At the period when the episode just related occurred in the life of Mr. Zachary Thorpe the younger—that is to say, in the year 1837—Baregrove Square was the farthest square from the city, and the nearest to the country, of any then existing in the north-western suburb of London. But, by the time fourteen years more had elapsed—that is to say, in the year 1851—Baregrove Square had lost its distinctive1 character altogether; other squares had filched2 from it those last remnants of healthy rustic3 flavor from which its good name had been derived4; other streets, crescents, rows, and villa-residences had forced themselves pitilessly between the old suburb and the country, and had suspended for ever the once neighborly relations between the pavement of Baregrove Square and the pathways of the pleasant fields.
Alexander’s armies were great makers5 of conquests; and Napoleon’s armies were great makers of conquests; but the modern Guerilla regiments6 of the hod, the trowel, and the brick-kiln, are the greatest conquerors7 of all; for they hold the longest the soil that they have once possessed8. How mighty9 the devastation10 which follows in the wake of these tremendous aggressors, as they march through the kingdom of nature, triumphantly11 bricklaying beauty wherever they go! What dismantled12 castle, with the enemy’s flag flying over its crumbling13 walls, ever looked so utterly14 forlorn as a poor field-fortress of nature, imprisoned15 on all sides by the walled camp of the enemy, and degraded by a hostile banner of pole and board, with the conqueror’s device inscribed16 on it—“THIS GROUND TO BE LET ON BUILDING LEASES?” What is the historical spectacle of Marius sitting among the ruins of Carthage, but a trumpery17 theatrical18 set-scene, compared with the mournful modern sight of the last tree left standing19, on the last few feet of grass left growing, amid the greenly-festering stucco of a finished Paradise Row, or the naked scaffolding poles of a half-completed Prospect20 Place? Oh, gritty-natured Guerilla regiments of the hod, the trowel, and the brick-kiln! the town-pilgrim of nature, when he wanders out at fall of day into the domains21 which you have spared for a little while, hears strange things said of you in secret, as he duteously interprets the old, primeval language of the leaves; as he listens to the death-doomed23 trees, still whispering mournfully around him the last notes of their ancient even-song!
But what avails the voice of lamentation24? What new neighborhood ever stopped on its way into the country, to hearken to the passive remonstrance25 of the fields, or to bow to the indignation of outraged26 admirers of the picturesque27? Never was suburb more impervious28 to any faint influences of this sort, than that especial suburb which grew up between Baregrove Square and the country; removing a walk among the hedge-rows a mile off from the resident families, with a ruthless rapidity at which sufferers on all sides stared aghast. First stories were built, and mortgaged by the enterprising proprietors29 to get money enough to go on with the second; old speculators failed and were succeeded by new; foundations sank from bad digging; walls were blown down in high winds from hasty building; bricks were called for in such quantities, and seized on in such haste, half-baked from the kilns30, that they set the carts on fire, and had to be cooled in pails of water before they could be erected31 into walls—and still the new suburb defied all accidents, and grew irrepressibly into a little town of houses, ready to be let and lived in, from the one end to the other.
The new neighborhood offered house-accommodation—accepted at the higher prices as yet only to a small extent—to three distinct subdivisions of the great middle class of our British population. Rents and premises32 were adapted, in a steeply descending33 scale, to the means of the middle classes with large incomes, of the middle classes with moderate incomes, and of the middle classes with small incomes. The abodes34 for the large incomes were called “mansions35,” and were fortified36 strongly against the rest of the suburb by being all built in one wide row, shut in at either end by ornamental37 gates, and called a “park.” The unspeakable desolation of aspect common to the whole suburb, was in a high state of perfection in this part of it. Irreverent street noises fainted dead away on the threshold of the ornamental gates, at the sight of the hermit38 lodge-keeper. The cry of the costermonger and the screech39 of the vagabond London boy were banished40 out of hearing. Even the regular tradesman’s time-honored business noises at customers’ doors, seemed as if they ought to have been relinquished41 here. The frantic42 falsetto of the milkman, the crash of the furious butcher’s cart over the never-to-be pulverized43 stones of the new road through the “park,” always sounded profanely44 to the passing stranger, in the spick-and-span stillness of this Paradise of the large incomes.
