I.
The Author was born a Frenchman, and died in the year 1850. Over the whole continent of Europe, wherever the literature of France has penetrated1, his readers are numbered by tens of thousands. Women of all ranks and orders have singled him out, long since, as the marked man, among modern writers of fiction, who most profoundly knows and most subtly appreciates their sex in its strength and in its weakness. Men, whose critical judgment3 is widely and worthily4 respected, have declared that he is the deepest and truest observer of human nature whom France has produced since the time of Molière. Unquestionably, he ranks as one of the few great geniuses who appear by ones and twos, in century after century of authorship, and who leave their mark ineffaceably on the literature of their age. And yet, in spite of this widely-extended 206 continental5 fame, and this indisputable right and title to enjoy it, there is probably no civilised country in the Old World in which he is so little known as in England. Among all the readers—a large class in these islands—who are, from various causes, unaccustomed to study French literature in its native language, there are probably very many who have never even heard of the name of Honoré de Balzac.
Unaccountable as it may appear at first sight, the reason why the illustrious author of Eugénie Grandet, Le Père Goriot, and La Recherche6 de l'Absolu, happens to be so little known to the general public of England is, on the surface of it, easy enough to discover. Balzac is little known, because he has been little translated. An English version of Eugénie Grandet was advertised, lately, as one of a cheap series of novels. And the present writer has some indistinct recollection of meeting, many years since, with a translation of La Peau de Chagrin7. But so far as he knows, excepting the instances of these two books, not one other work, out of the whole number of ninety-seven fictions, long and short, which proceeded from the same fertile pen, has been offered to our own readers in our own language. Immense help has been given in this country to the reputations of Alexandre Dumas, Victor Hugo, and Eugène Sue: no help whatever, or next to none, has been given to Balzac—although he is regarded in France 207 (and rightly regarded, in some respects) as a writer of Action superior to all three.
Many causes, too numerous to be elaborately traced within the compass of a single article, have probably contributed to produce this singular instance of literary neglect. It is not to be denied, for example, that serious difficulties stand in the way of translating Balzac, which are caused by his own peculiarities8 of style and treatment. His French is not the clear, graceful9, neatly10-turned French of Voltaire and Rousseau. It is a strong, harsh, solidly vigorous language of his own; now flashing into the most exquisite11 felicities of expression, and now again involved in an obscurity which only the closest attention can hope to penetrate2. A special man, not hurried for time, and not easily brought to the end of his patience, might give the English equivalent of Balzac with admirable effect. But ordinary translating of him by average workmen would only lead, through the means of feeble parody13, to the result of utter failure.[5]
208
The difficulties, again, caused by his style of treatment are not to be lightly estimated, in considering the question of presenting this author to our own general public. The peculiarity14 of Balzac's literary execution is, that he never compromises the subtleties15 and delicacies16 of Art for any consideration of temporary effect. The framework in which his idea is set, is always wrought17 with a loving minuteness which leaves nothing out. Everything which, in this writer's mind, can even remotely illustrate18 the characters that he depicts19, must be elaborately conveyed to the minds of his readers before the characters themselves start into action. This quality of minute finish, of reiterated20 refining, which is one of Balzac's great merits, so far as foreign audiences are concerned, is another of the hindrances21, so far as an English audience is concerned, in the way of translating him.
Allowing all due weight to the force of these obstacles; and further admitting that Balzac lays himself open to grave objection (on the part of that unhappily large section of the English public which obstinately22 protests against the truth wherever the truth is painful), as a writer who sternly insists on presenting the dreary24 aspects of human life, literally25, exactly, nakedly, as he finds them—making these allowances, and many more if more be needful—it is still impossible not to regret, for the sake of readers themselves, that worthy27 English versions of the best 209 works of this great writer are not added to the national library of translated literature. Towards the latter part of his career, Balzac's own taste in selection of subject seems to have become vitiated. His later novels, consummately28 excellent as some of them were in a literary sense, are assuredly, in a moral sense, not to be defended against the grave accusation29 of being needlessly and even horribly repulsive30. But no objections of this sort apply to the majority of the works which he produced when he was in the prime of his life and his faculties31. The conception of the character of "Eugénie Grandet" is one of the purest, tenderest, and most beautiful things in the whole range of fiction; and the execution of it is even worthy of the idea. If the translation already accomplished32 of this book be only creditably executed, it may be left to speak for itself. But there are other fictions of the writer which deserve the same privilege, and which have not yet obtained it. "La Recherche de l'Absolu,"—a family picture which, for truth, delicacy33, and pathos34, has been surpassed by no novelist of any nation or any time; a literary achievement in which a new and an imperishable character (the exquisitely35 beautiful character of the wife) has been added to the great gallery of fiction—remains36 still unknown to the general public of England. "Le Père Goriot"—which, though it unveils some of the hidden corruptions37 210 of Parisian life, unveils them nobly in the interests of that highest morality belonging to no one nation and no one sect—"Le Père Goriot," which stands first and foremost among all the writer's works, which has drawn38 the tears of thousands from the purest sources, has its appeal still left to make to the sympathies of English readers. Other shorter stories, scattered39 about the "Scènes de la Vie Privée," the "Scènes de la Vie de Province," and the "Scènes de la Vie Parisienne," are as completely unknown to a certain circle of readers in this country, and as unquestionably deserve careful and competent translation, as the longer and more elaborate productions of Balzac's inexhaustible pen. Reckoning these shorter stories, there are at least a dozen of his highest achievements in fiction which might be safely rendered into English; which might form a series by themselves; and which no sensible Englishwoman could read and be, either intellectually or morally, the worse for them.
Thus much, in the way of necessary preliminary comment on the works of this author, and on their present position in reference to the English public. Readers who may be sufficiently40 interested in the subject to desire to know something next about the man himself, may now derive41 this information from a singular, and even from a unique source. The Life of Balzac has been lately written by his publisher, of 211 all the people in the world! This is a phenomenon in itself; and the oddity of it is still further increased by the fact that the publisher was brought to the brink42 of ruin by the author, that he mentions this circumstance in writing his life, and that it does not detract one iota43 from his evidently sincere admiration44 for the great man with whom he was once so disastrously45 connected in business. Here is surely an original book, in an age when originality47 grows harder and harder to meet with—a book containing disclosures which will perplex and dismay every admirer of Balzac who cannot separate the man from his works—a book which presents one of the most singular records of human eccentricity48, so far as the hero of it is concerned, and of human credulity so far as the biographer is concerned, which has probably ever been published for the amusement and bewilderment of the reading world.
