This bewilderment might be our last word if it were not for the occasional occurrence of accidents especially appointed to straighten out a little our tangle12. We are reminded that if the unnatural13 prosperity of the wanton fable cannot be adequately explained, it can at least be illustrated14 with a sharpness that is practically an argument. An abstract solution failing we encounter it in the concrete. We catch in short a new impression or, to speak more truly, recover an old one. It was always there to be had, but we ourselves throw off an oblivion, an indifference18 for which there are plenty of excuses. We become conscious, for our profit, of a case, and we see that our mystification came from the way cases had appeared for so long to fail us. None of the shapeless forms about us for the time had attained19 to the dignity of one. The one I am now conceiving as suddenly effective—for which I fear I must have been regarding it as somewhat in eclipse—is that of émile Zola, whom, as a manifestation20 of the sort we are considering, three or four striking facts have lately combined to render more objective and, so to speak, more massive. His close connection with the most resounding21 of recent public quarrels; his premature22 and disastrous23 death; above all, at the moment I write, the appearance of his last-finished novel, bequeathed to his huge public from beyond the grave—these rapid events have thrust him forward and made him loom24 abruptly25 larger; much as if our pedestrian critic, treading the dusty highway, had turned a sharp corner.
It is not assuredly that Zola has ever been veiled or unapparent; he had, on the contrary been digging his field these thirty years, and for all passers to see, with an industry that kept him, after the fashion of one of the grand grim sowers or reapers26 of his brother of the brush, or at least of the canvas, Jean-Fran?ois Millet27, duskily outlined against the sky. He was there in the landscape of labour—he had always been; but he was there as a big natural or pictorial28 feature, a spreading tree, a battered29 tower, a lumpish round-shouldered useful hayrick, confounded with the air and the weather, the rain and the shine, the day and the dusk, merged30 more or less, as it were, in the play of the elements themselves. We had got used to him, and, thanks in a measure just to this stoutness32 of his presence, to the long regularity33 of his performance, had come to notice him hardly more than the dwellers34 in the marketplace notice the quarters struck by the town-clock. On top of all accordingly, for our skeptical35 mood, the sense of his work—a sense determined36 afresh by the strange climax37 of his personal history—rings out almost with violence as a reply to our wonder. It is as if an earthquake or some other rude interference had shaken from the town-clock a note of such unusual depth as to compel attention. We therefore once more give heed38, and the result of this is that we feel ourselves after a little probably as much enlightened as we can hope ever to be. We have worked round to the so marked and impressive anomaly of the adoption39 of the futile40 art by one of the stoutest41 minds and stoutest characters of our time. This extraordinarily42 robust43 worker has found it good enough for him, and if the fact is, as I say, anomalous44, we are doubtless helped to conclude that by its anomalies, in future, the bankrupt business, as we are so often moved to pronounce it, will most recover credit.
What is at all events striking for us, critically speaking, is that, in the midst of the dishonour45 it has gradually harvested by triumphant46 vulgarity of practice, its pliancy47 and applicability can still plead for themselves. The curious contradiction stands forth48 for our relief—the circumstance that thirty years ago a young man of extraordinary brain and indomitable purpose, wishing to give the measure of these endowments in a piece of work supremely49 solid, conceived and sat down to Les Rougon-Macquart rather than to an equal task in physics, mathematics, politics or economics. He saw his undertaking51, thanks to his patience and courage, practically to a close; so that it is exactly neither of the so-called constructive52 sciences that happens to have had the benefit, intellectually speaking, of one of the few most constructive achievements of our time. There then, provisionally at least, we touch bottom; we get a glimpse of the pliancy and variety, the ideal of vividness, on behalf of which our equivocal form may appeal to a strong head. In the name of what ideal on its own side, however, does the strong head yield to the appeal? What is the logic53 of its so deeply committing itself? Zola’s case seems to tell us, as it tells us other things. The logic is in its huge freedom of adjustment to the temperament54 of the worker, which it carries, so to say, as no other vehicle can do. It expresses fully55 and directly the whole man, and big as he may be it can still be big enough for him without becoming false to its type. We see this truth made strong, from beginning to end, in Zola’s work; we see the temperament, we see the whole man, with his size and all his marks, stored and packed away in the huge hold of Les Rougon-Macquart as a cargo56 is packed away on a ship. His personality is the thing that finally pervades57 and prevails, just as so often on a vessel58 the presence of the cargo makes itself felt for the assaulted senses. What has most come home to me in reading him over is that a scheme of fiction so conducted is in fact a capacious vessel. It can carry anything—with art and force in the stowage; nothing in this case will sink it. And it is the only form for which such a claim can be made. All others have to confess to a smaller scope—to selection, to exclusion59, to the danger of distortion, explosion, combustion60. The novel has nothing to fear but sailing too light. It will take aboard all we bring in good faith to the dock.
An intense vision of this truth must have been Zola’s comfort from the earliest time—the years, immediately following the crash of the Empire, during which he settled himself to the tremendous task he had mapped out. No finer act of courage and confidence, I think, is recorded in the history of letters. The critic in sympathy with him returns again and again to the great wonder of it, in which something so strange is mixed with something so august. Entertained and carried out almost from the threshold of manhood, the high project, the work of a lifetime, announces beforehand its inevitable62 weakness and yet speaks in the same voice for its admirable, its almost unimaginable strength. The strength was in the young man’s very person—in his character, his will, his passion, his fighting temper, his aggressive lips, his squared shoulders (when he “sat up”) and overweening confidence; his weakness was in that inexperience of life from which he proposed not to suffer, from which he in fact suffered on the surface remarkably63 little, and from which he was never to suspect, I judge, that he had suffered at all. I may mention for the interest of it that, meeting him during his first short visit to London—made several years before his stay in England during the Dreyfus trial—I received a direct impression of him that was more informing than any previous study. I had seen him a little, in Paris, years before that, when this impression was a perceptible promise, and I was now to perceive how time had made it good. It consisted, simply stated, in his fairly bristling64 with the betrayal that nothing whatever had happened to him in life but to write Les Rougon-Macquart. It was even for that matter almost more as if Les Rougon-Macquart had written him, written him as he stood and sat, as he looked and spoke65, as the long, concentrated, merciless effort had made and stamped and left him. Something very fundamental was to happen to him in due course, it is true, shaking him to his base; fate was not wholly to cheat him of an independent evolution. Recalling him from this London hour one strongly felt during the famous “Affair” that his outbreak in connection with it was the act of a man with arrears66 of personal history to make up, the act of a spirit for which life, or for which at any rate freedom, had been too much postponed67, treating itself at last to a luxury of experience.
I welcomed the general impression at all events—I intimately entertained it; it represented so many things, it suggested, just as it was, such a lesson. You could neither have everything nor be everything—you had to choose; you could not at once sit firm at your job and wander through space inviting68 initiations. The author of Les Rougon-Macquart had had all those, certainly, that this wonderful company could bring him; but I can scarce express how it was implied in him that his time had been fruitfully passed with them alone. His artistic70 evolution struck one thus as, in spite of its magnitude, singularly simple, and evidence of the simplicity71 seems further offered by his last production, of which we have just come into possession. “Vérité” truly does give the measure, makes the author’s high maturity72 join hands with his youth, marks the rigid73 straightness of his course from point to point. He had seen his horizon and his fixed74 goal from the first, and no cross-scent, no new distance, no blue gap in the hills to right or to left ever tempted75 him to stray. “Vérité,” of which I shall have more to say, is in fact, as a moral finality and the crown of an edifice76, one of the strangest possible performances. Machine-minted and made good by an immense expertness, it yet makes us ask how, for disinterested77 observation and perception, the writer had used so much time and so much acquisition, and how he can all along have handled so much material without some larger subjective78 consequence. We really rub our eyes in other words to see so great an intellectual adventure as Les Rougon-Macquart come to its end in deep desert sand. Difficult truly to read, because showing him at last almost completely a prey79 to the danger that had for a long time more and more dogged his steps, the danger of the mechanical all confident and triumphant, the book is nevertheless full of interest for a reader desirous to penetrate80. It speaks with more distinctness of the author’s temperament, tone and manner than if, like several of his volumes, it achieved or enjoyed a successful life of its own. Its heavy completeness, with all this, as of some prodigiously82 neat, strong and complicated scaffolding constructed by a firm of builders for the erection of a house whose foundations refuse to bear it and that is unable therefore to rise—its very betrayal of a method and a habit more than adequate, on past occasions, to similar ends, carries us back to the original rare exhibition, the grand assurance and grand patience with which the system was launched.