The hapless small incomes had the very worst end of the whole locality entirely45 to themselves, and absorbed all the noises and nuisances, just as the large incomes absorbed all the tranquillities and luxuries of suburban46 existence. Here were the dreary47 limits at which architectural invention stopped in despair. Each house in this poor man’s purgatory48 was, indeed, and in awful literalness, a brick box with a slate49 top to it. Every hole drilled in these boxes, whether door-hole or window-hole, was always overflowing50 with children. They often mustered51 by forties and fifties in one street, and were the great pervading52 feature of the quarter. In the world of the large incomes, young life sprang up like a garden fountain, artificially playing only at stated periods in the sunshine. In the world of the small incomes, young life flowed out turbulently into the street, like an exhaustless kennel-deluge, in all weathers. Next to the children of the inhabitants, in visible numerical importance, came the shirts and petticoats, and miscellaneous linen53 of the inhabitants; fluttering out to dry publicly on certain days of the week, and enlivening the treeless little gardens where they hung, with lightsome avenues of pinafores, and solemn-spreading foliage54 of stout55 Welsh flannel56. Here that absorbing passion for oranges (especially active when the fruit is half ripe, and the weather is bitter cold), which distinguishes the city English girl of the lower orders, flourished in its finest development; and here, also, the poisonous fumes57 of the holyday shop-boy’s bad cigar told all resident nostrils58 when it was Sunday, as plainly as the church bells could tell it to all resident ears. The one permanent rarity in this neighborhood, on week days, was to discover a male inhabitant in any part of it, between the hours of nine in the morning and six in the evening; the one sorrowful sight which never varied59, was to see that every woman, even to the youngest, looked more or less unhappy, often care-stricken, while youth was still in the first bud; oftener child-stricken before maturity60 was yet in the full bloom.
As for the great central portion of the suburb—or, in other words, the locality of the moderate incomes—it reflected exactly the lives of those who inhabited it, by presenting no distinctive character of its own at all.
In one part, the better order of houses imitated as pompously61 as they could, the architectural grandeur62 of the mansions owned by the large incomes; in another, the worst order of houses respectably, but narrowly, escaped a general resemblance to the brick boxes of the small incomes. In some places, the “park” influences vindicated63 their existence superbly in the persons of isolated64 ladies who, not having a carriage to go out in for an airing, exhibited the next best thing, a footman to walk behind them: and so got a pedestrian airing genteelly in that way. In other places, the obtrusive65 spirit of the brick boxes rode about, thinly disguised, in children’s carriages, drawn66 by nursery-maids; or fluttered aloft, delicately discernible at angles of view, in the shape of a lace pocket-handkerchief or a fine-worked chemisette, drying modestly at home in retired67 corners of back gardens. Generally, however, the hostile influences of the large incomes and the small mingled68 together on the neutral ground of the moderate incomes; turning it into the dullest, the dreariest70, the most oppressively conventional division of the whole suburb. It was just that sort of place where the thoughtful man looking about him mournfully at the locality, and physiologically71 observing the inhabitants, would be prone72 to stop suddenly, and ask himself one plain, but terrible question: “Do these people ever manage to get any real enjoyment73 out of their lives, from one year’s end to another?”
