This of course refers to the great poetic5 design of his life, “Christus, a Mystery,” of which he wrote again on December 10, 1849, “A bleak6 and dismal7 day. Wrote in the morning ‘The Challenge of Thor’ as prologue8 or ‘Intro?tus’ to the second part of ‘Christus.’” This he laid aside; just a month from that time he records in his diary, “In the evening, pondered and meditated9 the sundry10 scenes of ‘Christus.’” Later, he wrote some half dozen scenes or more of 237 “The Golden Legend” which is Part Second of “Christus,” representing the medi?val period. He afterwards wished, on reading Kingsley’s “Saint’s Tragedy,” that he had chosen the theme of Elizabeth of Hungary in place of the minor11 one employed (Der Arme Heinrich), although if we are to judge by the comparative interest inspired by the two books, there is no reason for regret. At any rate his poem was published—the precursor13 by more than twenty years of any other portion of the trilogy of “Christus.” The public, and even his friends, knew but little of his larger project, but “The Golden Legend” on its publication in 1851 showed more of the dramatic quality than anything else he had printed, and Ruskin gave to it the strong praise of saying, “Longfellow in his ‘Golden Legend’ has entered more closely into the temper of the monk14, for good or for evil, than ever yet theological writer or historian, though they may have given their life’s labor15 to the analysis.”[96] It is to be noted16 that the passage in the book most criticised as unjust is taken from a sermon of an actual Italian preacher of the fifteenth century. But its accuracy or depth in this respect was probably less to the general public than its quality of readableness or that which G. P. R. James, the novelist, described as “its resemblance 238 to an old ruin with the ivy17 and the rich blue mould upon it.” If the rest of the long planned book could have been as successful as for the time being was the “Golden Legend,” the dream of Longfellow’s poetic life would have been fulfilled.
In view of such praise as Ruskin’s, the question of anachronism more or less is of course quite secondary. Errors of a few centuries doubtless occur in it. Longfellow himself states the period at which he aims as 1230. But the spire12 of Strassburg Cathedral of which he speaks was not built until the fifteenth century, though the church was begun in the twelfth, when Walter the Minnesinger flourished. “The Lily of Medicine,” which Prince Henry is reading when Lucifer drops in, was not written until after 1300, nor was St. John Nepomuck canonized until after that date. The Algerine piracies18 did not begin until the sixteenth century. There were other such errors; yet these do not impair19 the merit of the book. Some curious modifications20 also appear in later editions. In the passage where the monk Felix is described in the first edition as pondering over a volume of St. Augustine, this saint disappears in later editions, while the Scriptures22 are substituted and the passage reads:—
239
“Wherein amazed he read
A thousand years in thy sight
Are but as yesterday when it is past
And as a watch in the night;”
and in the next line “downcast” is substituted for “cast down,” in order to preserve the rhyme. A very curious modification21 of a whole scene is to be found where the author ventured in the original edition (1851) to introduce a young girl at the midnight gaudiolum or carnival24 of the monks25, she being apparently26 disguised as a monk, like Lucifer himself. This whole passage or series of passages was left out in the later editions, whether because it was considered too daring by his critics or perhaps not quite daring enough to give full spirit to the scene.
Turning now to “The New England Tragedies,” we find that as far back as 1839, before he had conceived of “Christus,” he had thought of a drama on Cotton Mather. Then a suggestion came to him in 1856 from his German friend, Emanuel Vitalis Scherb, of whom he writes on March 16, 1856: “Scherb wants me to write a poem on the Puritans and the Quakers. A good subject for a tragedy.” On March 25 and 26 we find him looking over books on the subject, especially Besse’s “Sufferings of the Quakers;” on April 2 he writes a scene of the play; on May 1 and 2 he is 240 pondering and writing notes, and says: “It is delightful27 to revolve28 in one’s mind a new conception.” He also works upon it in a fragmentary way in July and in November, and remarks, in the midst of it, that he has lying on his table more than sixty requests for autographs. As a background to all of this lie the peculiar29 excitements of that stormy summer of 1856, when his friend Sumner was struck down in the United States Senate and he himself, meeting with an accident, was lamed30 for weeks and was unable to go to Europe with his children as he had intended. The first rough draft of “Wenlock Christison,” whose title was afterwards changed to “John Endicott,” and which was the first of “The New England Tragedies,” was not finished till August 27, 1857, and the work alternated for a time with that done on “Miles Standish;” but it was more than ten years (October 10, 1868) before it was published, having first been written in prose, and only ten copies printed and afterwards rewritten in verse. With it was associated the second New England Tragedy, “Giles Corey” of the