The title of this singular work is, "Portrait Intime De Balzac: sa Vie, son Humeur et son Caractère. Par12 Edmond Werdet, son ancien Libraire-Editeur." Before, however, we allow Monsieur Werdet to relate his own personal experience of the celebrated49 writer, it will be advisable to introduce the subject by giving an outline of the struggles, the privations, and the disappointments which marked the early life of Balzac, and which, doubtless, influenced his after character for the worse. These particulars are given 212 by Monsieur Werdet in the form of an episode, and are principally derived51, on his part, from information afforded by the author's sister.
Honoré de Balzac was born in the city of Tours, on the sixteenth of May, seventeen hundred and ninety-nine. His parents were people of rank and position in the world. His father held a legal appointment in the council-chamber of Louis the sixteenth. His mother was the daughter of one of the directors of the public hospitals of Paris. She was much younger than her husband, and brought him a rich dowry. Honoré was her first-born; and he retained throughout life his first feeling of childish reverence52 for his mother. That mother suffered the unspeakable affliction of seeing her illustrious son taken from her by death at the age of fifty years. Balzac breathed his last in the kind arms which had first caressed53 him on the day of his birth.
His father, from whom he evidently inherited much of the eccentricity of his character, is described as a compound of Montaigne, Rabelais, and Uncle Toby—a man in manners, conversation, and disposition54 generally, of the quaintly55 original sort. On the breaking out of the Revolution, he lost his court situation, and obtained a place in the commissariat department of the army of the North. This appointment he held for some years. It was of the greater 213 importance to him, in consequence of the change for the worse produced in the pecuniary56 circumstances of the family by the convulsion of the Revolution.
At the age of seven years Balzac was sent to the college of Vend57?me; and for seven years more there he remained. This period of his life was never a pleasant one in his remembrance. The reduced circumstances of his family exposed him to much sordid58 persecution59 and ridicule60 from the other boys; and he got on but little better with the masters. They reported him as idle and incapable61—or, in other words, as ready enough to devour62 all sorts of books on his own desultory63 plan, but hopelessly obstinate23 in resisting the educational discipline of the school. This time of his life he has reproduced in one of the strangest and the most mystical of all his novels, "La Vie Intellectuelle de Louis Lambert."
On reaching the critical age of fourteen, his intellect appears to have suffered under a species of eclipse, which occurred very suddenly and mysteriously, and the cause of which neither his masters nor the medical men were able to explain. He himself always declared in after-life, with a touch of his father's quaintness64, that his brain had been attacked by "a congestion65 of ideas." Whatever the cause might be, the effect was so serious that the progress of his education had to be stopped; and his removal from the college followed as a matter of course. 214 Time, care, quiet, and breathing his native air, gradually restored him to himself; and he was ultimately enabled to complete his studies at two private schools. Here again, however, he did nothing to distinguish himself among his fellow-pupils. He read incessantly66, and preserved the fruits of his reading with marvellous power of memory; but the school-teaching, which did well enough for ordinary boys, was exactly the species of teaching from which the essentially67 original mind of Balzac recoiled68 in disgust. All that he felt and did at this period has been carefully reproduced by his own pen in the earlier pages of "Le Lys dans la Vallée."
Badly as he got on at school, he managed to imbibe69 a sufficient quantity of conventional learning to entitle him, at the age of eighteen, to his degree of Bachelor of Arts. He was destined70 for the law; and after attending the legal lectures in the various Institutions of Paris, he passed his examination by the time he was twenty, and then entered a notary71's office in the capacity of clerk. There were two other clerks to keep him company, who hated the drudgery72 of the law as heartily73 as he hated it himself. One of them was the future author of "The Mysteries of Paris," Eugène Sue; the other was the famous critic, Jules Janin.
After he had been engaged in this office, and in another, for more than three years, a legal friend, 215 who was under great obligations to Balzac the father, offered to give up his business as a notary to Balzac the son. To the great scandal of the family, Honoré resolutely74 refused the offer—for the one sufficient reason that he had determined76 to be the greatest writer in France. His relations began by laughing at him, and ended by growing angry with him. But nothing moved Honoré. His vanity was of the calm, settled sort; and his own conviction that his business in life was simply to be a famous man, proved too strong to be shaken by anybody.
While he and his family were at war on this point, a change for the worse occurred in the elder Balzac's official circumstances. He was superannuated77. The diminution78 of income thus produced was followed by a pecuniary catastrophe79. He had embarked80 almost the whole of his own little remaining property and his wife's in two speculations81; and they both failed. No resource was now left him but to retire to a small country house in the neighbourhood of Paris, which he had purchased in his prosperous days, and to live there as well as might be on the wreck83 of his lost fortune. Honoré, sticking fast to the hopeless business of becoming a great man, was, by his own desire, left alone in a Paris garret, with an allowance of five pounds English a month, which was all the kind father could spare to feed, clothe, and lodge84 the wrong-headed son. 216
And now, without a literary friend to help him in all Paris; alone in his wretched attic85, with his deal-table and his truckle-bed, his dog's-eared books, his bescrawled papers, his wild vanity, and his ravenous86 hunger for fame, Balzac stripped resolutely for the great fight. He was then twenty-three years old—a sturdy fellow to look at, with a big, jovial87 face, and a strong square forehead, topped by a very untidy and superfluous88 allowance of long tangled89 hair. His only difficulty at starting was what to begin upon. After consuming many lonely months in sketching90 out comedies, operas, and novels, he finally obeyed the one disastrous46 rule which seems to admit of no exception in the early lives of men of letters, and fixed91 the whole bent92 of his industry and his genius on the production of a tragedy. After infinite pains and long labour, the great work was completed. The subject was Cromwell; and the treatment, in Balzac's hands, appears to have been so inconceivably bad, that even his own family—to say nothing of other judicious93 friends—told him in the plainest terms, when he read it to them, that he had perpetrated a signal failure. Modest men might have been discouraged by this. Balzac took his manuscript back to his garret, standing94 higher in his own estimation than ever. "I will give up being a great dramatist," he told his parents at parting, "and I will be a great novelist instead." The vanity of the man expressed 217 itself with this sublime95 disregard of ridicule all through his life. It was a precious quality to him—it is surely (however unquestionably offensive it may be to our friends) a precious quality to all of us. What man ever yet did anything great, without beginning with a profound belief in his own untried powers?
Confident as ever, therefore, in his own resources, Balzac now took up the pen once more—this time, in the character of a novelist. But another and a serious check awaited him at the outset. Fifteen months of solitude96, privation, and reckless hard writing—months which are recorded in the pages of "La Peau de Chagrin" with a fearful and pathetic truth, drawn straight from the bitterest of all experiences, the experience of studious poverty—had reduced him to a condition of bodily weakness which made all present exertion97 of his mental powers simply hopeless, and which obliged him to take refuge—a worn-out, wasted man, at the age of twenty-three—in his father's quiet little country house. Here, under his mother's care, his exhausted98 energies slowly revived; and here, in the first days of his convalescence99, he returned, with the grim resolution of despair, to working out the old dream in the garret, to resuming the old hopeless business of making himself a great man.