To the looker-on at the system of life prevailing74 among the moderate incomes in England, the sort of existence which that system embodies75 seems in some aspects to be without a parallel in any other part of the civilized76 world. Is it not obviously true that, while the upper classes and the lower classes of English society have each their own characteristic recreations for leisure hours, adapted equally to their means and to their tastes, the middle classes, in general, have (to expose the sad reality) nothing of the sort? To take an example from those eating and drinking recreations which absorb so large a portion of existence:—If the rich proprietors of the “mansions” in the “park” could give their grand dinners, and be as prodigal77 as they pleased with their first-rate champagne78, and their rare gastronomic79 delicacies80; the poor tenants81 of the brick boxes could just as easily enjoy their tea-garden conversazione, and be just as happily and hospitably82 prodigal, in turn, with their porter-pot, their teapot, their plate of bread-and-butter, and their dish of shrimps83. On either side, these representatives of two pecuniary84 extremes in society, looked for what recreations they wanted with their own eyes, pursued those recreations within their own limits, and enjoyed themselves unreservedly in consequence. Not so with the moderate incomes: they, in their social moments, shrank absurdly far from the poor people’s porter and shrimps; crawled contemptibly85 near to the rich people’s rare wines and luxurious86 dishes; exposed their poverty in imitation by chemical champagne from second-rate wine merchants, by flabby salads and fetid oyster-patties from second-rate pastry-cooks; were, in no one of their festive87 arrangements, true to their incomes, to their order, or to themselves; and, in very truth, for all these reasons and many more, got no real enjoyment out of their lives, from one year’s end to another.
On the outskirts88 of that part of the new suburb appropriated to these unhappy middle classes with moderate incomes, there lived a gentleman (by name Mr. Valentine Blyth) whose life offered as strong a practical contradiction as it is possible to imagine to the lives of his neighbors.
He was by profession an artist—an artist in spite of circumstances. Neither his father, nor his mother, nor any relation of theirs, on either side, had ever practiced the Art of Painting, or had ever derived any special pleasure from the contemplation of pictures. They were all respectable commercial people of the steady fund-holding old school, who lived exclusively within their own circle; and had never so much as spoken to a live artist or author in the whole course of their lives. The City-world in which Valentine’s boyhood was passed, was as destitute89 of art influences of any kind as if it had been situated90 on the coast of Greenland; and yet, to the astonishment91 of everybody, he was always drawing and painting, in his own rude way, at every leisure hour. His father was, as might be expected, seriously disappointed and amazed at the strange direction taken by the boy’s inclinations92. No one (including Valentine himself) could ever trace them back to any recognizable source; but everyone could observe plainly enough that there was no hope of successfully opposing them by fair means of any kind. Seeing this, old Mr. Blyth, like a wise man, at last made a virtue93 of necessity; and, giving way to his son, entered him, under strong commercial protest, as a student in the Schools of the Royal Academy.
Here Valentine remained, working industriously94, until his twenty-first birthday. On that occasion, Mr. Blyth had a little serious talk with him about his prospects95 in life. In the course of this conversation, the young man was informed that a rich merchant-uncle was ready to take him into partnership96; and that his father was equally ready to start him in business with his whole share, as one of three children, in the comfortable inheritance acquired for the family by the well-known City house of Blyth and Company. If Valentine consented to this arrangement, his fortune was secured, and he might ride in his carriage before he was thirty. If, on the other hand, he really chose to fling away a fortune, he should not be pinched for means to carry on his studies as a painter. The interest of his inheritance on his father’s death, should be paid quarterly to him during his father’s lifetime: the annual independence thus secured to the young artist, under any circumstances, being calculated as amounting to a little over four hundred pounds a year.
Valentine was not deficient97 in gratitude98. He took a day to consider what he should do, though his mind was quite made up about his choice beforehand; and then persisted in his first determination; throwing away the present certainty of becoming a wealthy man, for the sake of the future chance of turning out a great painter.
