的 | |
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308
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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310
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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311
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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312
ascertainment
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| n.探查，发现，确认 | |
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313
discriminate
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| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
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succinctly
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| adv.简洁地；简洁地，简便地 | |
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generic
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| adj.一般的，普通的，共有的 | |
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316
disabuse
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| v.解惑；矫正 | |
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317
exhales
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的第三人称单数 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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318
disintegration
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| n.分散，解体 | |
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319
reconstruction
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| n.重建，再现，复原 | |
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320
germane
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| adj.关系密切的，恰当的 | |
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321
inversions
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| 倒置( inversion的名词复数 )； （尤指词序）倒装； 转化； （染色体的）倒位 | |
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322
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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323
concision
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| n.简明，简洁 | |
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324
mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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325
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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326
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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327
winsome
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| n.迷人的，漂亮的 | |
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328
outlast
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| v.较…耐久 | |
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329
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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330
consign
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| vt.寄售（货品），托运，交托，委托 | |
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331
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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332
orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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333
grandee
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| n.贵族；大公 | |
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334
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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335
bards
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| n.诗人( bard的名词复数 ) | |
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336
majesties
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| n.雄伟( majesty的名词复数 )；庄严；陛下；王权 | |
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