It was under his father's roof, during the time of his slow recovery, that the youthful fictions of Balzac 218 were produced. The strength of his belief in his own resources and his own future, gave him also the strength, in relation to these first efforts, to rise above his own vanity, and to see plainly that he had not yet learnt to do himself full justice. His early novels bore on their title-pages a variety of feigned100 names, for the starving, struggling author was too proud to acknowledge them, so long as they failed to satisfy his own conception of what his own powers could accomplish. These first efforts—now included in the Belgian editions of his collected works, and comprising among them two stories, "Jane la Pale" and "Le Vicaire des Ardennes," which show unquestionable dawnings of the genius of a great writer—were originally published by the lower and more rapacious102 order of booksellers, and did as little towards increasing his means as towards establishing his reputation. Still, he forced his way slowly and resolutely through poverty, obscurity, and disappointment, nearer and nearer to the promised land which no eye saw but his own—a greater man, by far, at this hard period of his adversity than at the more trying after-time of his prosperity and his fame. One by one, the heavy years rolled on till he was a man of thirty; and then the great prize which he had so long toiled104 for, dropped within his reach at last. In the year eighteen hundred and twenty-nine, the famous "Physiologie du Mariage" was published; 219 and the starveling of the Paris garret became a name and a power in French literature.
In England, this book would have been universally condemned105 as an unpardonable exposure of the most sacred secrets of domestic life. It unveils the whole social side of Marriage in its innermost recesses106, and exhibits it alternately in its bright and dark aspects with a marvellous minuteness of observation, a profound knowledge of human nature, and a daring eccentricity of style and arrangement which amply justify107 the extraordinary success of the book on its first appearance in France. It may be more than questionable101, judging from the English point of view, whether such a subject should ever have been selected for any other than the most serious, reverent108, and forbearing treatment. Setting this objection aside, however, in consideration of the French point of view, it cannot be denied that the merits of the "Physiology109 of Marriage," as a piece of writing, were by no means over-estimated by the public to which it was addressed. In a literary sense, the book would have done credit to a man in the maturity110 of his powers. As the work of a man whose intellectual life was only beginning, it was such an achievement as is not often recorded in the history of modern literature.
This first triumph of the future novelist—obtained, curiously111 enough, by a book which was not a novel—failed 220 to smooth the way onward112 and upward for Balzac as speedily and pleasantly as might have been supposed. He had another stumble on that hard road of his, before he fairly started on the career of success. Soon after the publication of "The Physiology of Marriage," an unlucky idea of strengthening his resources by trading in literature, as well as by writing books, seems to have occurred to him. He tried bookselling and printing; proved himself to be, in both cases, probably the very worst man of business who ever lived and breathed in this world; failed in the most hopeless way, with the most extraordinary rapidity; and so learnt at last, by the cruel teaching of experience, that his one fair chance of getting money lay in sticking fast to his pen for the rest of his days. In the next ten years of his life that pen produced the noble series of fictions which influenced French literature far and wide, and which will last in public remembrance long after the miserable113 errors and inconsistencies of the writer's personal character are forgotten. This was the period when Balzac was in the full enjoyment114 of his matured intellectual powers and his enviable public celebrity115; and this was also the golden time when his publisher and biographer first became acquainted with him. Now, therefore, Monsieur Werdet may be encouraged to come forward and take the post of honour as narrator of the strange story that is still 221 to be told; for now he is placed in the fit position to address himself intelligibly116, as well as amusingly, to an English audience.
The story opens with the starting of Monsieur Werdet as a publisher in Paris, on his own account. The modest capital at his command amounted to just one hundred and twenty pounds English; and his leading idea, on beginning business, was to become the publisher of Balzac.
He had already entered into transactions, on a large scale, with his favourite author, in the character of agent for a publishing-house of high standing. He had been very well received, on that first occasion, as a man representing undeniable capital and a great commercial position. On the second occasion, however, of his representing nobody but himself, and nothing but the smallest of existing capitals, he very wisely secured the protection of an intimate friend of Balzac's, to introduce him as favourably117 as might be, for the second time. Accompanied by this gentleman, whose name was Monsieur Barbier, and carrying his capital in his pocket-book, the embryo118 publisher nervously119 presented himself in the sanctum sanctorum of the great man.
Monsieur Barbier having carefully explained the business on which they came, Balzac addressed himself, with an indescribable suavity120 and grandeur121 of manner, to anxious Monsieur Werdet. 222
"Just so," said the eminent122 man. "You are doubtless possessed123, sir, of considerable capital? You are probably aware that no man can hope to publish for ME who is not prepared to assert himself magnificently in the matter of cash? I sell high—high—very high. And, not to deceive you—for I am incapable of suppressing the truth—I am a man who requires to be dealt with on the principle of considerable advances. Proceed, sir—I am prepared to listen to you."
But Monsieur Werdet was too cautious to proceed without strengthening his position before starting. He entrenched124 himself instantly behind his pocket-book.
One by one, the notes of the Bank of France, which formed the poor publisher's small capital, were drawn out of their snug125 hiding-place. Monsieur Werdet produced six of them, representing five hundred francs each (or, as before mentioned, a hundred and twenty pounds sterling), arranged them neatly and impressively in a circle on the table, and then cast himself on the author's mercy in an agitated126 voice, and in these words:
"Sir! behold127 my capital. There lies my whole fortune. It is yours in exchange for any book you please to write for me——"
At that point, to the horror and astonishment128 of Monsieur Werdet, his further progress was cut short 223 by roars of laughter—formidable roars, as he himself expressly states—bursting from the lungs of the highly diverted Balzac.
"What astonishing simplicity129!" exclaimed the great man. "Do you actually believe, sir, that I—De Balzac—can so entirely130 forget what is due to myself as to sell you any conceivable species of fiction which is the product of MY PEN, for the sum of three thousand francs? You have come here, Monsieur Werdet, to address an offer to me, without preparing yourself by previous reflection. If I felt so disposed, I should have every right to consider your conduct as unbecoming in the highest degree. But I don't feel so disposed. On the contrary, I can even allow your honest ignorance, your innocent confidence, to excuse you in my estimation. Don't be alarmed, sir. Consider yourself excused to a certain extent."
Between disappointment, indignation, and astonishment, Monsieur Werdet was struck dumb. His friend, Monsieur Barbier, therefore spoke131 for him, urging every possible consideration; and finally proposing that Balzac, if he was determined not to write a new story for three thousand francs, should at least sell one edition of an old one for that sum. Monsieur Barbier's arguments were admirably put: they lasted a long time; and when they had come to an end, they received this reply:
"Gentlemen!" cried Balzac, pushing back his 224 long hair from his heated temples, and taking a fresh dip of ink, "you have wasted an hour of my Time in talking of trifles. I rate the pecuniary loss thus occasioned to me at two hundred francs. My time is my capital. I must work. Gentlemen! leave me." Having expressed himself in these hospitable132 terms, the great man immediately resumed the process of composition.