If he had really possessed genius, there would have been nothing very remarkable99 in this part of his history, so far; but having nothing of the kind, holding not the smallest spark of the great creative fire in his whole mental composition, surely there was something very discouraging to contemplate100, in the spectacle of a man resolutely101 determining, in spite of adverse102 home circumstances and strong home temptation, to abandon all those paths in life, along which he might have walked fairly abreast103 with his fellows, for the one path in which he was predestinated by Nature to be always left behind by the way. Do the announcing angels, whose mission it is to whisper of greatness to great spirits, ever catch the infection of fallibility from their intercourse104 with mortals? Do the voices which said truly to Shakespeare, to Raphael, and to Mozart, in their youth-time,—You are chosen to be gods in this world—ever speak wrongly to souls which they are not ordained105 to approach? It may be so. There are men enough in all countries whose lives would seem to prove it—whose deaths have not contradicted it.
But even to victims such as these, there are pleasant resting-places on the thorny106 way, and flashes of sunlight now and then, to make the cloudy prospect beautiful, though only for a little while. It is not all misfortune and disappointment to the man who is mentally unworthy of a great intellectual vocation108, so long as he is morally worthy107 of it; so long as he can pursue it honestly, patiently, and affectionately, for its own dear sake. Let him work, though ever so obscurely, in this spirit towards his labor109, and he shall find the labor itself its own exceeding great reward. In that reward lives the divine consolation110, which, though Fame turn her back on him contemptuously, and Affluence111 pass over unpitying to the other side of the way, shall still pour oil upon all his wounds, and take him quietly and tenderly to the hard journey’s end. To this one exhaustless solace112, which the work, no matter of what degree, can yield always to earnest workers, the man who has succeeded, and the man who has failed, can turn alike, as to a common mother—the one, for refuge from mean envy and slanderous113 hatred114, from all the sorest evils which even the thriving child of Fame is heir to; the other, from neglect, from ridicule115, from defeat, from all the petty tyrannies which the pining bondman of Obscurity is fated to undergo.
Thus it was with Valentine. He had sacrificed a fortune to his Art; and his Art—in the world’s eye at least—had given to him nothing in return. Friends and relatives who had not scrupled116, on being made acquainted with his choice of a vocation, to call it in question, and thereby117 to commit that worst and most universal of all human impertinences, which consists of telling a man to his face, by the plainest possible inference, that others are better able than he is himself to judge what calling in life is fittest and worthiest118 for him—friends and relatives who thus upbraided119 Valentine for his refusal to accept the partnership in his uncle’s house, affected120, on discovering that he made no public progress whatever in Art, to believe that he was simply an idle fellow, who knew that his father’s liberality placed him beyond the necessity of working for his bread, and who had taken up the pursuit of painting as a mere121 amateur amusement to occupy his leisure hours. To a man who labored122 like poor Blyth, with the steadiest industry and the highest aspirations123, such whispered calumnies124 as these were of all mortifications the most cruel, of all earthly insults the hardest to bear.
Still he worked on patiently, never losing faith or hope, because he never lost the love of his Art, or the enjoyment of pursuing it, irrespective of results, however disheartening. Like most other men of his slight intellectual caliber125, the works he produced were various, if nothing else. He tried the florid style, and the severe style; he was by turns devotional, allegorical, historical, sentimental126, humorous. At one time, he abandoned figure-painting altogether, and took to landscape; now producing conventional studies from Nature,—and now, again, reveling in poetical127 compositions, which might have hung undetected in many a collection as doubtful specimens128 of Berghem or Claude.
But whatever department of painting Valentine tried to excel in, the same unhappy destiny seemed always in reserve for each completed effort. For years and years his pictures pleaded hard for admission at the Academy doors, and were invariably (and not unfairly, it must be confessed) refused even the worst places on the walls of the Exhibition rooms. Season after season he still bravely struggled on, never depressed129, never hopeless while he was before his easel, until at last the day of reward—how long and painfully wrought130 for!—actually arrived. A small picture of a very insignificant131 subject—being only a kitchen “interior,” with a sleek132 cat on a dresser, stealing milk from the tea-tray during the servant’s absence—was benevolently133 marked “doubtful” by the Hanging Committee; was thereupon kept in reserve, in case it might happen to fit any forgotten place near the floor—did fit such a place—and was really hung up, as Mr. Blyth’s little unit of a contribution to the one thousand and odd works exhibited to the public, that year, by the Royal Academy.