If it topples over, the system, by its own weight in these last applications of it, that only makes the history of its prolonged success the more curious and, speaking for myself, the spectacle of its origin more attaching. Readers of my generation will remember well the publication of “La Conquête de Plassans” and the portent83, indefinable but irresistible84, after perusal85 of the volume, conveyed in the general rubric under which it was a first instalment, Natural and Social History of a Family under the Second Empire. It squared itself there at its ease, the announcement, from the first, and we were to learn promptly86 enough what a fund of life it masked. It was like the mouth of a cave with a signboard hung above, or better still perhaps like the big booth at a fair with the name of the show across the flapping canvas. One strange animal after another stepped forth into the light, each in its way a monster bristling and spotted87, each a curiosity of that “natural history” in the name of which we were addressed, though it was doubtless not till the issue of “L’Assommoir” that the true type of the monstrous88 seemed to be reached. The enterprise, for those who had attention, was even at a distance impressive, and the nearer the critic gets to it retrospectively the more so it becomes. The pyramid had been planned and the site staked out, but the young builder stood there, in his sturdy strength, with no equipment save his two hands and, as we may say, his wheelbarrow and his trowel. His pile of material—of stone, brick and rubble89 or whatever—was of the smallest, but this he apparently90 felt as the least of his difficulties. Poor, uninstructed, unacquainted, unintroduced, he set up his subject wholly from the outside, proposing to himself wonderfully to get into it, into its depths, as he went.
If we imagine him asking himself what he knew of the “social” life of the second Empire to start with, we imagine him also answering in all honesty: “I have my eyes and my ears—I have all my senses: I have what I’ve seen and heard, what I’ve smelled and tasted and touched. And then I’ve my curiosity and my pertinacity91; I’ve libraries, books, newspapers, witnesses, the material, from step to step, of an enquête. And then I’ve my genius—that is, my imagination, my passion, my sensibility to life. Lastly I’ve my method, and that will be half the battle. Best of all perhaps even, I’ve plentiful92 lack of doubt.” Of the absence in him of a doubt, indeed of his inability, once his direction taken, to entertain so much as the shadow of one, “Vérité” is a positive monument—which again represents in this way the unity93 of his tone and the meeting of his extremes. If we remember that his design was nothing if not architectural, that a “majestic94 whole,” a great balanced fa?ade, with all its orders and parts, that a singleness of mass and a unity of effect, in fine, were before him from the first, his notion of picking up his bricks as he proceeded becomes, in operation, heroic. It is not in the least as a record of failure for him that I note this particular fact of the growth of the long series as on the whole the liveliest interest it has to offer. “I don’t know my subject, but I must live into it; I don’t know life, but I must learn it as I work”—that attitude and programme represent, to my sense, a drama more intense on the worker’s own part than any of the dramas he was to invent and put before us.
It was the fortune, it was in a manner the doom95, of Les Rougon-Macquart to deal with things almost always in gregarious96 form, to be a picture of numbers, of classes, crowds, confusions, movements, industries—and this for a reason of which it will be interesting to attempt some account. The individual life is, if not wholly absent, reflected in coarse and common, in generalised terms; whereby we arrive precisely97 at the oddity just named, the circumstance that, looking out somewhere, and often woefully athirst, for the taste of fineness, we find it not in the fruits of our author’s fancy, but in a different matter altogether. We get it in the very history of his effort, the image itself of his lifelong process, comparatively so personal, so spiritual even, and, through all its patience and pain, of a quality so much more distinguished98 than the qualities he succeeds in attributing to his figures even when he most aims at distinction. There can be no question in these narrow limits of my taking the successive volumes one by one—all the more that our sense of the exhibition is as little as possible an impression of parts and books, of particular “plots” and persons. It produces the effect of a mass of imagery in which shades are sacrificed, the effect of character and passion in the lump or by the ton. The fullest, the most characteristic episodes affect us like a sounding chorus or procession, as with a hubbub99 of voices and a multitudinous tread of feet. The setter of the mass into motion, he himself, in the crowd, figures best, with whatever queer idiosyncrasies, excrescences and gaps, a being of a substance akin10 to our own. Taking him as we must, I repeat, for quite heroic, the interest of detail in him is the interest of his struggle at every point with his problem.
The sense for crowds and processions, for the gross and the general, was largely the result of this predicament, of the disproportion between his scheme and his material—though it was certainly also in part an effect of his particular turn of mind. What the reader easily discerns in him is the sturdy resolution with which breadth and energy supply the place of penetration100. He rests to his utmost on his documents, devours101 and assimilates them, makes them yield him extraordinary appearances of life; but in his way he too improvises102 in the grand manner, the manner of Walter Scott and of Dumas the elder. We feel that he has to improvise103 for his moral and social world, the world as to which vision and opportunity must come, if they are to come at all, unhurried and unhustled—must take their own time, helped undoubtedly104 more or less by blue-books, reports and interviews, by inquiries105 “on the spot,” but never wholly replaced by such substitutes without a general disfigurement. Vision and opportunity reside in a personal sense and a personal history, and no short cut to them in the interest of plausible106 fiction has ever been discovered. The short cut, it is not too much to say, was with Zola the subject of constant ingenious experiment, and it is largely to this source, I surmise107, that we owe the celebrated108 element of his grossness. He was obliged to be gross, on his system, or neglect to his cost an invaluable109 aid to representation, as well as one that apparently struck him as lying close at hand; and I cannot withhold110 my frank admiration111 from the courage and consistency112 with which he faced his need.
His general subject in the last analysis was the nature of man; in dealing113 with which he took up, obviously, the harp17 of most numerous strings114. His business was to make these strings sound true, and there were none that he did not, so far as his general economy permitted, persistently115 try. What happened then was that many—say about half, and these, as I have noted116, the most silvered, the most golden—refused to give out their music. They would only sound false, since (as with all his earnestness he must have felt) he could command them, through want of skill, of practice, of ear, to none of the right harmony. What therefore was more natural than that, still splendidly bent117 on producing his illusion, he should throw himself on the strings he might thump118 with effect, and should work them, as our phrase is, for all they were worth? The nature of man, he had plentiful warrant for holding, is an extraordinary mixture, but the great thing was to represent a sufficient part of it to show that it was solidly, palpably, commonly the nature. With this preoccupation he doubtless fell into extravagance—there was clearly so much to lead him on. The coarser side of his subject, based on the community of all the instincts, was for instance the more practicable side, a sphere the vision of which required but the general human, scarcely more than the plain physical, initiation69, and dispensed119 thereby120 conveniently enough with special introductions or revelations. A free entry into this sphere was undoubtedly compatible with a youthful career as hampered121 right and left even as Zola’s own.
He was in prompt possession thus of the range of sympathy that he could cultivate, though it must be added that the complete exercise of that sympathy might have encountered an obstacle that would somewhat undermine his advantage. Our friend might have found himself able, in other words, to pay to the instinctive122, as I have called it, only such tribute as protesting taste (his own dose of it) permitted. Yet there it was again that fortune and his temperament served him. Taste as he knew it, taste as his own constitution supplied it, proved to have nothing to say to the matter. His own dose of the precious elixir123 had no perceptible regulating power. Paradoxical as the remark may sound, this accident was positively124 to operate as one of his greatest felicities. There are parts of his work, those dealing with romantic or poetic125 elements, in which the inactivity of the principle in question is sufficiently126 hurtful; but it surely should not be described as hurtful to such pictures as “Le Ventre de Paris,” as “L’Assommoir,” as “Germinal.” The conception on which each of these productions rests is that of a world with which taste has nothing to do, and though the act of representation may be justly held, as an artistic act, to involve its presence, the discrimination would probably have been in fact, given the particular illusion sought, more detrimental127 than the deficiency. There was a great outcry, as we all remember, over the rank materialism128 of “L’Assommoir,” but who cannot see to-day how much a milder infusion129 of it would have told against the close embrace of the subject aimed at? “L’Assommoir” is the nature of man—but not his finer, nobler, cleaner or more cultivated nature; it is the image of his free instincts, the better and the worse, the better struggling as they can, gasping130 for light and air, the worse making themselves at home in darkness, ignorance and poverty. The whole handling makes for emphasis and scale, and it is not to be measured how, as a picture of conditions, the thing would have suffered from timidity. The qualification of the painter was precisely his stoutness of stomach, and we scarce exceed in saying that to have taken in and given out again less of the infected air would, with such a resource, have meant the waste of a faculty131.