Monsieur Werdet, naturally and properly indignant, immediately left the room. He was overtaken, after he had proceeded a little distance in the street, by his friend Barbier, who had remained behind to remonstrate134.
"You have every reason to be offended," said Barbier. "His conduct is inexcusable. But pray don't suppose that your negotiation135 is broken off. I know him better than you do; and I tell you that you have nailed Balzac. He wants money, and before three days are over your head he will return your visit."
"If he does," replied Werdet, "I'll pitch him out of window."
"No, you won't," said Barbier. "In the first place, it is an extremely uncivil proceeding136 to pitch a man out of window; and, as a naturally polite gentleman, you are incapable of committing a breach137 of good manners. In the second place, rude as he has been to you, Balzac is not the less a man of 225 genius; and, as such, he is just the man of whom you, as a publisher, stand in need. Wait patiently; and in a day or two you will see him, or hear from him again."
Barbier was right. Three days afterwards, the following satisfactory communication was received by Monsieur Werdet:—
"My brain, sir, was so prodigiously139 preoccupied140 by work uncongenial to my fancy, when you visited me the other day, that I was incapable of comprehending otherwise than imperfectly what it was that you wanted of me.
"To-day, my brain is not preoccupied. Do me the favour to come and see me at four o'clock.
"A thousand civilities.
"De Balzac."
Monsieur Werdet viewed this singular note in the light of a fresh impertinence. On consideration, however, he acknowledged it, and curtly142 added that important business would prevent his accepting the appointment proposed to him.
In two days more, friend Barbier came with a second invitation from the great man. But Monsieur Werdet steadily143 refused it. "Balzac has already been playing his game with me," he said. "Now it is my turn to play my game with Balzac. I mean to keep him waiting four days longer." 226
At the end of that time, Monsieur Werdet once more entered the sanctum sanctorum. On this second occasion, Balzac's graceful politeness was indescribable. He deplored144 the rarity of intelligent publishers. He declared his deep sense of the importance of an intelligent publisher's appearance on the literary horizon. He expressed himself as quite enchanted145 to be now enabled to remark that appearance, to welcome it, and even to deal with it. Polite as he was by nature, Monsieur Werdet had no chance this time against Monsieur de Balzac. In the race of civility the publisher was now nowhere, and the author made all the running.
The interview, thus happily begun, terminated in a most agreeable transaction on both sides. Balzac cheerfully locked up the six bank notes in his strong-box. Werdet, as cheerfully, retired146 with a written agreement in his empty pocket-book, authorising him to publish the second edition of "Le Médecin de Campagne"—hardly, it may be remarked in parenthesis147, one of the best to select of the novels of Balzac.
II.
Once started in business as the happy proprietor148 and hopeful publisher of the second edition of "Le Médecin de Campagne," Monsieur Werdet was too wise a man not to avail himself of the only certain means of success in modern times. He puffed149 magnificently. 227 Every newspaper in Paris was inundated150 with a deluge151 of advertisements, announcing the forthcoming work in terms of eulogy152 such as the wonderstruck reader had never met with before. The result, aided by Balzac's celebrity, was a phenomenon in the commercial history of French literature, at that time. Every copy of the second edition of "Le Médecin de Campagne" was sold in eight days.
This success established Monsieur Werdet's reputation. Young authors crowded to him with their manuscripts, all declaring piteously that they wrote in the style of Balzac. But Monsieur Werdet flew at higher game. He received the imitators politely, and even published for one or two of them; but the high business aspirations153 which now glowed within him were all concentrated on the great original. He had conceived the sublime idea of becoming Balzac's sole publisher; of buying up all his copyrights held by other houses, and of issuing all his new works that were yet to be written. Balzac himself welcomed this proposal with superb indulgence. "Walter Scott," he said in his grandest way, "had only one publisher—Archibald Constable154. Work out your idea. I authorise it; I support it. I will be Scott, and you shall be Constable!"
Fired by the prodigious138 future thus disclosed to him, Monsieur Werdet assumed forthwith the character 228 of a French Constable; and opened negotiations155 with no less than six publishers who held among them the much-desired copyrights. His own enthusiasm did something for him; his excellent previous character in the trade, and his remarkable156 success at starting, did much more. The houses he dealt with took his bills in all directions, without troubling him for security. After innumerable interviews and immense exercise of diplomacy157, he raised himself at last to the pinnacle158 of his ambition—he became sole proprietor and publisher of the works of Balzac.
The next question—a sordid, but, unhappily, a necessary question also—was how to turn this precious acquisition to the best pecuniary account. Some of the works, such as "La Physiologie du Mariage," and "La Peau de Chagrin," had produced, and were still producing, large sums. Others, on the contrary, such as the "Contes Philosophiques" (which were a little too profound for the public) and "Louis Lambert" (which was intended to popularise the mysticism of Swedenborg), had not yet succeeded in paying their expenses. Estimating his speculation82 by what he had in hand, Monsieur Werdet had not much chance of seeing his way speedily to quick returns. Estimating it, however, by what was coming in the future, that is to say, by the promised privilege of issuing all the writer's contemplated159 works, he had 229 every reason to look happily and hopefully at his commercial prospects161. At this crisis of the narrative162, when the publisher's credit and fortune depended wholly on the pen of one man, the history of that man's habits of literary composition assumes a special interest and importance. Monsieur Werdet's description of Balzac at his writing-desk, presents by no means the least extraordinary of the many singular revelations which compose the story of the author's life.
When he had once made up his mind to produce a new book, Balzac's first proceeding was to think it out thoroughly163 before he put pen to paper. He was not satisfied with possessing himself of the main idea only; he followed it mentally into its minutest ramifications164, devoting to the process just that amount of patient hard labour and self-sacrifice which no inferior writer ever has the common sense or the courage to bestow165 on his work. With his note-book ready in his hand, Balzac studied his scenes and characters straight from life. General knowledge of what he wanted to describe was not enough for this determined realist. If he found himself in the least at fault, he would not hesitate to take a long journey merely to ensure truth to nature in describing the street of a country town, or in painting some minor167 peculiarity of rustic168 character. In Paris he was perpetually about the streets, perpetually penetrating169 230 into all classes of society, to study the human nature about him in its minutest varieties. Day by day, and week by week, his note-book and his brains were hard at work together, before he thought of sitting down to his desk to begin. When he had finally amassed170 his materials in this laborious171 manner, he at last retired to his study; and from that time, till his book had gone to press, society saw him no more.