But Valentine’s triumph did not end here. His picture of the treacherous134 cat stealing the household milk—entitled, by way of appealing jocosely135 to the strong Protestant interest, “The Jesuit in the Family,”—was really sold to an Art-union prize-holder for ten pounds. Once furnished with a bank note won by his own brush, Valentine indulged in the most extravagant136 anticipations137 of future celebrity138 and future wealth; and proved, recklessly enough, that he believed as firmly as any other visionary in the wildest dreams of his own imagination, by marrying, and setting up an establishment, on the strength of the success which had been achieved by “The Jesuit in the Family.”
He had been for some time past engaged to the lady who had now become Mrs. Valentine Blyth. She was the youngest of eight sisters, who formed part of the family of a poor engraver139, and who, in the absence of any mere money qualifications, were all rich alike in the ownership of most magnificent Christian140 names. Mrs. Blyth was called Lavinia-Ada; and hers was by far the humblest name to be found among the whole sisterhood. Valentine’s relations all objected strongly to this match, not only on account of the bride’s poverty, but for another and a very serious reason, which events soon proved to be but too well founded.
Lavinia had suffered long and severely142, as a child, from a bad spinal143 malady144. Constant attention, and such medical assistance as her father could afford to employ, had, it was said, successfully combated the disorder145; and the girl grew up, prettier than any of her sisters, and apparently146 almost as strong as the healthiest of them. Old Mr. Blyth, however, on hearing that his son was now just as determined147 to become a married man as he had formerly148 been to become a painter, thought it advisable to make certain inquiries149 about the young lady’s constitution; and addressed them, with characteristic caution, to the family doctor, at a private interview.
The result of this conference was far from being satisfactory. The doctor was suspiciously careful not to commit himself: he said that he hoped the spine150 was no longer in danger of being affected; but that he could not conscientiously151 express himself as feeling quite sure about it. Having repeated these discouraging words to his son, old Mr. Blyth delicately and considerately, but very plainly, asked Valentine whether, after what he had heard, he still honestly thought that he would be consulting his own happiness, or the lady’s happiness either, by marrying her at all? or, at least, by marrying her at a time when the doctor could not venture to say that the poor girl might not be even yet in danger of becoming an invalid152 for life?
Valentine, as usual, persisted at first in looking exclusively at the bright side of the question, and made light of the doctor’s authority accordingly.
“Lavvie and I love each other dearly,” he said with a little trembling in his voice, but with perfect firmness of manner. “I hope in God that what you seem to fear will never happen; but even if it should, I shall never repent153 having married her, for I know that I am just as ready to be her nurse as to be her husband. I am willing to take her in sickness and in health, as the Prayer-Book says. In my home she would have such constant attention paid to her wants and comforts as she could not have at her father’s, with his large family and his poverty, poor fellow! And this is reason enough, I think, for my marrying her, even if the worst should take place. But I always have hoped for the best, as you know, father: and I mean to go on hoping for poor Lavvie, just the same as ever!”
What could old Mr. Blyth, what could any man of heart and honor, oppose to such an answer as this? Nothing. The marriage took place; and Valentine’s father tried hard, and not altogether vainly, to feel as sanguine154 about future results as Valentine himself.
For several months—how short the time seemed, when they looked back on it in after-years!—the happiness of the painter and his wife more than fulfilled the brightest hopes which they had formed as lovers. As for the doctor’s cautious words, they were hardly remembered now; or, if recalled, were recalled only to be laughed over. But the time of bitter grief, which had been appointed, though they knew it not, came inexorably, even while they were still lightly jesting at all medical authority round the painter’s fireside. Lavinia caught a severe cold. The cold turned to rheumatism156, to fever, then to general debility, then to nervous attacks—each one of these disorders157, being really but so many false appearances, under which the horrible spinal malady was treacherously158 and slowly advancing in disguise.