I may add in this connection moreover that refinement132 of intention did on occasion and after a fashion of its own unmistakably preside at these experiments; making the remark in order to have done once for all with a feature of Zola’s literary physiognomy that appears to have attached the gaze of many persons to the exclusion of every other. There are judges in these matters so perversely133 preoccupied134 that for them to see anywhere the “improper135” is for them straightway to cease to see anything else. The said improper, looming136 supremely large and casting all the varieties of the proper quite into the shade, suffers thus in their consciousness a much greater extension than it ever claimed, and this consciousness becomes, for the edification of many and the information of a few, a colossal137 reflector and record of it. Much may be said, in relation to some of the possibilities of the nature of man, of the nature in especial of the “people,” on the defect of our author’s sense of proportion. But the sense of proportion of many of those he has scandalised would take us further yet. I recall at all events as relevant—for it comes under a very attaching general head—two occasions of long ago, two Sunday afternoons in Paris, on which I found the question of intention very curiously138 lighted. Several men of letters of a group in which almost every member either had arrived at renown139 or was well on his way to it, were assembled under the roof of the most distinguished of their number, where they exchanged free confidences on current work, on plans and ambitions, in a manner full of interest for one never previously140 privileged to see artistic conviction, artistic passion (at least on the literary ground) so systematic141 and so articulate. “Well, I on my side,” I remember Zola’s saying, “am engaged on a book, a study of the m?urs of the people, for which I am making a collection of all the ‘bad words,’ the gros mots, of the language, those with which the vocabulary of the people, those with which their familiar talk, bristles142.” I was struck with the tone in which he made the announcement—without bravado143 and without apology, as an interesting idea that had come to him and that he was working, really to arrive at character and particular truth, with all his conscience; just as I was struck with the unqualified interest that his plan excited. It was on a plan that he was working—formidably, almost grimly, as his fatigued145 face showed; and the whole consideration of this interesting element partook of the general seriousness.
But there comes back to me also as a companion-piece to this another day, after some interval146, on which the interest was excited by the fact that the work for love of which the brave license147 had been taken was actually under the ban of the daily newspaper that had engaged to “serialise” it. Publication had definitively149 ceased. The thing had run a part of its course, but it had outrun the courage of editors and the curiosity of subscribers—that stout31 curiosity to which it had evidently in such good faith been addressed. The chorus of contempt for the ways of such people, their pusillanimity150, their superficiality, vulgarity, intellectual platitude151, was the striking note on this occasion; for the journal impugned152 had declined to proceed and the serial148, broken off, been obliged, if I am not mistaken, to seek the hospitality of other columns, secured indeed with no great difficulty. The composition so qualified144 for future fame was none other, as I was later to learn, than “L’Assommoir”; and my reminiscence has perhaps no greater point than in connecting itself with a matter always dear to the critical spirit, especially when the latter has not too completely elbowed out the romantic—the matter of the “origins,” the early consciousness, early steps, early tribulations153, early obscurity, as so often happens, of productions finally crowned by time.
Their greatness is for the most part a thing that has originally begun so small; and this impression is particularly strong when we have been in any degree present, so to speak, at the birth. The course of the matter is apt to tend preponderantly in that case to enrich our stores of irony154. In the eventual155 conquest of consideration by an abused book we recognise, in other terms, a drama of romantic interest, a drama often with large comic no less than with fine pathetic interweavings. It may of course be said in this particular connection that “L’Assommoir” had not been one of the literary things that creep humbly156 into the world. Its “success” may be cited as almost insolently157 prompt, and the fact remains158 true if the idea of success be restricted, after the inveterate159 fashion, to the idea of circulation. What remains truer still, however, is that for the critical spirit circulation mostly matters not the least little bit, and it is of the success with which the history of Gervaise and Coupeau nestles in that capacious bosom160, even as the just man sleeps in Abraham’s, that I here speak. But it is a point I may better refer to a moment hence.
Though a summary study of Zola need not too anxiously concern itself with book after book—always with a partial exception from this remark for “L’Assommoir”—groups and varieties none the less exist in the huge series, aids to discrimination without which no measure of the presiding genius is possible. These divisions range themselves to my sight, roughly speaking, however, as scarce more than three in number—I mean if the ten volumes of the ?uvres Critiques and the Théatre be left out of account. The critical volumes in especial abound161 in the characteristic, as they were also a wondrous162 addition to his sum of achievement during his most strenuous163 years. But I am forced not to consider them. The two groups constituted after the close of Les Rougon-Macquart—“Les Trois Villes” and the incomplete “Quatre évangiles”—distribute themselves easily among the three types, or, to speak more exactly, stand together under one of the three. This one, so comprehensive as to be the author’s main exhibition, includes to my sense all his best volumes—to the point in fact of producing an effect of distinct inferiority for those outside of it, which are, luckily for his general credit, the less numerous. It is so inveterately164 pointed11 out in any allusion165 to him that one shrinks, in repeating it, from sounding flat; but as he was admirably equipped from the start for the evocation166 of number and quantity, so those of his social pictures that most easily surpass the others are those in which appearances, the appearances familiar to him, are at once most magnified and most multiplied.
To make his characters swarm167, and to make the great central thing they swarm about “as large as life,” portentously169, heroically big, that was the task he set himself very nearly from the first, that was the secret he triumphantly170 mastered. Add that the big central thing was always some highly representative institution or industry of the France of his time, some seated Moloch of custom, of commerce, of faith, lending itself to portrayal171 through its abuses and excesses, its idol-face and great devouring172 mouth, and we embrace main lines of his attack. In “Le Ventre de Paris” he had dealt with the life of the huge Halles, the general markets and their supply, the personal forces, personal situations, passions, involved in (strangest of all subjects) the alimentation of the monstrous city, the city whose victualling occupies so inordinately173 much of its consciousness. Paris richly gorged174, Paris sublime175 and indifferent in her assurance (so all unlike poor Oliver’s) of “more,” figures here the theme itself, lies across the scene like some vast ruminant creature breathing in a cloud of parasites176. The book was the first of the long series to show the full freedom of the author’s hand, though “La Curée” had already been symptomatic. This freedom, after an interval, broke out on a much bigger scale in “L’Assommoir,” in “Au Bonheur des Dames,” in “Germinal,” in “La Bête Humaine,” in “L’Argent,” in “La Débacle,” and then again, though more mechanically and with much of the glory gone, in the more or less wasted energy of “Lourdes,” “Rome,” “Paris,” of “Fécondité,” “Travail” and “Vérité.”
“Au Bonheur des Dames” handles the colossal modern shop, traces the growth of such an organisation177 as the Bon Marché or the Magasin-du-Louvre, sounds the abysses of its inner life, marshals its population, its hierarchy178 of clerks, counters, departments, divisions and sub-divisions, plunges180 into the labyrinth181 of the mutual182 relations of its staff, and above all traces its ravage183 amid the smaller fry of the trade, of all the trades, pictures these latter gasping for breath in an air pumped clean by its mighty184 lungs. “Germinal” revolves185 about the coal-mines of Flemish France, with the subterranean186 world of the pits for its central presence, just as “La Bête Humaine” has for its protagonist187 a great railway and “L’Argent” presents in terms of human passion—mainly of human baseness—the fury of the Bourse and the monster of Credit. “La Débacle” takes up with extraordinary breadth the first act of the Franco-Prussian war, the collapse188 at Sedan, and the titles of the six volumes of The Three Cities and the Four Gospels sufficiently explain them. I may mention, however, for the last lucidity189, that among these “Fécondité” manipulates, with an amazing misapprehension of means to ends, of remedies to ills, no less thickly peopled a theme than that of the decline in the French birth-rate, and that “Vérité” presents a fictive equivalent of the Dreyfus case, with a vast and elaborate picture of the battle in France between lay and clerical instruction. I may even further mention, to clear the ground, that with the close of Les Rougon-Macquart the diminution190 of freshness in the author’s energy, the diminution of intensity191 and, in short, of quality, becomes such as to render sadly difficult a happy life with some of the later volumes. Happiness of the purest strain never indeed, in old absorptions of Zola, quite sat at the feast; but there was mostly a measure of coercion192, a spell without a charm. From these last-named productions of the climax everything strikes me as absent but quantity (“Vérité,” for instance, is, with the possible exception of “Nana,” the longest of the list); though indeed there is something impressive in the way his quantity represents his patience.