His house-door was now closed to everybody, except the publisher and the printer; and his costume was changed to a loose white robe, of the sort which is worn by the Dominican monks173. This singular writing-dress was fastened round the waist by a chain of Venetian gold, to which hung little pliers and scissors of the same precious metal. White Turkish trousers, and red-morocco slippers174, embroidered175 with gold, covered his legs and feet. On the day when he sat down to his desk, the light of heaven was shut out, and he worked by the light of candles in superb silver sconces. Even letters were not allowed to reach him. They were all thrown, as they came, into a japan vase, and not opened, no matter how important they might be, till his work was all over. He rose to begin writing at two in the morning, continued, with extraordinary rapidity, till six; then took his warm bath, and stopped in it, thinking, for an hour or more. At eight o'clock his 231 servant brought him up a cup of coffee. Before nine his publisher was admitted to carry away what he had done. From nine till noon he wrote on again, always at the top of his speed. At noon he breakfasted on eggs, with a glass of water and a second cup of coffee. From one o'clock to six he returned to work. At six he dined lightly, only allowing himself one glass of wine. From seven to eight he received his publisher again: and at eight o'clock he went to bed. This life he led, while he was writing his books, for two months together, without intermission. Its effect on his health was such that, when he appeared once more among his friends, he looked, in the popular phrase, like his own ghost. Chance acquaintances would hardly have known him again.
It must not be supposed that this life of resolute75 seclusion176 and fierce hard toil103 ended with the completion of the first draught177 of his manuscript. At the point where, in the instances of most men, the serious part of the work would have come to an end, it had only begun for Balzac.
In spite of all the preliminary studying and thinking, when his pen had scrambled178 its way straight through to the end of the book, the leaves were all turned back again, and the first manuscript was altered into a second with inconceivable patience and care. Innumerable corrections and interlinings, to 232 begin with, led in the end to transpositions and expansions which metamorphosed the entire work. Happy thoughts were picked out of the beginning of the manuscript, and inserted where they might have a better effect at the end. Others at the end would be moved to the beginning, or the middle. In one place, chapters would be expanded to three or four times their original length; in another, abridged179 to a few paragraphs; in a third, taken out altogether, or shifted to new positions. With all this mass of alterations180 in every page, the manuscript was at last ready for the printer. Even to the experienced eyes in the printing-office, it was now all but illegible181. The deciphering it, and setting it up in a moderately correct form, cost an amount of patience and pains which wearied out all the best men in the office, one after another, before the first series of proofs could be submitted to the author's eye. When these were at last complete, they were sent in on large slips, and the indefatigable182 Balzac immediately set to work to rewrite the whole book for the third time!
He now covered with fresh corrections, fresh alterations, fresh expansions of this passage, and fresh abridgments of that, not only the margins183 of the proofs all round, but even the little intervals184 of white space between the paragraphs. Lines crossing each other in indescribable confusion, were supposed to show the bewildered printer the various places at 233 which the multitude of new insertions were to be slipped in. Illegible as Balzac's original manuscripts were, his corrected proofs were more hopelessly puzzling still. The picked men in the office, to whom alone they could be entrusted185, shuddered186 at the very name of Balzac, and relieved each other at intervals of an hour, beyond which time no one printer could be got to continue at work on the universally execrated187 and universally unintelligible188 proofs. The "revises"—that is to say, the proofs embodying189 the new alterations—were next pulled to pieces in their turn. Two, three, and sometimes four, separate sets of them were required before the author's leave could be got to send the perpetually rewritten book to press, at last, and so have done with it. He was literally the terror of all printers and editors; and he himself described his process of work as a misfortune, to be the more deplored, because it was, in his case, an intellectual necessity. "I toil sixteen hours out of the twenty-four," he said, "over the elaboration of my unhappy style; and I am never satisfied, myself, when all is done."
Looking back to the school-days of Balzac, when his mind suffered under the sudden and mysterious shock which has already been described in its place; remembering that his father's character was notorious for its eccentricity; observing the prodigious toil, the torture almost, of mind which the act of literary production 234 seems to have cost him all through life, it is impossible not to arrive at the conclusion, that, in his case, there must have been a fatal incompleteness somewhere in the mysterious intellectual machine. Magnificently as it was endowed, the balance of faculties in his mind seems to have been even more than ordinarily imperfect. On this theory, his unparalleled difficulties in expressing himself as a writer, and his errors, inconsistencies, and meannesses of character as a man, become, at least, not wholly unintelligible. On any other theory, all explanation both of his personal life and his literary life appears to be simply impossible.
Such was the perilous191 pen on which Monsieur Werdet's prospects in life all depended. If Balzac failed to perform his engagements punctually, or if his health broke down under his severe literary exertions192, the commercial decease of his unfortunate publisher followed either disaster, purely193 as a matter of course.
At the outset, however, the posture194 of affairs looked encouragingly enough. On its completion in the Revue de Paris, "Le Lys dans la Vallée" was republished by Monsieur Werdet, who had secured his interest in the work by a timely advance of six thousand francs. Of this novel (the most highly valued in France of all the writer's fictions), but two 235 hundred copies of the first edition were left unsold within two hours after its publication. This unparalleled success kept Monsieur Werdet's head above water, and encouraged him to hope great things from the next novel ("Séraphita"), which was also begun, periodically, in the Revue de Paris. Before it was finished, however, Balzac and the editor of the Review quarrelled. The long-suffering publisher was obliged to step in and pay the author's forfeit-money, obtaining the incomplete novel in return, and with it Balzac's promise to finish the work off-hand. Months passed, however, and not a page of manuscript was produced. One morning, at eight o'clock, to Monsieur Werdet's horror and astonishment, Balzac burst in on him in a condition of sublime despair, to announce that he and his genius had to all appearance parted company for ever.
"My brain is empty!" cried the great man. "My imagination is dried up! Hundreds of cups of coffee and two warm baths a day have done nothing for me. Werdet, I am a lost man!"
The publisher thought of his empty cash-box, and was petrified195. The author proceeded:
"I must travel!" he exclaimed, distractedly. "My genius has run away from me—I must pursue it over mountains and valleys. Werdet! I must catch my genius up!"
Poor Monsieur Werdet faintly suggested a little 236 turn in the immediate133 neighbourhood of Paris—something equivalent to a nice airy ride to Hampstead on the top of an omnibus. But Balzac's runaway196 genius had, in the estimation of its bereaved197 proprietor, got as far as Vienna already; and he coolly announced his intention of travelling after it to the Austrian capital.
"And who is to finish 'Séraphita'?" inquired the unhappy publisher. "My illustrious friend, you are ruining me!"