When the first positive symptoms appeared, old Mr. Blyth acted with all his accustomed generosity159 towards his son. “My purse is yours, Valentine,” said he; “open it when you like; and let Lavinia, while there is a chance for her, have the same advice and the same remedies as if she was the greatest duchess in the land.” The old man’s affectionate advice was affectionately followed. The most renowned160 doctors in England prescribed for Lavinia; everything that science and incessant161 attention could do, was done; but the terrible disease still baffled remedy after remedy, advancing surely and irresistibly162, until at last the doctors themselves lost all hope. So far as human science could foretell163 events, Mrs. Blyth, in the opinion of all her medical advisers164, was doomed for the rest of her life never to rise again from the bed on which she lay; except, perhaps, to be sometimes moved to the sofa, or, in the event of some favorable reaction, to be wheeled about occasionally in an invalid chair.
What the shock of this intelligence was, both to husband and wife, no one ever knew; they nobly kept it a secret even from each other. Mrs. Blyth was the first to recover courage and calmness. She begged, as an especial favor, that Valentine would seek consolation, where she knew he must find it sooner or later, by going back to his studio, and resuming his old familiar labors165, which had been suspended from the time when her illness had originally declared itself.
On the first day when, in obedience166 to her wishes, he sat before his picture again—the half-finished picture from which he had been separated for so many months—on that first day, when the friendly occupation of his life seemed suddenly to have grown strange to him; when his brush wandered idly among the colors, when his tears dropped fast on the palette every time he looked down on it; when he tried hard to work as usual, though only for half an hour, only on simple background places in the composition; and still the brush made false touches, and still the tints167 would not mingle69 as they should, and still the same words, repeated over and over again, would burst from his lips: “Oh, poor Lavvie! oh, poor, dear, dear Lavvie!”—even then, the spirit of that beloved art, which he had always followed so humbly168 and so faithfully, was true to its divine mission, and comforted and upheld him at the last bitterest moment when he laid down his palette in despair.
While he was still hiding his face before the very picture which he and his wife had once innocently and secretly glorified169 together, in those happy days of its beginning that were never to come again, the sudden thought of consolation shone out on his heart, and showed him how he might adorn170 all his afterlife with the deathless beauty of a pure and noble purpose. Thenceforth, his vague dreams of fame, and of rich men wrangling171 with each other for the possession of his pictures, took the second place in his mind; and, in their stead, sprang up the new resolution that he would win independently, with his own brush, no matter at what sacrifice of pride and ambition, the means of surrounding his sick wife with all those luxuries and refinements172 which his own little income did not enable him to obtain, and which he shrank with instinctive174 delicacy175 from accepting as presents bestowed176 by his father’s generosity. Here was the consoling purpose which robbed affliction of half its bitterness already, and bound him and his art together by a bond more sacred than any that had united them before. In the very hour when this thought came to him, he rose without a pang177 to turn the great historical composition, from which he had once hoped so much, with its face to the wall, and set himself to finish an unpretending little “Study” of a cottage courtyard, which he was certain of selling to a picture-dealing friend. The first approach to happiness which he had known for a long, long time past, was on the evening of that day, when he went upstairs to sit with Lavinia; and, keeping secret his purpose of the morning, made the sick woman smile in spite of her sufferings, by asking her how she should like to have her room furnished, if she were the lady of a great lord, instead of being only the wife of Valentine Blyth.
Then came the happy day when the secret was revealed, and afterwards the pleasant years when poor Mrs. Blyth’s most splendid visions of luxury were all gradually realized through her husband’s exertions178 in his profession. But for his wife’s influence, Valentine would have been in danger of abandoning high Art and Classical Landscape altogether, for cheap portrait-painting, cheap copying, and cheap studies of Still Life. But Mrs. Blyth, bedridden as she was, contrived179 to preserve all her old influence over the labors of the Studio, and would ask for nothing new, and receive nothing new, in her room, except on condition that her husband was to paint at least one picture of High Art every year, for the sake (as she proudly said) of “asserting his intellect and his reputation in the eyes of the public.” Accordingly, Mr. Blyth’s time was pretty equally divided between the production of great unsaleable “compositions,” which were always hung near the ceiling in the Exhibition, and of small marketable commodities, which were as invariably hung near the floor.