There are efforts here at stout perusal that, frankly193, I have been unable to carry through, and I should verily like, in connection with the vanity of these, to dispose on the spot of the sufficiently strange phenomenon constituted by what I have called the climax. It embodies194 in fact an immense anomaly; it casts back over Zola’s prime and his middle years the queerest grey light of eclipse. Nothing moreover—nothing “literary”—was ever so odd as in this matter the whole turn of the case, the consummation so logical yet so unexpected. Writers have grown old and withered195 and failed; they have grown weak and sad; they have lost heart, lost ability, yielded in one way or another—the possible ways being so numerous—to the cruelty of time. But the singular doom of this genius, and which began to multiply its symptoms ten years before his death, was to find, with life, at fifty, still rich in him, strength only to undermine all the “authority” he had gathered. He had not grown old and he had not grown feeble; he had only grown all too wrongly insistent196, setting himself to wreck197, poetically198, his so massive identity—to wreck it in the very waters in which he had formally arrayed his victorious199 fleet, (I say “poetically” on purpose to give him the just benefit of all the beauty of his power.) The process of the disaster, so full of the effect, though so without the intention, of perversity200, is difficult to trace in a few words; it may best be indicated by an example or two of its action.
The example that perhaps most comes home to me is again connected with a personal reminiscence. In the course of some talk that I had with him during his first visit to England I happened to ask him what opportunity to travel (if any) his immense application had ever left him, and whether in particular he had been able to see Italy, a country from which I had either just returned or which I was luckily—not having the Natural History of a Family on my hands—about to revisit. “All I’ve done, alas,” he replied, “was, the other year, in the course of a little journey to the south, to my own pays—all that has been possible was then to make a little dash as far as Genoa, a matter of only a few days.” “Le Docteur Pascal,” the conclusion of Les Rougon-Macquart, had appeared shortly before, and it further befell that I asked him what plans he had for the future, now that, still dans la force de l’age, he had so cleared the ground. I shall never forget the fine promptitude of his answer—“Oh, I shall begin at once Les Trois Villes.” “And which cities are they to be?” The reply was finer still—“Lourdes, Paris, Rome.”
It was splendid for confidence and cheer, but it left me, I fear, more or less gaping201, and it was to give me afterwards the key, critically speaking, to many a mystery. It struck me as breathing to an almost tragic202 degree the fatuity203 of those in whom the gods stimulate204 that vice205 to their ruin. He was an honest man—he had always bristled206 with it at every pore; but no artistic reverse was inconceivable for an adventurer who, stating in one breath that his knowledge of Italy consisted of a few days spent at Genoa, was ready to declare in the next that he had planned, on a scale, a picture of Rome. It flooded his career, to my sense, with light; it showed how he had marched from subject to subject and had “got up” each in turn—showing also how consummately207 he had reduced such getting-up to an artifice208. He had success and a rare impunity209 behind him, but nothing would now be so interesting as to see if he could again play the trick. One would leave him, and welcome, Lourdes and Paris—he had already dealt, on a scale, with his own country and people. But was the adored Rome also to be his on such terms, the Rome he was already giving away before possessing an inch of it? One thought of one’s own frequentations, saturations—a history of long years, and of how the effect of them had somehow been but to make the subject too august. Was he to find it easy through a visit of a month or two with “introductions” and a B?deker?
It was not indeed that the B?deker and the introductions didn’t show, to my sense, at that hour, as extremely suggestive; they were positively a part of the light struck out by his announcement. They defined the system on which he had brought Les Rougon-Macquart safely into port. He had had his B?deker and his introductions for “Germinal,” for “L’Assommoir,” for “L’Argent,” for “La Débacle,” for “Au Bonheur des Dames”; which advantages, which researches, had clearly been all the more in character for being documentary, extractive, a matter of renseignements, published or private, even when most mixed with personal impressions snatched, with enquêtes sur les lieux, with facts obtained from the best authorities, proud and happy to co-operate in so famous a connection. That was, as we say, all right, all the more that the process, to my imagination, became vivid and was wonderfully reflected back from its fruits. There were the fruits—so it hadn’t been presumptuous210. Presumption211, however, was now to begin, and what omen3 mightn’t there be in its beginning with such complacency? Well, time would show—as time in due course effectually did. “Rome,” as the second volume of The Three Cities, appeared with high punctuality a year or two later; and the interesting question, an occasion really for the moralist, was by that time not to recognise in it the mere212 triumph of a mechanical art, a “receipt” applied213 with the skill of long practice, but to do much more than this—that is really to give a name to the particular shade of blindness that could constitute a trap for so great an artistic intelligence. The presumptuous volume, without sweetness, without antecedents, superficial and violent, has the minimum instead of the maximum of value; so that it betrayed or “gave away” just in this degree the state of mind on the author’s part responsible for its inflated214 hollowness. To put one’s finger on the state of mind was to find out accordingly what was, as we say, the matter with him.
It seemed to me, I remember, that I found out as never before when, in its turn, “Fécondité” began the work of crowning the edifice. “Fécondité” is physiological215, whereas “Rome” is not, whereas “Vérité” likewise is not; yet these three productions joined hands at a given moment to fit into the lock of the mystery the key of my meditation216. They came to the same thing, to the extent of permitting me to read into them together the same precious lesson. This lesson may not, barely stated, sound remarkable217; yet without being in possession of it I should have ventured on none of these remarks. “The matter with” Zola then, so far as it goes, was that, as the imagination of the artist is in the best cases not only clarified but intensified218 by his equal possession of Taste (deserving here if ever the old-fashioned honour of a capital) so when he has lucklessly never inherited that auxiliary219 blessing220 the imagination itself inevitably221 breaks down as a consequence. There is simply no limit, in fine, to the misfortune of being tasteless; it does not merely disfigure the surface and the fringe of your performance—it eats back into the very heart and enfeebles the sources of life. When you have no taste you have no discretion222, which is the conscience of taste, and when you have no discretion you perpetrate books like “Rome,” which are without intellectual modesty223, books like “Fécondité,” which are without a sense of the ridiculous, books like “Vérité,” which are without the finer vision of human experience.
It is marked that in each of these examples the deficiency has been directly fatal. No stranger doom was ever appointed for a man so plainly desiring only to be just than the absurdity224 of not resting till he had buried the felicity of his past, such as it was, under a great flat leaden slab225. “Vérité” is a plea for science, as science, to Zola, is all truth, the mention of any other kind being mere imbecility; and the simplification of the human picture to which his negations and exasperations have here conducted him was not, even when all had been said, credible226 in advance. The result is amazing when we consider that the finer observation is the supposed basis of all such work. It is not that even here the author has not a queer idealism of his own; this idealism is on the contrary so present as to show positively for the falsest of his simplifications. In “Fécondité” it becomes grotesque227, makes of the book the most muscular mistake of sense probably ever committed. Where was the judgment228 of which experience is supposed to be the guarantee when the perpetrator could persuade himself that the lesson he wished in these pages to convey could be made immediate61 and direct, chalked, with loud taps and a still louder commentary, the sexes and generations all convoked229, on the blackboard of the “family sentiment?”