"On the contrary," remarked Balzac, persuasively198, "I am making your fortune. At Vienna, I shall find my genius. At Vienna I shall finish 'Séraphita,' and a new book besides. At Vienna, I shall meet with an angelic woman who admires me—she permits me to call her 'Carissima'—she has written to invite me to Vienna—I ought, I must, I will, accept the invitation."
Here an ordinary acquaintance would have had an excellent opportunity of saying something smart. But poor Monsieur Werdet was not in a position to be witty199; and, moreover, he knew but too well what was coming next. All he ventured to say was:
"But I am afraid you have no money."
"You can raise some," replied his illustrious friend. "Borrow—deposit stock in trade—get me two thousand francs. Everything else I can do for myself. Werdet, I will hire a postchaise—I will dine with 237 my dear sister—I will set off after dinner—I will not be later than eight o'clock—click clack!" And the great man executed an admirable imitation of the cracking of a postilion's whip.
There was no resource for Monsieur Werdet but to throw the good money after the bad. He raised the two thousand francs; and away went Balzac to catch his runaway genius, to bask200 in the society of a female angel, and to coin money in the form of manuscripts.
Eighteen days afterwards a perfumed letter from the author reached the publisher. He had caught his genius at Vienna; he had been magnificently received by the aristocracy; he had finished "Séraphita," and nearly completed the other book; his angelic friend, Carissima, already loved Werdet from Balzac's description of him; Balzac himself was Werdet's friend till death; Werdet was his Archibald Constable; Werdet should see him again in fifteen days; Werdet should ride in his carriage in the Bois de Boulogne, and meet Balzac riding in his carriage, and see the enemies of both parties looking on at the magnificent spectacle and bursting with spite. Finally, Werdet would have the goodness to remark (in a postscript201) that Balzac had provided himself with another little advance of fifteen hundred francs, received from Rothschild in Vienna, and had given in exchange a bill at ten days' sight on his excellent publisher, on his admirable and devoted202 Archibald Constable. 238
While Monsieur Werdet was still prostrate203 under the effect of this audacious postscript, a clerk entered his office with the identical bill. It was drawn at one day's sight instead of ten; and the money was wanted immediately. The publisher was the most long-suffering of men; but there were limits even to his patient endurance. He took Balzac's letter with him, and went at once to the office of the Parisian Rothschild. The great financier received him kindly204; admitted that there must have been some mistake; granted the ten days' grace; and dismissed his visitor with this excellent and sententious piece of advice:
"I recommend you to mind what you are about, sir, with Monsieur de Balzac. He is a highly inconsequent man."
It was too late for Monsieur Werdet to mind what he was about. He had no choice but to lose his credit, or pay at the end of the ten days. He paid; and ten days later, Balzac returned, considerately bringing with him some charming little Viennese curiosities for his esteemed205 publisher. Monsieur Werdet expressed his acknowledgments; and then politely inquired for the conclusion of "Séraphita," and the manuscript of the new novel.
Not a single line of either had been committed to paper.
The farce207 (undoubtedly a most disgraceful performance, so far as Balzac was concerned) was not 239 played out even yet. The publisher's reproaches seem at last to have awakened208 the author to something remotely resembling a sense of shame. He promised that "Séraphita," which had been waiting at press a whole year, should be finished in one night. There were just two sheets of sixteen pages each to write. They might have been completed either at the author's house or at the publisher's, which was close to the printer's. But, no—it was not in Balzac's character to miss the smallest chance of producing a sensation anywhere. His last caprice was a determination to astonish the printers. Twenty-five compositors were called together at eleven at night, a truckle-bed and table were set up for the author—or, to speak more correctly, for the literary mountebank—in the workshop; Balzac arrived, in a high state of inspiration, to stagger the sleepy journeymen by showing them how fast he could write; and the two sheets were completed magnificently on the spot. By way of fit and proper climax209 to this ridiculous exhibition of literary quackery210, it is only necessary to add, that, on Balzac's own confession211, the two concluding sheets of "Séraphita" had been mentally composed, and carefully committed to memory, two years before he affected212 to write them impromptu213 in the printer's office. It seems impossible to deny that the man who could act in this outrageously214 puerile215 manner must have been simply mad. But what becomes of 240 the imputation216 when we remember that this very madman has produced books which, for depth of thought and marvellous knowledge of human nature, are counted deservedly among the glories of French literature, and which were never more living and more lasting217 works than they are at this moment?
"Séraphita" was published three days after the author's absurd exhibition of himself at the printer's office. In this novel, as in its predecessor—"Louis Lambert"—Balzac left his own firm ground of reality, and soared, on the wings of Swedenborg, into an atmosphere of transcendental obscurity impervious218 to all ordinary eyes. What the book meant, the editor of the periodical in which part of it originally appeared, never could explain. Monsieur Werdet, who published it, confesses that he was in the same mystified condition; and the present writer, who has vainly attempted to read it through, desires to add, in this place, his own modest acknowledgment of inability to enlighten English readers in the smallest degree on the subject of "Séraphita." Luckily for Monsieur Werdet, the author's reputation stood so high with the public, that the book sold prodigiously, merely because it was a book by Balzac. The proceeds of the sale, and the profits derived from new editions of the old novels, kept the sinking publisher from absolute submersion; and might even have brought him safely to land, but for the ever-increasing dead weight 241 of the author's perpetual borrowings, on the security of forthcoming works which he never produced.
No commercial success, no generous self-sacrifice, could keep pace with the demands of Balzac's insatiate vanity and love of show, at this period of his life. He had two establishments, to begin with; both splendidly furnished, and one adorned219 with a valuable gallery of pictures. He had his box at the French Opera, and his box at the Italian Opera. He had a chariot and horses, and an establishment of men servants. The panels of the carriage were decorated with the arms, and the bodies of the footmen were adorned with the liveries, of the noble family of D'Entragues, to which Balzac persisted in declaring that he was allied220, although he never could produce the smallest proof in support of the statement. When he could add no more to the sumptuous221 magnificence of his houses, his dinners, his carriage, and his servants; when he had filled his rooms with every species of expensive knick-knack; when he had lavished222 money on all the known extravagances which extravagant224 Paris can supply to the spendthrift's inventory225, he hit on the entirely new idea of providing himself with such a walking-stick as the world had never yet beheld226.
His first proceeding was to procure227 a splendid cane228, which was sent to the jeweller's, and was grandly topped by a huge gold knob. The inside of 242 the knob was occupied by a lock of hair presented to the author by an unknown lady admirer. The outside was studded with all the jewels he had bought, and with all the jewels he had received as presents. With this cane, nearly as big as a drum-major's staff, and all a-blaze at the top with rubies229, diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires230, Balzac exhibited himself, in a rapture231 of satisfied vanity, at the theatres and in the public promenades232. The cane became as celebrated in Paris as the author. Madame de Girardin wrote a sparkling little book all about the wonderful walking-stick. Balzac was in the seventh heaven of happiness; Balzac's friends were either disgusted or diverted, according to their tempers. One unfortunate man alone suffered the inevitable233 penalty of this insane extravagance: need it be added that his name was Werdet?
The end of the connexion between the author and the publisher was now fast approaching. All entreaties234 or reproaches addressed to Balzac failed in producing the slightest result. Even confinement235 in a sponging-house, when creditors236 discovered, in course of time, that they could wait no longer, passed unheeded as a warning. Balzac only borrowed more money the moment the key was turned on him, gave a magnificent dinner in prison, and left the poor publisher, as usual, to pay the bill. He was extricated237 from the sponging-house before he had been 243 there quite three days; and, in that time, he had spent over twenty guineas on luxuries which he had not a farthing of his own to purchase. It is useless, it is even exasperating238, to go on accumulating instances of this sort of mad and cruel prodigality239: let us advance rapidly to the end. One morning, Monsieur Werdet balanced accounts with his author, from the beginning, and found, in spite of the large profits produced by the majority of the works, that fifty-eight thousand francs were (to use his own expression) paralysed in his hands by the life Balzac persisted in leading; and that fifty-eight thousand more might soon be in the same condition, if he had possessed them to advance. A rich publisher might have contrived240 to keep his footing in such a crisis as this, and to deal, for the time to come, on purely commercial grounds. But Monsieur Werdet was a poor man; he had relied on Balzac's verbal promises when he ought to have exacted his written engagements; and he had no means of appealing to the author's love of money by dazzling prospects of banknotes awaiting him in the future, if he chose honestly to earn his right to them. In short, there was but one alternative left, the alternative of giving up the whole purpose and ambition of the bookseller's life, and resolutely breaking off his ruinous connexion with Balzac.
Reduced to this situation, driven to bay by the 244 prospect160 of engagements falling due which he had no apparent means of meeting, Monsieur Werdet answered the next application for an advance by a flat refusal, and followed up that unexampled act of self-defence by speaking his mind at last, in no measured terms, to his illustrious friend. Balzac turned crimson241 with suppressed anger, and left the room. A series of business formalities followed, initiated242 by Balzac, with the view of breaking off the connexion between his publisher and himself, now that he found there was no more money to be had; Monsieur Werdet being, on his side, perfectly141 ready to "sign, seal, and deliver" as soon as his claims were properly satisfied in due form of law.
Balzac had now but one means of meeting his liabilities. His personal reputation was gone; but his literary reputation remained as high as ever, and he soon found a publisher, with large capital at command, who was ready to treat for his copyrights. Monsieur Werdet had no resource but to sell, or be bankrupt. He parted with all the valuable copyrights for a sum of sixty thousand and odd francs, which sufficed to meet his most pressing engagements. Some of the less popular and less valuable books he kept, to help him, if possible, through his daily and personal liabilities. As for gaining any absolute profit, or even holding his position as a publisher, the bare idea of securing either advantage was dismissed 245 as an idle dream. The purpose for which he had toiled so hard and suffered so patiently was sacrificed for ever, and he was reduced to beginning life again as a country traveller for a prosperous publishing house. So far as his main object in existence was concerned, Balzac had plainly and literally ruined him. It is impossible to part with Monsieur Werdet, imprudent and credulous243 as he appears to have been, without a strong feeling of sympathy, which becomes strengthened to something like positive admiration when we discover that he cherished, in after life, no unfriendly sentiments towards the man who had treated him so shamefully244; and when we find him, in the Memoir245 now under notice, still trying hard to make the best of Balzac's conduct, and still writing of him in terms of affection and esteem206 to the very end of the book.
The remainder of Balzac's life was, in substance, merely the lamentable246 repetition of the personal faults and follies247, and the literary merits and triumphs, which have already found their record in these pages. The extremes of idle vanity and unprincipled extravagance still alternated, to the last, with the extremes of hard mental labour and amazing mental productiveness. Though he found new victims among new men, he never again met with so generous and forbearing a friend as the poor publisher whose fortunes he had destroyed. The women, 246 whose impulses in his favour were kept alive by their admiration of his books, clung to their spoilt darling to the last—one of their number even stepping forward to save him from a debtors248' prison, at the heavy sacrifice of paying the whole demand against him out of her own purse. In all cases of this sort, even where men were concerned as well as women, his personal means of attraction, when he chose to exert them, strengthened immensely his literary claims on the sympathy and good-will of others. He appears to have possessed in the highest degree those powers of fascination249 which are quite independent of mere166 beauty of face and form, and which are perversely250 and inexplicably251 bestowed252 in the most lavish223 abundance on the most unprincipled of mankind. Poor Monsieur Werdet can only account for half his own acts of indiscretion, by declaring that his eminent friend wheedled253 him into committing them. Other and wiser men kept out of Balzac's way, through sheer distrust of themselves. Virtuous254 friends who tried hard to reform him, retreated from his presence, declaring that the reprobate255 whom they had gone to convert had all but upset their moral balance in a morning's conversation. An eminent literary gentleman, who went to spend the day with him to talk over a proposed work, rushed out of the house after a two hours' interview, exclaiming piteously, "The man's imagination is in a state of delirium—his 247 talk has set my brain in a whirl—he would have driven me mad if I had spent the day with him!" If men were influenced in this way, it is not wonderful that women (whose self-esteem was delicately flattered by the prominent and fascinating position which they hold in all his books) should have worshipped a man who publicly and privately256 worshipped them.
His personal appearance would have recalled to English minds the popular idea of Friar Tuck—he was the very model of the conventional fat, sturdy, red-faced, jolly monk172. But he had the eye of a man of genius, and the tongue of a certain infernal personage, who may be broadly hinted at, but who must on no account be plainly named. The Balzac candlestick might be clumsy enough; but when once the Balzac candle was lit, the moths257 flew into it, only too readily, from all points of the compass.
The last important act of his life was, in a worldly point of view, one of the wisest things he ever did. The lady who had invited him to Vienna, and whom he called Carissima, was the wife of a wealthy Russian nobleman. On the death of her husband, she practically asserted her admiration of her favourite author by offering him her hand and fortune. Balzac accepted both; and returned to Paris (from which respect for his creditors had latterly kept him absent) 248 a married man, and an enviable member of the wealthy class of society. A splendid future now opened before him—but it opened too late. Arrived at the end of his old course, he just saw the new career beyond him, and dropped on the threshold of it. The strong constitution which he had remorselessly wasted for more than twenty years past, gave way at length, at the very time when his social chances looked most brightly. Three months after his marriage, Honoré de Balzac died, after unspeakable suffering, of disease of the heart. He was then but fifty years of age. His fond, proud, heart-broken old mother held him in her arms. On that loving bosom258 he had drawn his first breath. On that loving bosom the weary head sank to rest again, when the wild, wayward, miserable, glorious life was over.
The sensation produced in Paris by his death was something akin26 to the sensation produced in London by the death of Byron. Mr. Carlyle has admirably said that there is something touching259 in the loyalty260 of men to their Sovereign Man. That loyalty most tenderly declared itself when Balzac was no more. Men of all ranks and parties, who had been shocked by his want of principle and disgusted by his inordinate261 vanity while he was alive, now accepted universally the atonement of his untimely death, and remembered nothing but the loss that had happened 249 to the literature of France. A great writer was no more; and a great people rose with one accord to take him reverently262 and gloriously to his grave. The French Institute, the University, the scientific societies, the Association of Dramatic Authors, the Schools of Law and Medicine, sent their representatives to walk in the funeral procession. English readers, American readers, German readers, and Russian readers, swelled263 the immense assembly of Frenchmen that followed the coffin264. Victor Hugo and Alexandre Dumas were among the mourners who supported the pall50. The first of these two celebrated men pronounced the funeral oration190 over Balzac's grave, and eloquently265 characterised the whole series of the dead writer's works as forming, in truth, but one grand book, the text-book of contemporary civilisation266. With that just and generous tribute to the genius of Balzac, offered by the most illustrious of his literary rivals, these few pages may fitly and gracefully267 come to an end. Of the miserable frailties268 of the man, enough has been recorded to serve the first of all interests, the interest of truth. The better and nobler part of him calls for no further comment at any writer's hands. It remains to us in his works, and it speaks with deathless eloquence269 for itself.
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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worthily
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| 重要地，可敬地，正当地 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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recherche
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| adj.精选的；罕有的 | |
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chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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parody
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| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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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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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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depicts
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| 描绘，描画( depict的第三人称单数 )； 描述 | |
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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hindrances
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| 阻碍者( hindrance的名词复数 )； 障碍物； 受到妨碍的状态 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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consummately
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| adv.完成地，至上地 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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33
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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34
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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35
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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36
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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37
corruptions
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| n.堕落( corruption的名词复数 )；腐化；腐败；贿赂 | |
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38
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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39
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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40
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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41
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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42
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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43
iota
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| n.些微，一点儿 | |
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44
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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45
disastrously
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| ad.灾难性地 | |
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46
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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47
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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48
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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49
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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50
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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51
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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52
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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53
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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55
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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56
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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57
vend
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| v.公开表明观点，出售，贩卖 | |
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58
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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59
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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60
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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61
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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62
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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63
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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64
quaintness
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| n.离奇有趣，古怪的事物 | |
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65
congestion
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| n.阻塞，消化不良 | |
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66
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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67
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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68
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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69
imbibe
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| v.喝，饮；吸入，吸收 | |
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70
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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71
notary
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| n.公证人，公证员 | |
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72
drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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73
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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74
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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75
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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76
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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77
superannuated
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| adj.老朽的，退休的；v.因落后于时代而废除，勒令退学 | |
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78
diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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79
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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80
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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81
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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82
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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83
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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84
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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85
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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86
ravenous
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| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
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87
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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88
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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89
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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90
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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91
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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92
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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93
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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94
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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95
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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96
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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97
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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98
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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99
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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100
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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101
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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102
rapacious
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| adj.贪婪的，强夺的 | |
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103
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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104
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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105
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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106
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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107
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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108
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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109
physiology
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| n.生理学，生理机能 | |
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110
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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111
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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112
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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113
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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114
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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115
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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116
intelligibly
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| adv.可理解地，明了地，清晰地 | |
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117
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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118
embryo
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| n.胚胎，萌芽的事物 | |
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119
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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120
suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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121
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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122
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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123
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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124
entrenched
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| adj.确立的，不容易改的(风俗习惯) | |
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125
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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126
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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127
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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128
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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129
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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130
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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131
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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132
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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133
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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134
remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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135
negotiation
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| n.谈判，协商 | |
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136
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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137
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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138
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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139
prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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140
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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141
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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142
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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143
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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144
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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145
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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146
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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147
parenthesis
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲，间歇，停歇 | |
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148
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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149
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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150
inundated
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| v.淹没( inundate的过去式和过去分词 )；（洪水般地）涌来；充满；给予或交予（太多事物）使难以应付 | |
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151
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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152
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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153
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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154
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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155
negotiations
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| 协商( negotiation的名词复数 )； 谈判； 完成（难事）； 通过 | |
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156
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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157
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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158
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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159
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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160
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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161
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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162
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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163
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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164
ramifications
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| n.结果，后果( ramification的名词复数 ) | |
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165
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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166
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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167
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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168
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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169
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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170
amassed
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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171
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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172
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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173
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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174
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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175
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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176
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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177
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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178
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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179
abridged
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| 削减的，删节的 | |
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180
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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181
illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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182
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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183
margins
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| 边( margin的名词复数 )； 利润； 页边空白； 差数 | |
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184
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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185
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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186
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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187
execrated
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| v.憎恶( execrate的过去式和过去分词 )；厌恶；诅咒；咒骂 | |
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188
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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189
embodying
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| v.表现( embody的现在分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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190
oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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191
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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192
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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193
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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194
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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195
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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196
runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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197
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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198
persuasively
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| adv.口才好地；令人信服地 | |
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199
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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200
bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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201
postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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202
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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203
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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204
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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205
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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206
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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207
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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208
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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209
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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210
quackery
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| n.庸医的医术，骗子的行为 | |
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211
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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212
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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213
impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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214
outrageously
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| 凶残地； 肆无忌惮地； 令人不能容忍地； 不寻常地 | |
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215
puerile
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| adj.幼稚的，儿童的 | |
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216
imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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217
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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218
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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219
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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220
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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221
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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222
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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223
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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224
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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225
inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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226
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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227
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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228
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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229
rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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230
sapphires
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| n.蓝宝石，钢玉宝石( sapphire的名词复数 )；蔚蓝色 | |
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231
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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232
promenades
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| n.人行道( promenade的名词复数 )；散步场所；闲逛v.兜风( promenade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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233
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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234
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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235
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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236
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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237
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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238
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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239
prodigality
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| n.浪费，挥霍 | |
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240
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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241
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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242
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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243
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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244
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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245
memoir
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| n.[pl.]回忆录，自传；记事录 | |
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246
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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247
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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248
debtors
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| n.债务人，借方( debtor的名词复数 ) | |
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249
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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250
perversely
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| adv. 倔强地 | |
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251
inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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252
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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253
wheedled
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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254
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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255
reprobate
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| n.无赖汉；堕落的人 | |
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256
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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257
moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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258
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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259
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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260
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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261
inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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262
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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263
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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264
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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265
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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266
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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267
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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268
frailties
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| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
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269
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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