Valentine’s average earnings180 from his art, though humble141 enough in amount, amply sufficed to fulfill155 the affectionate purpose for which, to the last farthing, they were rigorously set aside. “Lavvie’s Drawing-Room” (this was Mr. Blyth’s name for his wife’s bed-room) really looked as bright and beautiful as any royal chamber181 in the universe. The rarest flowers, the prettiest gardens under glass, bowls with gold and silver fish in them, a small aviary182 of birds, an Aeolian harp183 to put on the window-sill in summertime, some of Valentine’s best drawings from the old masters, prettily-framed proof-impressions of engravings done by Mrs. Blyth’s father, curtains and hangings of the tenderest color and texture184, inlaid tables, and delicately-carved book-cases, were among the different objects of refinement173 and beauty which, in the course of years, Mr. Blyth’s industry had enabled him to accumulate for his wife’s pleasure. No one but himself ever knew what he had sacrificed in laboring185 to gain these things. The heartless people whose portraits he had painted, and whose impertinences he had patiently submitted to; the mean bargainers who had treated him like a tradesman; the dastardly men of business who had disgraced their order by taking advantage of his simplicity—how hardly and cruelly such insect natures of this world had often dealt with that noble heart! how despicably they had planted their small gad-fly stings in the high soul which it was never permitted to them to subdue186!
No! not once to subdue, not once to tarnish187! All petty humiliations were forgotten in one look at “Lavvie’s Drawing-Room;” all stain of insolent188 words vanished from Valentine’s memory in the atmosphere of the Studio. Never was a more superficial judgment189 pronounced than when his friends said that he had thrown away his whole life, because he had chosen a vocation in which he could win no public success. The lad’s earliest instincts had indeed led him truly, after all. The art to which he had devoted190 himself was the only earthly pursuit that could harmonize as perfectly191 with all the eccentricities192 as with all the graces of his character, that could mingle happily with every joy, tenderly with every grief; belonging to the quiet, simple, and innocent life, which, employ him anyhow, it was in his original nature to lead. But for this protecting art, under what prim22 disguises, amid what foggy social climates of class conventionality, would the worlds clerical, legal, mercantile, military, naval193, or dandy, have extinguished this man, if any one of them had caught him in its snares194! Where would then have been his frolicsome195 enthusiasm that nothing could dispirit; his inveterate196 oddities of thought, speech, and action, which made all his friends laugh at him and bless him in the same breath; his affections, so manly197 in their firmness, so womanly in their tenderness, so childlike in their frank, fearless confidence that dreaded198 neither ridicule on the one side, nor deception199 on the other? Where, and how, would all these characteristics have vanished, but for his art—but for the abiding200 spirit, ever present to preserve their vital warmth against the outer and earthly cold? The wisest of Valentine’s friends, who shook their heads disparagingly201 whenever his name was mentioned, were at least wise enough in their generation never to ask themselves such embarrassing questions as these.
Thus much for the history of the painter’s past life. We may now make his acquaintance in the appropriate atmosphere of his own Studio.