I have mentioned, however, all this time but one of his categories. The second consists of such things as “La Fortune des Rougon” and “La Curée,” as “Eugène Rougon” and even “Nana,” as “Pot-Bouille,” as “L’?uvre” and “La Joie de Vivre.” These volumes may rank as social pictures in the narrowest sense, studies, comprehensively speaking, of the manners, the morals, the miseries230—for it mainly comes to that—of a bourgeoisie grossly materialised. They deal with the life of individuals in the liberal professions and with that of political and social adventures, and offer the personal character and career, more or less detached, as the centre of interest. “La Curée” is an evocation, violent and “romantic,” of the extravagant231 appetites, the fever of the senses, supposedly fostered, for its ruin, by the hapless second Empire, upon which general ills and turpitudes at large were at one time so freely and conveniently fathered. “Eugène Rougon” carries out this view in the high colour of a political portrait, not other than scandalous, for which one of the ministerial ames damnées of Napoleon III., M. Rouher, is reputed, I know not how justly, to have sat. “Nana,” attaching itself by a hundred strings to a prearranged table of kinships, heredities, transmissions, is the vast crowded epos of the daughter of the people filled with poisoned blood and sacrificed as well as sacrificing on the altar of luxury and lust16; the panorama232 of such a “progress” as Hogarth would more definitely have named—the progress across the high plateau of “pleasure” and down the facile descent on the other side. “Nana” is truly a monument to Zola’s patience; the subject being so ungrateful, so formidably special, that the multiplication233 of illustrative detail, the plunge179 into pestilent depths, represents a kind of technical intrepidity234.
There are other plunges, into different sorts of darkness; of which the esthetic235, even the scientific, even the ironic236 motive237 fairly escapes us—explorations of stagnant238 pools like that of “La Joie de Vivre,” as to which, granting the nature of the curiosity and the substance laboured in, the patience is again prodigious81, but which make us wonder what pearl of philosophy, of suggestion or just of homely239 recognition, the general picture, as of rats dying in a hole, has to offer. Our various senses, sight, smell, sound, touch, are, as with Zola always, more or less convinced; but when the particular effect upon each of these is added to the effect upon the others the mind still remains bewilderedly unconscious of any use for the total. I am not sure indeed that the case is in this respect better with the productions of the third order—“La Faute de l’Abbé Mouret,” “Une Page d’Amour,” “Le Rêve,” “Le Docteur Pascal”—in which the appeal is more directly, is in fact quite earnestly, to the moral vision; so much, on such ground, was to depend precisely on those discriminations in which the writer is least at home. The volumes whose names I have just quoted are his express tribute to the “ideal,” to the select and the charming—fair fruits of invention intended to remove from the mouth so far as possible the bitterness of the ugly things in which so much of the rest of his work had been condemned240 to consist. The subjects in question then are “idyllic” and the treatment poetic, concerned essentially241 to please on the largest lines and involving at every turn that salutary need. They are matters of conscious delicacy242, and nothing might interest us more than to see what, in the shock of the potent243 forces enlisted244, becomes of this shy element. Nothing might interest us more, literally245, and might positively affect us more, even very nearly to tears, though indeed sometimes also to smiles, than to see the constructor of Les Rougon-Macquart trying, “for all he is worth,” to be fine with fineness, finely tender, finely true—trying to be, as it is called, distinguished—in face of constitutional hindrance246.
The effort is admirably honest, the tug247 at his subject splendidly strong; but the consequences remain of the strangest, and we get the impression that—as representing discriminations unattainable—they are somehow the price he paid. “Le Docteur Pascal,” for instance, which winds up the long chronicle on the romantic note, on the note of invoked248 beauty, in order to sweeten, as it were, the total draught—“Le Docteur Pascal,” treating of the erotic ardour entertained for each other by an uncle and his niece, leaves us amazed at such a conception of beauty, such an application of romance, such an estimate of sweetness, a sacrifice to poetry and passion so little in order. Of course, we definitely remind ourselves, the whole long chronicle is explicitly249 a scheme, solidly set up and intricately worked out, lighted, according to the author’s pretension250, by “science,” high, dry and clear, and with each part involved and necessitated251 in all the other parts, each block of the edifice, each “morceau de vie,” physiologically252 determined by previous combinations. “How can I help it,” we hear the builder of the pyramid ask, “if experience (by which alone I proceed) shows me certain plain results—if, holding up the torch of my famous ‘experimental method,’ I find it stare me in the face that the union of certain types, the conflux of certain strains of blood, the intermarriage, in a word, of certain families, produces nervous conditions, conditions temperamental, psychical253 and pathological, in which nieces have to fall in love with uncles and uncles with nieces? Observation and imagination, for any picture of life,” he as audibly adds, “know no light but science, and are false to all intellectual decency254, false to their own honour, when they fear it, dodge255 it, darken it. To pretend to any other guide or law is mere base humbug256.”
That is very well, and the value, in a hundred ways, of a mass of production conceived in such a spirit can never (when robust execution has followed) be small. But the formula really sees us no further. It offers a definition which is no definition. “Science” is soon said—the whole thing depends on the ground so covered. Science accepts surely all our consciousness of life; even, rather, the latter closes maternally257 round it—so that, becoming thus a force within us, not a force outside, it exists, it illuminates258 only as we apply it. We do emphatically apply it in art. But Zola would apparently hold that it much more applies us. On the showing of many of his volumes then it makes but a dim use of us, and this we should still consider the case even were we sure that the article offered us in the majestic name is absolutely at one with its own pretension. This confidence we can on too many grounds never have. The matter is one of appreciation259, and when an artist answers for science who answers for the artist—who at the least answers for art? Thus it is with the mistakes that affect us, I say, as Zola’s penalties. We are reminded by them that the game of art has, as the phrase is, to be played. It may not with any sure felicity for the result be both taken and left. If you insist on the common you must submit to the common; if you discriminate260, on the contrary, you must, however invidious your discriminations may be called, trust to them to see you through.
To the common then Zola, often with splendid results, inordinately sacrifices, and this fact of its overwhelming him is what I have called his paying for it. In “L’Assommoir,” in “Germinal,” in “La Débacle,” productions in which he must most survive, the sacrifice is ordered and fruitful, for the subject and the treatment harmonise and work together. He describes what he best feels, and feels it more and more as it naturally comes to him—quite, if I may allow myself the image, as we zoologically see some mighty animal, a beast of a corrugated261 hide and a portentous168 snout, soaking with joy in the warm ooze262 of an African riverside. In these cases everything matches, and “science,” we may be permitted to believe, has had little hand in the business. The author’s perceptions go straight, and the subject, grateful and responsive, gives itself wholly up. It is no longer a case of an uncertain smoky torch, but of a personal vision, the vision of genius, springing from an inward source. Of this genius “L’Assommoir” is the most extraordinary record. It contains, with the two companions I have given it, all the best of Zola, and the three books together are solid ground—or would be could I now so take them—for a study of the particulars of his power. His strongest marks and features abound in them; “L’Assommoir” above all is (not least in respect to its bold free linguistic263 reach, already glanced at) completely genial264, while his misadventures, his unequipped and delusive265 pursuit of the life of the spirit and the tone of culture, are almost completely absent.
It is a singular sight enough this of a producer of illusions whose interest for us is so independent of our pleasure or at least of our complacency—who touches us deeply even while he most “puts us off,” who makes us care for his ugliness and yet himself at the same time pitilessly (pitilessly, that is, for us) makes a mock of it, who fills us with a sense of the rich which is none the less never the rare. Gervaise, the most immediately “felt,” I cannot but think, of all his characters, is a lame washerwoman, loose and gluttonous266, without will, without any principle of cohesion267, the sport of every wind that assaults her exposed life, and who, rolling from one gross mistake to another, finds her end in misery268, drink and despair. But her career, as presented, has fairly the largeness that, throughout the chronicle, we feel as epic269, and the intensity of her creator’s vision of it and of the dense270 sordid271 life hanging about it is one of the great things the modern novel has been able to do. It has done nothing more completely constitutive and of a tone so rich and full and sustained. The tone of “L’Assommoir” is, for mere “keeping up,” unsurpassable, a vast deep steady tide on which every object represented is triumphantly borne. It never shrinks nor flows thin, and nothing for an instant drops, dips or catches; the high-water mark of sincerity272, of the genial, as I have called it, is unfailingly kept.