Salem farms, written rapidly in February of that same year. The volume never made a marked impression; even the sympathetic Mr. Fields, the publisher, receiving it rather coldly. It never satisfied even its author, and the new poetic idea which occurred 241 to him on April 11, 1871, and which was to harmonize the discord31 of “The New England Tragedies” was destined32 never to be fulfilled. In the mean time, however, he carried them to Europe with him, and seems to have found their only admirer in John Forster, who wrote to him in London: “Your tragedies are very beautiful—beauty everywhere subduing33 and chastening the sadness; the pictures of nature in delightful contrast to the sorrowful and tragic34 violence of the laws; truth and unaffectedness everywhere. I hardly know which I like best; but there are things in ‘Giles Corey’ that have a strange attractiveness for me.” Longfellow writes to Fields from Vevey, September 5, 1868: “I do not like your idea of calling the ‘Tragedies’ sketches35. They are not sketches, and only seem so at first because I have studiously left out all that could impede36 the action. I have purposely made them simple and direct.” He later adds: “As to anybody’s ‘adapting’ these ‘Tragedies’ for the stage, I do not like the idea of it at all. Prevent this if possible. I should, however, like to have the opinion of some good actor—not a sensational37 actor—on that point. I should like to have Booth look at them.” Six weeks later, having gone over to London to secure the copyright on these poems, he writes: “I saw also Bandmann, the tragedian, who expressed 242 the liveliest interest in what I told him of the ‘Tragedies.’” Finally he says, two days later, “Bandmann writes me a nice letter about the ‘Tragedies,’ but says they are not adapted to the stage. So we will say no more about that, for the present.”[97]
“Christus: A Mystery” appeared as a whole in 1872, for the first time bringing together the three parts (I. “The Divine Tragedy;” II. “The Golden Legend,” and III. “The New England Tragedies”). “The Divine Tragedy,” which now formed the first part, was not only in some degree criticised as forming an anti-climax in being placed before the lighter38 portions of the great drama, but proved unacceptable among his friends, and was often subjected to the charge of being unimpressive and even uninteresting. On the other hand, we have the fact that it absorbed him more utterly39 than any other portion of the book. He writes in his diary on January 6, 1871, “The subject of ‘The Divine Tragedy’ has taken entire possession of me, so that I can think of nothing else. All day pondering upon and arranging it.” And he adds next day, “I find all hospitalities and social gatherings40 just now great interruptions.” Yet he has to spend one morning that week in Boston at a meeting of stockholders; on another day Agassiz comes, broken 243 down even to tears by the loss of health and strength; on another day there is “a continued series of interruptions from breakfast till dinner. I could not get half an hour to myself all day long. Oh, for a good snow-storm to block the door!” Still another day it is so cold he can scarcely write in his study, and he has “so many letters to answer.” Yet he writes during that month a scene or two every day. We know from the experience of all poets that the most brilliant short poems may be achieved with wonderful quickness, but for a continuous and sustained effort an author surely needs some control over his own time.
It is a curious fact, never yet quite explained, that an author’s favorite work is rarely that whose popular success best vindicates41 his confidence. This was perhaps never more manifest than in the case of Longfellow’s “Christus” as a whole, and more especially that portion of it on which the author lavished42 his highest and most consecrated43 efforts, “The Divine Tragedy.” Mr. Scudder has well said that “there is no one of Mr. Longfellow’s writings which may be said to have so dominated his literary life” as the “Christus,” and it shows his sensitive reticence44 that the portion of it which was first published, “The Golden Legend” (1851), gave to the reader no suggestion of its being, as we now 244 know that it was, but a portion of a larger design. Various things came in the way, and before “The Divine Tragedy” appeared (1871) he had written of it, “I never had so many doubts and hesitations45 about any book as about this.” On September 11 in that year he wrote in Nahant, “Begin to pack. I wish it were over and I in Cambridge. I am impatient to send ‘The Divine Tragedy’ to the printers.” On the 18th of October he wrote: “The delays of printers are a great worry to authors;” on the 25th, “Get the last proof sheet of ‘The Divine Tragedy;’” on the 30th, “Read over proofs of the ‘Interludes’ and ‘Finale,’ and am doubtful and perplexed46;” on November 15, “All the last week, perplexed and busy with final correction of ‘The Tragedy.’” It was published on December 12, and he writes to G. W. Greene, December 17, 1871, “‘The Divine Tragedy’ is very successful, from the booksellers’ point of view—ten thousand copies were published on Tuesday last and the printers are already at work on three thousand more. That is pleasant, but that is not the main thing. The only question about a book ought to be whether it is successful in itself.”
It is altogether probable that in the strict views then prevailing47 about the very letter of the Christian48 Scriptures, a certain antagonism49 245 may have prevailed, even toward the skill with which he transferred the sacred narratives50 into a dramatic form, just as it is found that among certain pious52 souls who for the first time yield their scruples53 so far as to enter a theatre, the mere54 lifting of the curtain seems to convey suggestions of sin. Be this as it may, we find in Longfellow’s journal this brief entry (December 30): “Received from Routledge in London, three notices of ‘The Tragedy,’ all hostile.” He, however, was cheered by the following letter from Horace Bushnell, then perhaps the most prominent among the American clergy55 for originality56 and spiritual freedom:—
Hartford, December 28, 1871.
Dear Sir,—Since it will be a satisfaction to me to express my delight in the success of your poem, you cannot well deny me the privilege. When I heard the first announcement of it as forthcoming, I said, “Well, it is the grandest of all subjects; why has it never been attempted?” And yet I said inwardly in the next breath: “What mortal power is equal to the handling of it?” The greater and the more delightful is my surprise at the result. You have managed the theme with really wonderful address. The episodes, and the hard characters, and the partly imaginary characters, you had 246 your liberty in; and you have used them well to suffuse57 and flavor and poetize the story. And yet, I know not how it is, but the part which finds me most perfectly58, and is, in fact, the most poetic poetry of all, is the prose-poem,—the nearly rhythmic59 transcription of the simple narrative51 matter of the gospels. Perhaps the true account of it may be that the handling is so delicately reverent60, intruding61 so little of the poet’s fine thinking and things, that the reverence62 incorporate promotes the words and lifts the ranges of the sentiment; so that when the reader comes out at the close, he finds himself in a curiously63 new kind of inspiration, born of modesty64 and silence.
I can easily imagine that certain chaffy65 people may put their disrespect on you for what I consider your praise. Had you undertaken to build the Christ yourself, as they would require of you, I verily believe it would have killed you,—that is, made you a preacher.
With many thanks, I am yours,
Horace Bushnell.[98]
It would not now be easy to ascertain66 what these hostile notices of “The Divine Tragedy” were, but it would seem that for some reason the poem did not, like its predecessors67, find its 247 way to the popular heart. When one considers the enthusiasm which greeted Willis’ scriptural poems in earlier days, or that which has in later days been attracted by semi-scriptural prose fictions, such as “The Prince of the House of David” and “Ben Hur,” the latter appearing, moreover, in a dramatic form, there certainly seems no reason why Longfellow’s attempt to grapple with the great theme should be so little successful. The book is not, like “The New England Tragedies,” which completed the circle of “Christus,” dull in itself. It is, on the contrary, varied68 and readable; not merely poetic and tender, which was a matter of course in Longfellow’s hands, but strikingly varied, its composition skilful69, the scripture23 types well handled, and the additional figures, Helen of Tyre, Simon Magus, and Menahem the Essenian, skilfully70 introduced and effectively managed. Yet one rarely sees the book quoted; it has not been widely read, and in all the vast list of Longfellow translations into foreign languages, there appears no version of any part of it except the comparatively modern and medi?val “Golden Legend.” It has simply afforded one of the most remarkable71 instances in literary history of the utter ignoring of the supposed high water-mark of a favorite author.
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1
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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sublimer
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| 使高尚者，纯化器 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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prologue
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| n.开场白，序言；开端，序幕 | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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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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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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precursor
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| n.先驱者；前辈；前任；预兆；先兆 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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piracies
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| n.海上抢劫( piracy的名词复数 )；盗版行为，非法复制 | |
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impair
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| v.损害，损伤；削弱，减少 | |
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modifications
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| n.缓和( modification的名词复数 )；限制；更改；改变 | |
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modification
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| n.修改，改进，缓和，减轻 | |
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scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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revolve
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| vi.(使)旋转；循环出现 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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lamed
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| 希伯莱语第十二个字母 | |
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discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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subduing
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| 征服( subdue的现在分词 )； 克制； 制服； 色变暗 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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impede
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，阻止 | |
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sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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vindicates
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| n.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的名词复数 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的第三人称单数 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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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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consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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45
hesitations
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| n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 )；踌躇；犹豫（之事或行为）；口吃 | |
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46
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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47
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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48
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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50
narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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52
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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53
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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57
suffuse
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| v.(色彩等)弥漫，染遍 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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61
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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62
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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63
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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64
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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chaffy
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| adj.多糠的，如糠的，无用的 | |
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66
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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67
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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69
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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