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distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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filched
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| v.偷（尤指小的或不贵重的物品）( filch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rustic
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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makers
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regiments
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possessed
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mighty
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devastation
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| n.毁坏；荒废；极度震惊或悲伤 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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13
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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14
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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15
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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17
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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18
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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19
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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20
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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21
domains
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| n.范围( domain的名词复数 )；领域；版图；地产 | |
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22
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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23
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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24
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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25
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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26
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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27
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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28
impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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29
proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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30
kilns
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| n.窑( kiln的名词复数 )；烧窑工人 | |
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31
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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32
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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33
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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34
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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35
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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36
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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37
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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38
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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39
screech
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| n./v.尖叫；(发出)刺耳的声音 | |
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40
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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42
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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43
pulverized
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| adj.[医]雾化的，粉末状的v.将…弄碎( pulverize的过去式和过去分词 )；将…弄成粉末或尘埃；摧毁；粉碎 | |
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44
profanely
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| adv.渎神地，凡俗地 | |
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45
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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46
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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47
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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48
purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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49
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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50
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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51
mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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52
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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53
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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54
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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56
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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57
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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58
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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59
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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60
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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61
pompously
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| adv.傲慢地，盛大壮观地；大模大样 | |
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62
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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63
vindicated
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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64
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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65
obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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66
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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67
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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68
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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69
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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70
dreariest
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|
| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的最高级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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71
physiologically
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| ad.生理上，在生理学上 | |
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72
prone
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|
| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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73
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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74
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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75
embodies
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| v.表现( embody的第三人称单数 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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76
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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77
prodigal
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|
| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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78
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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79
gastronomic
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|
| adj.美食（烹饪）法的，烹任学的 | |
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80
delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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81
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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82
hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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83
shrimps
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| n.虾，小虾( shrimp的名词复数 )；矮小的人 | |
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84
pecuniary
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|
| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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85
contemptibly
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| adv.卑鄙地，下贱地 | |
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86
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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87
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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88
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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89
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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90
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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91
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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92
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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93
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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94
industriously
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95
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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96
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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97
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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98
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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99
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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100
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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101
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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102
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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103
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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104
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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105
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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106
thorny
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| adj.多刺的，棘手的 | |
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107
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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108
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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109
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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110
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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111
affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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112
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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113
slanderous
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| adj.诽谤的，中伤的 | |
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114
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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115
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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116
scrupled
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| v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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118
worthiest
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| 应得某事物( worthy的最高级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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119
upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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121
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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122
labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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123
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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124
calumnies
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| n.诬蔑，诽谤，中伤（的话）( calumny的名词复数 ) | |
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125
caliber
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| n.能力；水准 | |
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126
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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127
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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128
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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129
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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130
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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131
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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132
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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133
benevolently
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| adv.仁慈地，行善地 | |
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134
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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135
jocosely
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| adv.说玩笑地，诙谐地 | |
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136
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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137
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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138
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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139
engraver
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| n.雕刻师，雕工 | |
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140
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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141
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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142
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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143
spinal
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| adj.针的，尖刺的，尖刺状突起的；adj.脊骨的，脊髓的 | |
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144
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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145
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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146
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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147
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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148
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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149
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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150
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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151
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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152
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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153
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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154
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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155
fulfill
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| vt.履行，实现，完成；满足，使满意 | |
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156
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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157
disorders
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| n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 )；凌乱；骚乱；（身心、机能）失调 | |
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158
treacherously
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| 背信弃义地； 背叛地； 靠不住地； 危险地 | |
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159
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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160
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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161
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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162
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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163
foretell
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| v.预言，预告，预示 | |
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164
advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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165
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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166
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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167
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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168
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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169
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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170
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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171
wrangling
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的现在分词 ) | |
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172
refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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173
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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174
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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175
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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176
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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177
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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178
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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179
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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180
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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181
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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182
aviary
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| n.大鸟笼，鸟舍 | |
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183
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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184
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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185
laboring
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| n.劳动，操劳v.努力争取(for)( labor的现在分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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186
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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187
tarnish
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| n.晦暗，污点；vt.使失去光泽；玷污 | |
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188
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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189
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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190
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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191
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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192
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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193
naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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194
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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195
frolicsome
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| adj.嬉戏的，闹着玩的 | |
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196
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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197
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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198
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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199
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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200
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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201
disparagingly
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| adv.以贬抑的口吻，以轻视的态度 | |
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