For the artist in the same general “line” such a production has an interest almost inexpressible, a mystery as to origin and growth over which he fondly but rather vainly bends. How after all does it so get itself done?—the “done” being admirably the sign and crown of it. The light of the richer mind has been elsewhere, as I have sufficiently hinted, frequent enough, but nothing truly in all fiction was ever built so strong or made so dense as here. Needless to say there are a thousand things with more charm in their truth, with more beguilement273 of every sort, more prettiness of pathos274, more innocence275 of drollery276, for the spectator’s sense of truth. But I doubt if there has ever been a more totally represented world, anything more founded and established, more provided for all round, more organised and carried on. It is a world practically workable, with every part as functional277 as every other, and with the parts all chosen for direct mutual aid. Let it not be said either that the equal constitution of parts makes for repletion278 or excess; the air circulates and the subject blooms; deadness comes in these matters only when the right parts are absent and there is vain beating of the air in their place—the refuge of the fumbler279 incapable280 of the thing “done” at all.
The mystery I speak of, for the reader who reflects as he goes, is the wonder of the scale and energy of Zola’s assimilations. This wonder besets281 us above all throughout the three books I have placed first. How, all sedentary and “scientific,” did he get so near? By what art, inscrutable, immeasurable, indefatigable282, did he arrange to make of his documents, in these connections, a use so vivified? Say he was “near” the subject of “L’Assommoir” in imagination, in more or less familiar impression, in temperament and humour, he could not after all have been near it in personal experience, and the copious283 personalism of the picture, not to say its frank animalism, yet remains its note and its strength. When the note had been struck in a thousand forms we had, by multiplication, as a kind of cumulative284 consequence, the finished and rounded book; just as we had the same result by the same process in “Germinal.” It is not of course that multiplication and accumulation, the extraordinary pair of legs on which he walks, are easily or directly consistent with his projecting himself morally; this immense diffusion285, with its appropriation286 of everything it meets, affects us on the contrary as perpetually delaying access to what we may call the private world, the world of the individual. Yet since the individual—for it so happens—is simple and shallow our author’s dealings with him, as met and measured, maintain their resemblance to those of the lusty bee who succeeds in plumping for an instant, of a summer morning, into every flower-cup of the garden.
Grant—and the generalisation may be emphatic—that the shallow and the simple are all the population of his richest and most crowded pictures, and that his “psychology,” in a psychologic age, remains thereby comparatively coarse, grant this and we but get another view of the miracle. We see enough of the superficial among novelists at large, assuredly, without deriving287 from it, as we derive288 from Zola at his best, the concomitant impression of the solid. It is in general—I mean among the novelists at large—the impression of the cheap, which the author of Les Rougon-Macquart, honest man, never faithless for a moment to his own stiff standard, manages to spare us even in the prolonged sandstorm of “Vérité.” The Common is another matter; it is one of the forms of the superficial—pervading and consecrating289 all things in such a book as “Germinal”—and it only adds to the number of our critical questions. How in the world is it made, this deplorable democratic malodorous Common, so strange and so interesting? How is it taught to receive into its loins the stuff of the epic and still, in spite of that association with poetry, never depart from its nature? It is in the great lusty game he plays with the shallow and the simple that Zola’s mastery resides, and we see of course that when values are small it takes innumerable items and combinations to make up the sum. In “L’Assommoir” and in “Germinal,” to some extent even in “La Débacle,” the values are all, morally, personally, of the lowest—the highest is poor Gervaise herself, richly human in her generosities290 and follies—yet each is as distinct as a brass-headed nail.
What we come back to accordingly is the unprecedented291 case of such a combination of parts. Painters, of great schools, often of great talent, have responded liberally on canvas to the appeal of ugly things, of Spanish beggars, squalid and dusty-footed, of martyred saints or other convulsed sufferers, tortured and bleeding, of boors292 and louts soaking a Dutch proboscis293 in perpetual beer; but we had never before had to reckon with so literary a treatment of the mean and vulgar. When we others of the Anglo-Saxon race are vulgar we are, handsomely and with the best conscience in the world, vulgar all through, too vulgar to be in any degree literary, and too much so therefore to be critically reckoned with at all. The French are different—they separate their sympathies, multiply their possibilities, observe their shades, remain more or less outside of their worst disasters. They mostly contrive294 to get the idea, in however dead a faint, down into the lifeboat. They may lose sight of the stars, but they save in some such fashion as that their intellectual souls. Zola’s own reply to all puzzlements would have been, at any rate, I take it, a straight summary of his inveterate professional habits. “It is all very simple—I produce, roughly speaking, a volume a year, and of this time some five months go to preparation, to special study. In the other months, with all my cadres established, I write the book. And I can hardly say which part of the job is stiffest.”
The story was not more wonderful for him than that, nor the job more complex; which is why we must say of his whole process and its results that they constitute together perhaps the most extraordinary imitation of observation that we possess. Balzac appealed to “science” and proceeded by her aid; Balzac had cadres enough and a tabulated295 world, rubrics, relationships and genealogies296; but Balzac affects us in spite of everything as personally overtaken by life, as fairly hunted and run to earth by it. He strikes us as struggling and all but submerged, as beating over the scene such a pair of wings as were not soon again to be wielded297 by any visitor of his general air and as had not at all events attached themselves to Zola’s rounded shoulders. His bequest298 is in consequence immeasurably more interesting, yet who shall declare that his adventure was in its greatness more successful? Zola “pulled it off,” as we say, supremely, in that he never but once found himself obliged to quit, to our vision, his magnificent treadmill299 of the pigeonholed300 and documented—the region we may qualify as that of experience by imitation. His splendid economy saw him through, he laboured to the end within sight of his notes and his charts.
The extraordinary thing, however, is that on the single occasion when, publicly—as his whole manifestation was public—life did swoop301 down on him, the effect of the visitation was quite perversely other than might have been looked for. His courage in the Dreyfus connection testified admirably to his ability to live for himself and out of the order of his volumes—little indeed as living at all might have seemed a question for one exposed, when his crisis was at its height and he was found guilty of “insulting” the powers that were, to be literally torn to pieces in the precincts of the Palace of Justice. Our point is that nothing was ever so odd as that these great moments should appear to have been wasted, when all was said, for his creative intelligence. “Vérité,” as I have intimated, the production in which they might most have been reflected, is a production unrenewed and unrefreshed by them, spreads before us as somehow flatter and greyer, not richer and more relieved, by reason of them. They really arrived, I surmise, too late in the day; the imagination they might have vivified was already fatigued and spent.
I must not moreover appear to say that the power to evoke302 and present has not even on the dead level of “Vérité” its occasional minor303 revenges. There are passages, whole pages, of the old full-bodied sort, pictures that elsewhere in the series would in all likelihood have seemed abundantly convincing. Their misfortune is to have been discounted by our intensified, our finally fatal sense of the procédé. Quarrelling with all conventions, defiant304 of them in general, Zola was yet inevitably to set up his own group of them—as, for that matter, without a sufficient collection, without their aid in simplifying and making possible, how could he ever have seen his big ship into port? Art welcomes them, feeds upon them always; no sort of form is practicable without them. It is only a question of what particular ones we use—to wage war on certain others and to arrive at particular forms. The convention of the blameless being, the thoroughly305 “scientific” creature possessed306 impeccably of all truth and serving as the mouthpiece of it and of the author’s highest complacencies, this character is for instance a convention inveterate and indispensable, without whom the “sympathetic” side of the work could never have been achieved. Marc in “Vérité,” Pierre Froment in “Lourdes” and in “Rome,” the wondrous representatives of the principle of reproduction in “Fécondité,” the exemplary painter of “L’?uvre,” sublime in his modernity and paternity, the patient Jean Macquart of “La Débacle,” whose patience is as guaranteed as the exactitude of a well-made watch, the supremely enlightened Docteur Pascal even, as I recall him, all amorous307 nepotism308 but all virtue309 too and all beauty of life—such figures show us the reasonable and the good not merely in the white light of the old George Sand novel and its improved moralities, but almost in that of our childhood’s nursery and school-room, that of the moral tale of Miss Edgeworth and Mr. Thomas Day.
Yet let not these restrictions310 be my last word. I had intended, under the effect of a reperusal of “La Débacle,” “Germinal” and “L’Assommoir,” to make no discriminations that should not be in our hero’s favour. The long-drawn incident of the marriage of Gervaise and Cadet-Cassis and that of the Homeric birthday feast later on in the laundress’s workshop, each treated from beginning to end and in every item of their coarse comedy and humanity, still show the unprecedented breadth by which they originally made us stare, still abound in the particular kind and degree of vividness that helped them, when they appeared, to mark a date in the portrayal of manners. Nothing had then been so sustained and at every moment of its grotesque and pitiful existence lived into as the nuptial311 day of the Coupeau pair in especial, their fantastic processional pilgrimage through the streets of Paris in the rain, their bedraggled exploration of the halls of the Louvre museum, lost as in the labyrinth of Crete, and their arrival at last, ravenous312 and exasperated313, at the guinguette where they sup at so much a head, each paying, and where we sit down with them in the grease and the perspiration314 and succumb315, half in sympathy, half in shame, to their monstrous pleasantries, acerbities and miseries. I have said enough of the mechanical in Zola; here in truth is, given the elements, almost insupportably the sense of life. That effect is equally in the historic chapter of the strike of the miners in “Germinal,” another of those illustrative episodes, viewed as great passages to be “rendered,” for which our author established altogether a new measure and standard of handling, a new energy and veracity316, something since which the old trivialities and poverties of treatment of such aspects have become incompatible317, for the novelist, with either rudimentary intelligence or rudimentary self-respect.
As for “La Débacle,” finally, it takes its place with Tolstoi’s very much more universal but very much less composed and condensed epic as an incomparably human picture of war. I have been re-reading it, I confess, with a certain timidity, the dread318 of perhaps impairing319 the deep impression received at the time of its appearance. I recall the effect it then produced on me as a really luxurious320 act of submission321. It was early in the summer; I was in an old Italian town; the heat was oppressive, and one could but recline, in the lightest garments, in a great dim room and give one’s self up. I like to think of the conditions and the emotion, which melt for me together into the memory I fear to imperil. I remember that in the glow of my admiration there was not a reserve I had ever made that I was not ready to take back. As an application of the author’s system and his supreme50 faculty, as a triumph of what these things could do for him, how could such a performance be surpassed? The long, complex, horrific, pathetic battle, embraced, mastered, with every crash of its squadrons, every pulse of its thunder and blood resolved for us, by reflection, by communication from two of the humblest and obscurest of the military units, into immediate vision and contact, into deep human thrills of terror and pity—this bristling centre of the book was such a piece of “doing” (to come back to our word) as could only shut our mouths. That doubtless is why a generous critic, nursing the sensation, may desire to drop for a farewell no term into the other scale. That our author was clearly great at congruous subjects—this may well be our conclusion. If the others, subjects of the private and intimate order, gave him more or less inevitably “away,” they yet left him the great distinction that the more he could be promiscuous322 and collective, the more even he could (to repeat my imputation) illustrate15 our large natural allowance of health, heartiness323 and grossness, the more he could strike us as penetrating324 and true. It was a distinction not easy to win and that his name is not likely soon to lose.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
watery
|
|
| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
landmarks
|
|
| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
omen
|
|
| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
credentials
|
|
| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
importunate
|
|
| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
fable
|
|
| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
countless
|
|
| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
riddle
|
|
| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
lame
|
|
| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
akin
|
|
| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
tangle
|
|
| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
unnatural
|
|
| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
illustrated
|
|
| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
illustrate
|
|
| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
lust
|
|
| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
harp
|
|
| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
indifference
|
|
| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
attained
|
|
| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
manifestation
|
|
| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
resounding
|
|
| adj. 响亮的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
premature
|
|
| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
disastrous
|
|
| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
loom
|
|
| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
abruptly
|
|
| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
reapers
|
|
| n.收割者，收获者( reaper的名词复数 )；收割机 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
millet
|
|
| n.小米，谷子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
pictorial
|
|
| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
battered
|
|
| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
merged
|
|
| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
stoutness
|
|
| 坚固，刚毅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
regularity
|
|
| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
dwellers
|
|
| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
skeptical
|
|
| adj.怀疑的，多疑的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
determined
|
|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
climax
|
|
| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
heed
|
|
| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
adoption
|
|
| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
futile
|
|
| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
stoutest
|
|
| 粗壮的( stout的最高级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
extraordinarily
|
|
| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
robust
|
|
| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
anomalous
|
|
| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
dishonour
|
|
| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
triumphant
|
|
| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
pliancy
|
|
| n.柔软，柔顺 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
supremely
|
|
| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
supreme
|
|
| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
undertaking
|
|
| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
constructive
|
|
| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
logic
|
|
| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
temperament
|
|
| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
fully
|
|
| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
cargo
|
|
| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
pervades
|
|
| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
vessel
|
|
| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
exclusion
|
|
| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
combustion
|
|
| n.燃烧；氧化；骚动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
immediate
|
|
| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
inevitable
|
|
| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
remarkably
|
|
| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
bristling
|
|
| a.竖立的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
arrears
|
|
| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
postponed
|
|
| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
inviting
|
|
| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
initiation
|
|
| n.开始 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
artistic
|
|
| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
simplicity
|
|
| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
maturity
|
|
| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
rigid
|
|
| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
tempted
|
|
| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
edifice
|
|
| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
disinterested
|
|
| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
subjective
|
|
| a.主观(上)的，个人的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
prey
|
|
| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
penetrate
|
|
| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
prodigious
|
|
| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
prodigiously
|
|
| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
portent
|
|
| n.预兆；恶兆；怪事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
irresistible
|
|
| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
perusal
|
|
| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
promptly
|
|
| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
spotted
|
|
| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
monstrous
|
|
| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
rubble
|
|
| n.（一堆）碎石，瓦砾 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
pertinacity
|
|
| n.执拗，顽固 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
92
plentiful
|
|
| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
unity
|
|
| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
majestic
|
|
| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
doom
|
|
| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
gregarious
|
|
| adj.群居的，喜好群居的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
precisely
|
|
| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
distinguished
|
|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
hubbub
|
|
| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
penetration
|
|
| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
devours
|
|
| 吞没( devour的第三人称单数 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
improvises
|
|
| 临时制作，临时凑成( improvise的名词复数 )； 即兴创作（音乐、台词、演讲词等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
improvise
|
|
| v.即兴创作；临时准备，临时凑成 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
undoubtedly
|
|
| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
inquiries
|
|
| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
plausible
|
|
| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
surmise
|
|
| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
celebrated
|
|
| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
invaluable
|
|
| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
withhold
|
|
| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
admiration
|
|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
consistency
|
|
| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
dealing
|
|
| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
strings
|
|
| n.弦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
persistently
|
|
| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
noted
|
|
| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
thump
|
|
| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
dispensed
|
|
| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
thereby
|
|
| adv.因此，从而 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
hampered
|
|
| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
instinctive
|
|
| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
elixir
|
|
| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
positively
|
|
| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
poetic
|
|
| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
sufficiently
|
|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
detrimental
|
|
| adj.损害的，造成伤害的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
materialism
|
|
| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
infusion
|
|
| n.灌输 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
gasping
|
|
| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
faculty
|
|
| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
refinement
|
|
| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
perversely
|
|
| adv. 倔强地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
preoccupied
|
|
| 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) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
improper
|
|
| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
looming
|
|
| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
colossal
|
|
| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
curiously
|
|
| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
renown
|
|
| n.声誉，名望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
previously
|
|
| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
systematic
|
|
| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
bristles
|
|
| 短而硬的毛发，刷子毛( bristle的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
143
bravado
|
|
| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
144
qualified
|
|
| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
145
fatigued
|
|
| adj. 疲乏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
146
interval
|
|
| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
147
license
|
|
| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
148
serial
|
|
| n.连本影片，连本电视节目；adj.连续的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
149
definitively
|
|
| adv.决定性地，最后地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
150
pusillanimity
|
|
| n.无气力，胆怯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
151
platitude
|
|
| n.老生常谈，陈词滥调 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
152
impugned
|
|
| v.非难，指谪( impugn的过去式和过去分词 )；对…有怀疑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
153
tribulations
|
|
| n.苦难( tribulation的名词复数 )；艰难；苦难的缘由；痛苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
154
irony
|
|
| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
155
eventual
|
|
| adj.最后的，结局的，最终的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
156
humbly
|
|
| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
157
insolently
|
|
| adv.自豪地，自傲地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
158
remains
|
|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
159
inveterate
|
|
| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
160
bosom
|
|
| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
161
abound
|
|
| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
162
wondrous
|
|
| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
163
strenuous
|
|
| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
164
inveterately
|
|
| adv.根深蒂固地，积习地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
165
allusion
|
|
| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
166
evocation
|
|
| n. 引起，唤起 n. <古> 召唤，招魂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
167
swarm
|
|
| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
168
portentous
|
|
| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
169
portentously
|
|
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
170
triumphantly
|
|
| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
171
portrayal
|
|
| n.饰演；描画 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
172
devouring
|
|
| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
173
inordinately
|
|
| adv.无度地，非常地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
174
gorged
|
|
| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的过去式和过去分词 )；作呕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
175
sublime
|
|
| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
176
parasites
|
|
| 寄生物( parasite的名词复数 )； 靠他人为生的人； 诸虫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
177
organisation
|
|
| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
178
hierarchy
|
|
| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
179
plunge
|
|
| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
180
plunges
|
|
| n.跳进，投入vt.使投入，使插入，使陷入vi.投入，跳进，陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
181
labyrinth
|
|
| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
182
mutual
|
|
| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
183
ravage
|
|
| vt.使...荒废，破坏...；n.破坏，掠夺，荒废 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
184
mighty
|
|
| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
185
revolves
|
|
| v.（使）旋转( revolve的第三人称单数 )；细想 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
186
subterranean
|
|
| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
187
protagonist
|
|
| n.(思想观念的)倡导者；主角，主人公 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
188
collapse
|
|
| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
189
lucidity
|
|
| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
190
diminution
|
|
| n.减少；变小 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
191
intensity
|
|
| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
192
coercion
|
|
| n.强制，高压统治 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
193
frankly
|
|
| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
194
embodies
|
|
| v.表现( embody的第三人称单数 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
195
withered
|
|
| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
196
insistent
|
|
| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
197
wreck
|
|
| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
198
poetically
|
|
| adv.有诗意地，用韵文 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
199
victorious
|
|
| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
200
perversity
|
|
| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
201
gaping
|
|
| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
202
tragic
|
|
| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
203
fatuity
|
|
| n.愚蠢，愚昧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
204
stimulate
|
|
| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
205
vice
|
|
| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
206
bristled
|
|
| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
207
consummately
|
|
| adv.完成地，至上地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
208
artifice
|
|
| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
209
impunity
|
|
| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
210
presumptuous
|
|
| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
211
presumption
|
|
| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
212
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
213
applied
|
|
| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
214
inflated
|
|
| adj.（价格）飞涨的；（通货）膨胀的；言过其实的；充了气的v.使充气（于轮胎、气球等）( inflate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）膨胀；（使）通货膨胀；物价上涨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
215
physiological
|
|
| adj.生理学的，生理学上的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
216
meditation
|
|
| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
217
remarkable
|
|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
218
intensified
|
|
| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
219
auxiliary
|
|
| adj.辅助的，备用的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
220
blessing
|
|
| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
221
inevitably
|
|
| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
222
discretion
|
|
| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
223
modesty
|
|
| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
224
absurdity
|
|
| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
225
slab
|
|
| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
226
credible
|
|
| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
227
grotesque
|
|
| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
228
judgment
|
|
| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
229
convoked
|
|
| v.召集，召开（会议）( convoke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
230
miseries
|
|
| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
231
extravagant
|
|
| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
232
panorama
|
|
| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
233
multiplication
|
|
| n.增加，增多，倍增；增殖，繁殖；乘法 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
234
intrepidity
|
|
| n.大胆，刚勇；大胆的行为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
235
esthetic
|
|
| adj.美学的，审美的；悦目的，雅致的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
236
ironic
|
|
| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
237
motive
|
|
| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
238
stagnant
|
|
| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
239
homely
|
|
| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
240
condemned
|
|
| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
241
essentially
|
|
| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
242
delicacy
|
|
| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
243
potent
|
|
| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
244
enlisted
|
|
| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
245
literally
|
|
| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
246
hindrance
|
|
| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
247
tug
|
|
| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
248
invoked
|
|
| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
249
explicitly
|
|
| ad.明确地，显然地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
250
pretension
|
|
| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
251
necessitated
|
|
| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
252
physiologically
|
|
| ad.生理上，在生理学上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
253
psychical
|
|
| adj.有关特异功能现象的；有关特异功能官能的；灵魂的；心灵的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
254
decency
|
|
| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
255
dodge
|
|
| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
256
humbug
|
|
| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
257
maternally
|
|
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
258
illuminates
|
|
| v.使明亮( illuminate的第三人称单数 )；照亮；装饰；说明 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
259
appreciation
|
|
| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
260
discriminate
|
|
| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
261
corrugated
|
|
| adj.波纹的；缩成皱纹的；波纹面的；波纹状的v.（使某物）起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
262
ooze
|
|
| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
263
linguistic
|
|
| adj.语言的，语言学的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
264
genial
|
|
| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
265
delusive
|
|
| adj.欺骗的，妄想的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
266
gluttonous
|
|
| adj.贪吃的，贪婪的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
267
cohesion
|
|
| n.团结，凝结力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
268
misery
|
|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
269
epic
|
|
| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
270
dense
|
|
| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
271
sordid
|
|
| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
272
sincerity
|
|
| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
273
beguilement
|
|
| n.欺骗，散心，欺瞒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
274
pathos
|
|
| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
275
innocence
|
|
| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
276
drollery
|
|
| n.开玩笑，说笑话；滑稽可笑的图画（或故事、小戏等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
277
functional
|
|
| adj.为实用而设计的，具备功能的，起作用的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
278
repletion
|
|
| n.充满，吃饱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
279
fumbler
|
|
| 愚笨的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
280
incapable
|
|
| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
281
besets
|
|
| v.困扰( beset的第三人称单数 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
282
indefatigable
|
|
| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
283
copious
|
|
| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
284
cumulative
|
|
| adj.累积的，渐增的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
285
diffusion
|
|
| n.流布；普及；散漫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
286
appropriation
|
|
| n.拨款，批准支出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
287
deriving
|
|
| v.得到( derive的现在分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
288
derive
|
|
| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
289
consecrating
|
|
| v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的现在分词 )；奉献 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
290
generosities
|
|
| n.慷慨( generosity的名词复数 )；大方；宽容；慷慨或宽容的行为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
291
unprecedented
|
|
| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
292
boors
|
|
| n.农民( boor的名词复数 )；乡下佬；没礼貌的人；粗野的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
293
proboscis
|
|
| n.（象的）长鼻 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
294
contrive
|
|
| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
295
tabulated
|
|
| 把（数字、事实）列成表( tabulate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
296
genealogies
|
|
| n.系谱，家系，宗谱( genealogy的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
297
wielded
|
|
| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
298
bequest
|
|
| n.遗赠；遗产，遗物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
299
treadmill
|
|
| n.踏车；单调的工作 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
300
pigeonholed
|
|
| v.把…搁在分类架上( pigeonhole的过去式和过去分词 )；把…留在记忆中；缓办；把…隔成小格 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
301
swoop
|
|
| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
302
evoke
|
|
| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
303
minor
|
|
| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
304
defiant
|
|
| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
305
thoroughly
|
|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
306
possessed
|
|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
307
amorous
|
|
| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
308
nepotism
|
|
| n.任人唯亲；裙带关系 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
309
virtue
|
|
| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
310
restrictions
|
|
| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
311
nuptial
|
|
| adj.婚姻的，婚礼的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
312
ravenous
|
|
| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
313
exasperated
|
|
| adj.恼怒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
314
perspiration
|
|
| n.汗水；出汗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
315
succumb
|
|
| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
316
veracity
|
|
| n.诚实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
317
incompatible
|
|
| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
318
dread
|
|
| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
319
impairing
|
|
| v.损害，削弱( impair的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
320
luxurious
|
|
| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
321
submission
|
|
| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
322
promiscuous
|
|
| adj.杂乱的，随便的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
323
heartiness
|
|
| 诚实，热心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
324
penetrating
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |