[7]
George Sand, sa Vie et ses ?uvres, vol. iii. (1838-1848). Par7 Wladimir Karénine. Paris, Plon, 1912.
I
Just the beauty and the interest of the case are, however, that such a condition by no means exhausts our opportunity, since in no like connection could it be less said that to know most is most easily or most complacently23 to conclude. May we not decidedly feel the sense and the “lesson,” the suggestive spread, of a career as a thing scarce really to be measured when the effect of more and more acquaintance with it is simply to make the bounds of appreciation25 recede26? This is why the figure now shown us, blazed upon to the last intensity27 by the lamplight of investigation28, and with the rank oil consumed in the process fairly filling the air, declines to let us off from an hour of that contemplation which yet involves discomfiture29 for us so long as certain lucidities on our own part, certain serenities of assurance, fail correspondingly to play up. We feel ourselves so outfaced, as it were; we somehow want in any such case to meet and match the assurances with which the subject himself or herself immitigably bristles30, and are nevertheless by no means certain that our bringing up premature31 forces or trying to reply with lights of our own may not check the current of communication, practically without sense for us unless flowing at its fullest. At our biographer’s rate of progress we shall still have much to wait for; but it can meanwhile not be said that we have not plenty to go on with. To this may be added that the stretch of “life,” apart from the more concrete exhibition, already accounted for by our three volumes (if one may discriminate32 between “production” and life to a degree that is in this connection exceptionally questionable), represents to all appearance the most violently and variously agitated33 face of the career. The establishment of the Second Empire ushered34 in for Madame Sand, we seem in course of preparation to make out, the long period already more or less known to fame, that is to criticism, as the period of her great placidity35, her more or less notorious appeasement36; a string of afternoon hours as hazily37 golden as so many reigns38 of Antonines, when her genius had mastered the high art of acting39 without waste, when a happy play of inspiration had all the air, so far as our spectatorship went, of filling her large capacity and her beautiful form to the brim, and when the gathered fruit of what she had dauntlessly done and been heaped itself upon her table as a rich feast for memory and philosophy. So she came in for the enjoyment40 of all the sagesse her contemporaries (with only such exceptions as M. Paul de Musset and Madame Louise Colet and the few discordant41 pleaders for poor Chopin) finally rejoiced on their side to acclaim42; the sum of her aspects “composing,” arranging themselves in relation to each other, with a felicity that nothing could exceed and that swept with great glosses43 and justifications44 every aspect of the past. To few has it been given to “pay” so little, according to our superstition45 of payment, in proportion to such enormities of ostensibly buying or borrowing—which fact, we have to recognise, left an existence as far removed either from moral, or intellectual, or even social bankruptcy46 as if it had proceeded from the first but on the most saving lines.
That is what remains47 on the whole most inimitable in the picture—the impression it conveys of an art of life by which the rough sense of the homely48 adage49 that we may not both eat our cake and have it was to be signally falsified; this wondrous50 mistress of the matter strikes us so as having consumed her refreshment51, her vital supply, to the last crumb52, so far as the provision meant at least freedom and ease, and yet having ever found on the shelf the luxury in question undiminished. Superlatively interesting the idea of how this result was, how it could be, achieved—given the world as we on our side of the water mainly know it; and it is as meeting the mystery that the monument before us has doubtless most significance. We shall presently see, in the light of our renewed occasion, how the question is solved; yet we may as well at once say that this will have had for its conclusion to present our heroine—mainly figuring as a novelist of the romantic or sentimental53 order once pre-eminent54 but now of shrunken credit—simply as a supreme55 case of the successful practice of life itself. We have to distinguish for this induction56 after a fashion in which neither Madame Sand nor her historian has seemed at all positively57 concerned to distinguish; the indifference58 on the historian’s part sufficiently59 indicated, we feel, by the complacency with which, to be thorough, she explores even the most thankless tracts60 of her author’s fictional61 activity, telling the tales over as she comes to them on much the same scale on which she unfolds the situations otherwise documented. The writer of “Consuelo” and “Claudie” and a hundred other things is to this view a literary genius whose output, as our current term so gracefully62 has it, the exercise of an inordinate64 personal energy happens to mark; whereas the exercise of personal energy is for ourselves what most reflects the genius—recorded though this again chances here to be through the inestimable fact of the possession of style. Of the action of that perfect, that only real preservative65 in face of other perils66 George Sand is a wondrous example; but her letters alone suffice to show it, and the style of her letters is no more than the breath of her nature, her so remarkable68 one, in which expression and aspiration69 were much the same function. That is what it is really to have style—when you set about performing the act of life. The forms taken by this latter impulse then cover everything; they serve for your adventures not less than they may serve at their most refined pitch for your Lélias and your Mauprats.
This means accordingly, we submit, that those of us who at the present hour “feel the change,” as the phrase is, in the computation of the feminine range, with the fullest sense of what it may portend70, shirk at once our opportunity and our obligation in not squeezing for its last drop of testimony71 such an exceptional body of illustration as we here possess. It has so much to say to any view—whether, in the light of old conventions, the brightest or the darkest—of what may either glitter or gloom in a conquest of every license72 by our contemporaries of the contending sex, that we scarce strain a point in judging it a provision of the watchful73 fates for this particular purpose and profit: its answers are so full to most of our uncertainties74. It is to be noted75 of course that the creator of Lélia and of Mauprat was on the one hand a woman of an extraordinary gift and on the other a woman resignedly and triumphantly76 voteless—doing without that boon77 so beautifully, for free development and the acquisition and application of “rights,” that we seem to see her sardonically78 smile, before our present tumults79, as at a rumpus about nothing; as if women need set such preposterous80 machinery81 in motion for obtaining things which she had found it of the first facility, right and left, to stretch forth82 her hand and take. There it is that her precedent83 stands out—apparently84 to a blind generation; so that some little insistence85 on the method of her appropriations86 would seem to be peculiarly in place. It was a method that may be summed up indeed in a fairly simple, if comprehensive, statement: it consisted in her dealing87 with life exactly as if she had been a man—exactly not being too much to say. Nature certainly had contributed on her behalf to this success; it had given her a constitution and a temperament88, the kind of health, the kind of mind, the kind of courage, that might most directly help—so that she had but to convert these strong matters into the kind of experience. The writer of these lines remembers how a distinguished89 and intimate friend of her later years, who was a very great admirer, said of her to him just after her death that her not having been born a man seemed, when one knew her, but an awkward accident: she had been to all intents and purposes so fine and frank a specimen90 of the sex. This anomalous91 native turn, it may be urged, can have no general application—women cannot be men by the mere92 trying or by calling themselves “as good”; they must have been provided with what we have just noted as the outfit93. The force of George Sand’s exhibition consorts94, we contend, none the less perfectly95 with the logic96 of the consummation awaiting us, if a multitude of signs are to be trusted, in a more or less near future: that effective repudiation97 of the distinctive98, as to function and opportunity, as to working and playing activity, for which the definite removal of immemorial disabilities is but another name. We are in presence already of a practical shrinkage of the distinctive, at the rapidest rate, and that it must shrink till nothing of it worth mentioning be left, what is this but a war-cry (presenting itself also indeed as a plea for peace) with which our ears are familiar? Unless the suppression of the distinctive, however, is to work to the prejudice, as we may fairly call it, of men, drawing them over to the feminine type rather than drawing women over to theirs—which is not what seems most probable—the course of the business will be a virtual undertaking99 on the part of the half of humanity acting ostensibly for the first time in freedom to annex100 the male identity, that of the other half, so far as may be at all contrivable101, to its own cluster of elements. Individuals are in great world and race movements negligible, and if that undertaking must inevitably102 appeal to different recruits with a differing cogency103, its really enlisting104 its army or becoming reflected, to a perfectly conceivable vividness, in the mass, is all our demonstration105 requires. At that point begins the revolution, the shift of the emphasis from the idea of woman’s weakness to the idea of her strength—which is where the emphasis has lain, from far back, by his every tradition, on behalf of man; and George Sand’s great value, as we say, is that she gives us the vision, gives us the particular case, of the shift achieved, displayed with every assurance and working with every success.
The answer of her life to the question of what an effective annexation106 of the male identity may amount to, amount to in favouring conditions certainly, but in conditions susceptible107 to the highest degree of encouragement and cultivation109, leaves nothing to be desired for completeness. This is the moral of her tale, the beauty of what she does for us—that at no point whatever of her history or her character do their power thus to give satisfaction break down; so that what we in fact on the whole most recognise is not the extension she gives to the feminine nature, but the richness that she adds to the masculine. It is not simply that she could don a disguise that gaped110 at the seams, that she could figure as a man of the mere carnival111 or pantomime variety, but that she made so virile112, so efficient and homogeneous a one. Admirable child of the old order as we find her, she was far from our late-coming theories and fevers—by the reason simply of her not being reduced to them; as to which nothing about her is more eloquent113 than her living at such ease with a conception of the main relevance114 of women that is viewed among ourselves as antiquated115 to “quaintness.” She could afford the traditional and sentimental, the old romantic and historic theory of the function most natural to them, since she entertained it exactly as a man would. It is not that she fails again and again to represent her heroines as doing the most unconventional things—upon these they freely embark116; but they never in the least do them for themselves, themselves as the “sex,” they do them altogether for men. Nothing could well be more interesting thus than the extraordinary union of the pair of opposites in her philosophy of the relation of the sexes—than the manner in which her immense imagination, the imagination of a man for range and abundance, intervened in the whole matter for the benefit, absolutely, of the so-called stronger party, or to liberate117 her sisters up to the point at which men may most gain and least lose by the liberation. She read the relation essentially118 in the plural119 term—the relations, and her last word about these was as far as possible from being that they are of minor120 importance to women. Nothing in her view could exceed their importance to women—it left every other far behind it; and nothing that could make for authority in her, no pitch of tone, no range of personal inquiry121 nor wealth of experience, no acquaintance with the question that might derive122 light from free and repeated adventure, but belonged to the business of driving this argument home.
II
Madame Karénine’s third volume is copiously123 devoted124 to the period of her heroine’s intimacy125 with Chopin and to the events surrounding this agitated friendship, which largely fill the ten years precedent to ’48. Our author is on all this ground overwhelmingly documented, and enlisted126 though she is in the service of the more successful party to the association—in the sense of Madame Sand’s having heartily127 outlived and survived, not to say professionally and brilliantly “used,” it—the great composer’s side of the story receives her conscientious128 attention. Curious and interesting in many ways, these reflections of George Sand’s middle life afford above all the most pointed129 illustration of the turn of her personal genius, her aptitude130 for dealing with men, in the intimate relation, exactly after the fashion in which numberless celebrated131 men have contributed to their reputation, not to say crowned their claim to superiority, by dealing with women. This being above all the note of her career, with its vivid show of what such dealing could mean for play of mind, for quickening of gift, for general experience and, as we say, intellectual development, for determination of philosophic132 bent133 and education of character and fertilisation of fancy, we seem to catch the whole process in the fact, under the light here supplied us, as we catch it nowhere else. It gives us in this application endlessly much to consider—it is in itself so replete134 and rounded a show; we at once recognise moreover how comparatively little it matters that such works as “Lucrezia Floriani” and “Un Hiver à Majorque” should have proceeded from it, cast into the shade as these are, on our biographer’s evidence, by a picture of concomitant energies still more attaching. It is not here by the force of her gift for rich improvisation135, beautiful as this was, that the extraordinary woman holds us, but by the force of her ability to act herself out, given the astounding136 quantities concerned in this self. That energy too, we feel, was in a manner an improvisation—so closely allied137 somehow are both the currents, the flow of literary composition admirably instinctive138 and free, and the handling power, as we are constantly moved to call it, the flow of a splendid intelligence all the while at its fullest expressional ease, for the actual situations created by her, for whatever it might be that vitally confronted her. Of how to bring about, or at the least find one’s self “in for,” an inordinate number of situations, most of them of the last difficulty, and then deal with them on the spot, in the narrowest quarters as it were, with an eloquence139 and a plausibility140 that does them and one’s own nature at once a sort of ideal justice, the demonstration here is the fullest—as of what it was further to have her unfailing verbal as well as her unfailing moral inspiration. What predicament could have been more of an hourly strain for instance, as we cannot but suppose, than her finding herself inevitably accompanied by her two children during the stay at Majorca made by Chopin in ’38 under her protection? The victory of assurance and of the handling power strikes us as none the less never an instant in doubt, that being essentially but over the general kind of inconvenience or embarrassment141 involved for a mother and a friend in any real consistency142 of attempt to carry things off male fashion. We do not, it is true, see a man as a mother, any more than we easily see a woman as a gentleman—and least of all perhaps in either case as an awkwardly placed one; but we see Madame Sand as a sufficiently bustling143, though rather a rough and ready, father, a father accepting his charge and doing the best possible under the circumstances; the truth being of course that the circumstances never can be, even at the worst, or still at the best, the best for parental144 fondness, so awkward for him as for a mother.
What call, again, upon every sort of presence of mind could have been livelier than the one made by the conditions attending and following the marriage of young Solange Dudevant to the sculptor145 Clésinger in 1846, when our heroine, summoned by the stress of events both to take responsible action and to rise to synthetic146 expression, in a situation, that is in presence of a series of demonstrations147 on her daughter’s part, that we seem to find imaginable for a perfect dramatic adequacy only in that particular home circle, fairly surpassed herself by her capacity to “meet” everything, meet it much incommoded, yet undismayed, unabashed and unconfuted, and have on it all, to her great advantage, the always prodigious148 last word? The elements of this especial crisis claim the more attention through its having been, as a test of her powers, decidedly the most acute that she was in her whole course of life to have traversed, more acute even, because more complicated, than the great occasion of her rupture149 with Alfred de Musset, at Venice in ’35, on which such a wealth of contemplation and of ink has been expended150. Dramatic enough in their relation to each other certainly those immortal151 circumstances, immortal so far as immortalised on either side by genius and passion: Musset’s return, ravaged153 and alone, to Paris; his companion’s transfer of her favour to Pietro Pagello, whom she had called in to attend her friend medically in illness and whose intervention154, so far from simplifying the juncture155, complicated it in a fashion probably scarce paralleled in the history of the erotic relation; her retention156 of Pagello under her protection for the rest of her period in Venice; her marvellously domesticated157 state, in view of the literary baggage, the collection of social standards, even taking these but at what they were, and the general amplitude of personality, that she brought into residence with her; the conveyance158 of Pagello to Paris, on her own return, and the apparent signification to him at the very gate that her countenance159 was then and there withdrawn160. This was a brilliant case for her—of coming off with flying colours; but it strikes us as a mere preliminary flourish of the bow or rough practice of scales compared to the high virtuosity161 which Madame Karénine’s new material in respect to the latter imbroglio162 now enables us ever so gratefully to estimate. The protagonist’s young children were in the Venetian crisis quite off the scene, and on occasions subsequent to the one we now glance at were old enough and, as we seem free to call it, initiated163 enough not to solicit164 our particular concern for them; whereas at the climax165 of the connection with Chopin they were of the perfect age (which was the fresh marriageable in the case of Solange) to engage our best anxiety, let alone their being of a salience of sensibility and temper to leave no one of their aspects negligible. That their parent should not have found herself conclusively166 “upset,” sickened beyond repair, or otherwise morally bankrupt, on her having to recognise in her daughter’s hideous167 perversity168 and depravity, as we learn these things to have been, certain inevitabilities of consequence from the social air of the maternal169 circle, is really a monumental fact in respect to our great woman’s elasticity170, her instinct for never abdicating171 by mere discouragement. Here in especial we get the broad male note—it being so exactly the manly172 part, and so very questionably173 the womanly, not to have to draw from such imputations of responsibility too crushing a self-consciousness. Of the extent and variety of danger to which the enjoyment of a moral tone could be exposed and yet superbly survive Madame Karénine’s pages give us the measure; they offer us in action the very ideal of an exemplary triumph of character and mind over one of the very highest tides of private embarrassment that it is well possible to conceive. And it is no case of that passive acceptance of deplorable matters which has abounded174 in the history of women, even distinguished ones, whether to the pathetic or to the merely scandalous effect; the acceptance is active, constructive175, almost exhilarated by the resources of affirmation and argument that it has at its command. The whole instance is sublime176 in its sort, thanks to the acuteness of all its illustrative sides, the intense interest of which loses nothing in the hands of our chronicler; who perhaps, however, reaches off into the vast vague of Chopin’s native affiliations177 and references with an energy with which we find it a little difficult to keep step.
In speaking as we have done of George Sand’s “use” of each twist of her road as it came—a use which we now recognise as the very thriftiest—we touch on that principle of vital health in her which made nothing that might by the common measure have been called one of the graver dilemmas178, that is one of the checks to the continuity of life, really matter. What this felicity most comes to in fact is that doing at any cost the work that lies to one’s hand shines out again and yet again as the saving secret of the soul. She affirmed her freedom right and left, but her most characteristic assertion of it throughout was just in the luxury of labour. The exhaustive account we at any rate now enjoy of the family life surrounding her during the years here treated of and as she had constituted it, the picture of all the queer conflicting sensibilities engaged, and of the endless ramifications179 and reflections provided for these, leaves us nothing to learn on that congested air, that obstructive medium for the range of the higher tone, which the lady of Nohant was so at her “objective” happiest, even if at her superficially, that is her nervously180, most flurried and depressed181, in bravely breasting. It is as if the conditions there and in Paris during these several years had been consistently appointed by fate to throw into relief the applications of a huge facility, a sort of universal readiness, with a rare intelligence to back it. Absolutely nothing was absent, or with all the data could have been, that might have bewildered a weaker genius into some lapse of eloquence or of industry; everything that might have overwhelmed, or at least have disconcerted, the worker who could throw off the splendid “Lucrezia Floriani” in the thick of battle came upon her at once, inspiring her to show that on her system of health and cheer, of experiential economy, as we may call it, to be disconcerted was to be lost. To be lacerated and calumniated182 was in comparison a trifle; with a certain sanity183 of reaction these things became as naught184, for the sanity of reaction was but the line of consistency, the theory and attitude of sincerity185 kept at the highest point. The artist in general, we need scarcely remind ourselves, is in a high degree liable to arrive at the sense of what he may have seen or felt, or said or suffered, by working it out as a subject, casting it into some form prescribed by his art; but even here he in general knows limits—unless perchance he be loose as Byron was loose, or possess such a power of disconnection, such a clear stand-off of the intelligence, as accompanied the experiments of Goethe. Our own experiments, we commonly feel, are comparatively timid, just as we can scarce be said, in the homely phrase, to serve our esthetic186 results of them hot and hot; we are too conscious of a restrictive instinct about the conditions we may, in like familiar language let ourselves in for, there being always the question of what we should be able “intellectually” to show for them. The life of the author of “Lucrezia Floriani” at its most active may fairly be described as an immunity187 from restrictive instincts more ably cultivated than any we know. Again and yet again we note the positive premium188 so put upon the surrender to sensibility, and how, since the latter was certain to spread to its maximum and to be admired in proportion to its spread, some surrender was always to have been worth while. “Lucrezia Floriani” ought to have been rather measurably bad—lucidity190, harmony, maturity191, definiteness of sense, being so likely to fail it in the troubled air in which it was born. Yet how can we do less than applaud a composition throwing off as it goes such a passage as the splendid group of pages cited by Madame Karénine from the incident of the heroine’s causing herself to be rowed over to the island in her Italian lake on that summer afternoon when the sense of her situation had become sharp for her to anguish192, in order to take stock of the same without interruption and see, as we should say to-day, where she is? The whole thing has the grand manner and the noblest eloquence, reaching out as it does on the spot to the lesson and the moral of the convulsions that have been prepared in the first instance with such complacency, and illustrating193 in perfection the author’s faculty for the clear re-emergence and the prompt or, as we may call it, the paying reaction. The case is put for her here as into its final nutshell: you may “live” exactly as you like, that is live in perfect security and fertility, when such breadth of rendering194 awaits your simply sitting down to it. Is it not true, we say, that without her breadth our wonderful woman would have been “nowhere”?—whereas with it she is effectively and indestructibly at any point of her field where she may care to pretend to stand.
This biographer, I must of course note, discriminates195 with delicacy196 among her heroine’s felicities and mistakes, recognising that some of the former, as a latent awkwardness in them developed, inevitably parted with the signs that distinguished them from the latter; but I think we feel, as the instances multiply, that no regret could have equalled for us that of our not having the display vivid and complete. Once all the elements of the scarce in advance imaginable were there it would have been a pity that they should not offer us the show of their full fruition. What more striking show, for example, than that, as recorded by Madame Karénine in a footnote, the afflicted197 parent of Solange should have lived to reproduce, or rather, as she would herself have said, to “arrange” the girlish character and conduct of that young person, so humiliating at the time to any near relation, let alone a mother, in the novel of “Mademoiselle Merquem,” where the truth to the original facts and the emulation198 of the graceless prime “effects” are such as our author can vouch199 for? The fiction we name followed indeed after long years, but during the lifetime of the displeasing200 daughter and with an ease of reference to the past that may fairly strike us as the last word of superiority to blighting201 association. It is quite as if the close and amused matching of the character and its play in the novel with the wretched old realities, those that had broken in their day upon the scared maternal vision, had been a work of ingenuity202 attended with no pang203. The example is interesting as a measure of the possible victory of time in a case where we might have supposed the one escape to have been by forgetting. Madame Sand remembers to the point of gratefully—gratefully as an artist—reconstituting; we in fact feel her, as the irrepressible, the “healthy” artist, positively to enjoy so doing. Thus it clearly defined itself for her in the fulness of time that, humiliating, to use our expression, as the dreadful Solange might have been and have incessantly204 remained, she herself had never in the least consented to the stupidity or sterility205 of humiliation206. So it could be that the free mind and the free hand were ever at her service. A beautiful indifferent agility207, a power to cast out that was at least proportioned to the power to take in, hangs about all this and meets us in twenty connections. Who of her readers has forgotten the harmonious dedication—her inveterate208 dedications209 have always, like her clear light prefaces, the last grace—of “Jeanne,” so anciently, so romantically readable, to her faithful Berrichon servant who sits spinning by the fire? “Vous ne savez pas lire, ma paisible amie,” but that was not to prevent the association of her name with the book, since both her own daughter and the author’s are in happy possession of the art and will be able to pass the entertainment on to her. This in itself is no more than a sign of the writer’s fine democratic ease, which she carried at all times to all lengths, and of her charming habit of speech; but it somehow becomes further illustrational, testifying for the manner in which genius, if it be but great enough, lives its life at small cost, when we learn that after all, by a turn of the hand, the “paisible amie” was, under provocation210, bundled out of the house as if the beautiful relation had not meant half of what appeared. Fran?oise and her presence were dispensed211 with, but the exquisite212 lines remain, which we would not be without for the world.
III
The various situations determined213 for the more eminent of George Sand’s intimate associates would always be independently interesting, thanks to the intrinsic appeal of these characters and even without the light reflected withal on the great agent herself; which is why poor Chopin’s figuration in the events of the year 1847, as Madame Karénine so fully63 reconstitutes them, is all that is wanted to point their almost nightmare quality. Without something of a close view of them we fail of a grasp of our heroine’s genius—her genius for keeping her head in deep seas morally and reflectively above water, though but a glance at them must suffice us for averting214 this loss. The old-world quality of drama, which throughout so thickens and tones the air around her, finds remarkable expression in the whole picture of the moment. Every connection involved bristles like a conscious consequence, tells for all it is worth, as we say, and the sinister215 complexity216 of reference—for all the golden clearings-up that awaited it on the ideal plane—leaves nothing to be desired. The great and odd sign of the complications and convulsions, the alarms and excursions recorded, is that these are all the more or less direct fruits of sensibility, which had primarily been indulged in, under the doom217 of a preparation of them which no preparation of anything else was to emulate218, with a good faith fairly touching in presence of the eventual219 ugliness. Madame Sand’s wonderful mother, commemorated220 for us in “L’Histoire de ma Vie” with the truth surely attaching in a like degree to no mother in all the literature of so-called confession221, had had for cousin a “fille entretenue” who had married a mechanic. This Adèle Brault had had in the course of her adventures a daughter in whom, as an unfortunate young relative, Madame Dupin had taken an interest, introducing her to the heiress of Nohant, who viewed her with favour—she appears to have been amiable222 and commendable—and eventually associated her with her own children. She was thus the third member of that illegitimate progeny223 with which the Nohant scene was to have become familiar, George Sand’s natural brother on her father’s side and her natural sister on her mother’s representing this element from the earlier time on. The young Augustine, fugitive224 from a circle still less edifying225, was thus made a companion of the son and the daughter of the house, and was especially held to compare with the latter to her great advantage in the matter of character, docility226 and temper. These young persons formed, as it were, with his more distinguished friend, the virtual family of Chopin during those years of specifically qualified227 domestication228 which affect us as only less of a mystification to taste than that phase of the unrestricted which had immediately preceded them. Hence a tangled229 tissue of relations within the circle that became, as it strikes us, indescribable for difficulty and “delicacy,” not to say for the perfection of their impracticability, and as to which the great point is that Madame Sand’s having taken them so robustly230 for granted throws upon her temperamental genius a more direct light than any other. The whole case belongs doubtless even more to the hapless history of Chopin himself than to that of his terrible friend—terrible for her power to flourish in conditions sooner or later fatal to weaker vessels231; but is in addition to this one of the most striking illustrations possible of that view or theory of social life handed over to the reactions of sensibility almost alone which, while ever so little the ideal of the Anglo-Saxon world, has largely governed the manners of its sister societies. It has been our view, very emphatically, in general, that the sane232 and active social body—or, for that matter, the sane and active individual, addressed to the natural business of life—goes wrongly about it to encourage sensibility, or to do anything on the whole but treat it as of no prime importance; the traps it may lay for us, however, being really of the fewest in a race to which the very imagination of it may be said, I think, to have been comparatively denied. The imagination of it sat irremovably, on the other hand, and as a matter of course, at the Nohant fireside; where indeed we find the play and the ravage152 chiefly interesting through our thus seeing the delicate Chopin, whose semi-smothered appeal remains peculiarly pathetic, all helpless and foredoomed at the centre of the whirl. Nothing again strikes us more in the connection than the familiar truth that interesting persons make everything that concerns them interesting, or seldom fail to redeem233 from what might in another air seem but meanness and vanity even their most compromised states and their greatest wastes of value. Every one in the particular Nohant drama here exposed loses by the exposure—so far as loss could be predicated of amounts which, in general, excepting the said sensibility, were so scant234 among them; every one, that is, save the ruling spirit of all, with the extraordinary mark in her of the practical defiance235 of waste and of her inevitable236 enrichment, for our measure, as by reflection from the surrounding shrinkage. One of the oddest aspects of the scene is also one of the wretchedest, but the oddity makes it interesting, by the law I just glanced at, in spite of its vulgar side. How could it not be interesting, we ask as we read, to feel that Chopin, though far from the one man, was the one gentleman of the association, the finest set of nerves and scruples237, and yet to see how little that availed him, in exasperated238 reactions, against mistakes of perverted239 sympathy? It is relevant in a high degree to our view of his great protectress as reducible at her best to male terms that she herself in this very light fell short, missed the ideal safeguard which for her friend had been preinvolved—as of course may be the peril67, ever, with the creature so transmuted240, and as is so strikingly exemplified, in the pages before us, when Madame Karénine ingenuously241 gives us chapter and verse for her heroine’s so unqualified demolition242 of the person of Madame d’Agoult, devotee of Liszt, mother to be, by that token, of Richard Wagner’s second wife, and sometime intimate of the author of “Isidora,” in which fiction we are shown the parody243 perpetrated. If women rend189 each other on occasion with sharper talons244 than seem to belong on the whole to the male hand, however intendingly applied245, we find ourselves reflect parenthetically that the loss of this advantage may well be a matter for them to consider when the new approximation is the issue.
The great sign of the Nohant circle on all this showing, at any rate, is the intense personalism, as we may call it, reigning246 there, or in other words the vivacity247, the acuity248 and irritability249 of the personal relations—which flourished so largely, we at the same time feel, by reason of the general gift for expression, that gift to which we owe the general superiority of every letter, from it scarce matters whom, laid under contribution by our author. How could people not feel with acuity when they could, when they had to, write with such point and such specific intelligence?—just indeed as one asks how letters could fail to remain at such a level among them when they incessantly generated choice matter for expression. Madame Sand herself is of course on this ground easily the most admirable, as we have seen; but every one “knows how” to write, and does it well in proportion as the matter in hand most demands and most rewards proper saying. Much of all this stuff of history seems indeed to have been susceptible of any amount of force of statement; yet we note all the while how in the case of the great mistress of the pen at least some shade of intrinsic beauty attends even the presentation of quite abominable250 facts. We can only see it as abominable, at least, so long as we have Madame Sand’s words—which are somehow a different thing from her word—for it, that Chopin had from the first “sided” with the atrocious Solange in that play of her genius which is characterised by our chronicler as wickedness for the sake of wickedness, as art for the sake of art, without other logic or other cause. “Once married,” says Madame Karénine, “she made a double use of this wickedness. She had always hated Augustine; she wished, one doesn’t know why, to break off her marriage, and by calumnies251 and insinuations she succeeded. Then angry with her mother she avenged252 herself on her as well by further calumnies. Thereupon took place at Nohant such events that”—that in fine we stop before them with this preliminary shudder253. The cross-currents of violence among them would take more keeping apart than we have time for, the more that everything comes back, for interest, to the intrinsic weight of the tone of the principal sufferer from them—as we see her, as we wouldn’t for the world not see her, in spite of the fact that Chopin was to succumb254 scarce more than a year later to multiplied lacerations, and that she was to override255 and reproduce and pre-appointedly flourish for long years after. If it is interesting, as I have pronounced it, that Chopin, again, should have consented to be of the opinion of Solange that the relations between her brother Maurice and the hapless Augustine were of the last impropriety, I fear I can account no better for this than by our sense that the more the genius loci has to feed her full tone the more our faith in it, as such a fine thing in itself, is justified256. Almost immediately after the precipitated257 marriage of the daughter of the house has taken place, the Clésinger couple, avid258 and insolent259, of a breadth of old time impudence260 in fact of which our paler day has lost the pattern, are back on the mother’s hands, to the effect of a vividest picture of Maurice well-nigh in a death-grapple with his apparently quite monstrous261 “bounder” of a brother-in-law, a picture that further gives us Madame Sand herself smiting262 Clésinger in the face and receiving from him a blow in the breast, while Solange “coldly,” with an iciness indeed peculiarly her own, fans the rage and approves her husband’s assault, and while the divine composer, though for that moment much in the background, approves the wondrous approval. He still approves, to all appearance, the daughter’s interpretation263 of the mother’s wish to “get rid” of him as the result of an amorous264 design on the latter’s part in respect of a young man lately introduced to the circle as Maurice’s friend and for the intimate relation with whom it is thus desirable that the coast shall be made clear. How else than through no fewer consistencies265 of the unedifying on the part of these provokers of the expressional reaction should we have come by innumerable fine epistolary passages, passages constituting in themselves verily such adornments of the tale, such notes in the scale of all the damaged dignity redressed266, that we should be morally the poorer without them? One of the vividest glimpses indeed is not in a letter but in a few lines from “L’Histoire de ma Vie,” the composition of which was begun toward the end of this period and while its shadow still hung about—early in life for a projected autobiography267, inasmuch as the author had not then reached her forty-fifth year. Chopin at work, improvising268 and composing, was apt to become a prey269 to doubts and depressions, so that there were times when to break in upon these was to render him a service.
But it was not always possible to induce him to leave the piano, often so much more his torment270 than his joy, and he began gradually to resent my proposing he should do so. I never ventured on these occasions to insist. Chopin in displeasure was appalling272, and as with me he always controlled himself it was as if he might die of suffocation273.
It is a vision of the possibilities of vibration274 in such organisms that does in fact appal271, and with the clash of vibrations275, those both of genius and of the general less sanctioned sensibility, the air must have more than sufficiently resounded276. Some eight years after the beginning of their friendship and the year after the final complete break in it she writes to Madame Pauline Viardot:
Do you see Chopin? Tell me about his health. I have been unable to repay his fury and his hatred277 by hatred and fury. I think of him as of a sick, embittered278, bewildered child. I saw much of Solange in Paris, the letter goes on, and made her my constant occupation, but without finding anything but a stone in the place of her heart. I have taken up my work again while waiting for the tide to carry me elsewhere.
All the author’s “authority” is in these few words, and in none more than in the glance at the work and the tide. The work and the tide rose ever as high as she would to float her, and wherever we look there is always the authority. “I find Chopin magnificent,” she had already written from the thick of the fray, “to keep seeing, frequenting and approving Clésinger, who struck me because I snatched from his hands the hammer he had raised upon Maurice—Chopin whom every one talks of as my most faithful and devoted friend.” Well indeed may our biographer have put it that from a certain date in May 1847 “the two Leitmotive which might have been called in the terms of Wagner the Leitmotif of soreness and the Leitmotif of despair—Chopin, Solange—sound together now in fusion280, now in a mutual281 grip, now simply side by side, in all Madame Sand’s unpublished letters and in the few (of the moment) that have been published. A little later a third joins in—Augustine Brault, a motive279 narrowly and tragically282 linked to the basso obligato of Solange.” To meet such a passage as the following under our heroine’s hand again is to feel the whole temper of intercourse283 implied slip straight out of our analytic284 grasp. The allusion285 is to Chopin and to the “defection” of which he had been guilty, to her view, at the time when it had been most important that she might count on him. What we have first, as outsiders, to swallow down, as it were, is the state of things, the hysteric pitch of family life, in which any ideal of reticence286, any principle, as we know it, of minding one’s business, for mere dignity’s sake if for none other, had undergone such collapse287.
I grant you I am not sorry that he has withdrawn from me the government of his life, for which both he and his friends wanted to make me responsible in so much too absolute a fashion. His temper kept growing in asperity288, so that it had come to his constantly blowing me up, from spite, ill-humour and jealousy289, in presence of my friends and my children. Solange made use of it with the astuteness290 that belongs to her, while Maurice began to give way to indignation. Knowing and seeing la chasteté de nos rapports291, he saw also that the poor sick soul took up, without wanting to and perhaps without being able to help it, the attitude of the lover, the husband, the proprietor292 of my thoughts and actions. He was on the point of breaking out and telling him to his face that he was making me play, at forty-three years of age, a ridiculous part, and that it was an abuse of my kindness, my patience, and my pity for his nervous morbid293 state. A few months more, a few days perhaps, of this situation, and an impossible frightful294 struggle would have broken out between them. Foreseeing the storm, I took advantage of Chopin’s predilection295 for Solange and left him to sulk, without an effort to bring him round. We have not for three months exchanged a word in writing, and I don’t know how such a cooling-off will end.
She develops the picture of the extravagance of his sick irritability; she accepts with indifference the certainty that his friends will accuse her of having cast him out to take a lover; the one thing she “minds” is the force of evil in her daughter, who is the centre of all the treachery. “She will come back to me when she needs me, that I know. But her return will be neither tender nor consoling.” Therefore it is when at the beginning of the winter of this same dreadful year she throws off the free rich summary of what she has been through in the letter to M. Charles Poncy already published in her Correspondence we are swept into the current of sympathy and admiration296. The preceding months had been the heaviest and most painful of her life.
I all but broke down under them utterly297, though I had for long seen them coming. But you know how one is not always overhung by the evil portent298, however clear one may read it—there are days, weeks, even whole months, when one lives on illusion and fondly hopes to divert the blow that threatens. It is always at last the most probable ill that surprises us unarmed and unprepared. To this explosion of unhappy underground germs joined themselves sundry299 contributive matters, bitter things too and quite unexpected; so that I am broken by grief in body and soul. I believe my grief incurable300, for I never succeed in throwing it off for a few hours without its coming upon me again during the next in greater force and gloom. I nevertheless struggle against it without respite301, and if I don’t hope for a victory which would have to consist of not feeling at all, at least I have reached that of still bearing with life, of even scarcely feeling ill, of having recovered my taste for work and of not showing my distress302. I have got back outside calm and cheer, which are so necessary for others, and everything in my life seems to go on well.
We had already become aware, through commemorations previous to the present, of that first or innermost line of defence residing in George Sand’s splendid mastery of the letter, the gift that was always so to assure her, on every issue, the enjoyment of the first chance with posterity303. The mere cerebral304 and manual activity represented by the quantity no less than the quality of her outflow through the post at a season when her engagements were most pressing and her anxieties of every sort most cruel is justly qualified by Madame Karénine as astounding; the new letters here given to the world heaping up the exhibition and testifying even beyond the finest of those gathered in after the writer’s death—the mutilations, suppressions and other freedoms then used, for that matter, being now exposed. If no plot of her most bustling fiction ever thickened at the rate at which those agitations305 of her inner circle at which we have glanced multiplied upon her hands through the later ’forties, so we are tempted306 to find her rather less in possession of her great moyens when handling the artificial presentation than when handling what we may call the natural. It is not too much to say that the long letter addressed to the cynical307 Solange in April ’52, and which these pages give us in extenso, would have made the fortune of any mere interesting “story” in which one of the characters might have been presented as writing it. It is a document of the highest psychological value and a practical summary of all the elements of the writer’s genius, of all her indefeasible advantages; it is verily the gem108 of her biographer’s collection. Taken in connection with a copious communication to her son, of the previous year, on the subject of his sister’s character and vices308, and of their common experience of these, it offers, in its ease of movement, its extraordinary frankness and lucidity, its splendid apprehension309 and interpretation of realities, its state, as it were, of saturation310 with these, exactly the kind of interest for which her novels were held remarkable, but in a degree even above their maximum. Such a letter is an effusion of the highest price; none of a weight so baffling to estimation was probably ever inspired in a mother by solicitude311 for a clever daughter’s possibilities. Never surely had an accomplished312 daughter laid under such contribution a mother of high culture; never had such remarkable and pertinent313 things had to flow from such a source; never in fine was so urgent an occasion so admirably, so inimitably risen to. Marvellous through it all is the way in which, while a common recognition of the “facts of life,” as between two perfectly intelligent men of the world, gives the whole diapason, the abdication314 of moral authority and of the rights of wisdom never takes place. The tone is a high implication of the moral advantages that Solange had inveterately315 enjoyed and had decided24 none the less to avail herself of so little; which advantages we absolutely believe in as we read—there is the prodigious part: such an education of the soul, and in fact of every faculty, such a claim for the irreproachable316, it would fairly seem, do we feel any association with the great fluent artist, in whatever conditions taking place, inevitably, necessarily to have been. If we put ourselves questions we yet wave away doubts, and with whatever remnants of prejudice the writer’s last word may often have to clash, our own is that there is nothing for grand final rightness like a sufficiently general humanity—when a particularly beautiful voice happens to serve it.
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1
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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contentious
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| adj.好辩的，善争吵的 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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5
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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invoke
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| v.求助于(神、法律)；恳求，乞求 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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amplitude
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| n.广大；充足；振幅 | |
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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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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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pseudonym
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| n.假名，笔名 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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recede
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| vi.退(去)，渐渐远去；向后倾斜，缩进 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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bristles
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| 短而硬的毛发，刷子毛( bristle的名词复数 ) | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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discriminate
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| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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appeasement
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| n.平息，满足 | |
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hazily
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| ad. vaguely, not clear | |
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reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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acclaim
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| v.向…欢呼，公认；n.欢呼，喝彩，称赞 | |
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glosses
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| n.（页末或书后的）注释( gloss的名词复数 )；（表面的）光滑；虚假的外表；用以产生光泽的物质v.注解( gloss的第三人称单数 )；掩饰（错误）；粉饰；把…搪塞过去 | |
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44
justifications
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| 正当的理由，辩解的理由( justification的名词复数 ) | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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adage
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| n.格言，古训 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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51
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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52
crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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53
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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induction
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| n.感应，感应现象 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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fictional
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| adj.小说的，虚构的 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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preservative
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| n.防腐剂；防腐料；保护料；预防药 | |
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perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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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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aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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portend
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| v.预兆，预示；给…以警告 | |
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71
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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72
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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73
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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74
uncertainties
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| 无把握( uncertainty的名词复数 )； 不确定； 变化不定； 无把握、不确定的事物 | |
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75
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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76
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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77
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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78
sardonically
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| adv.讽刺地，冷嘲地 | |
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79
tumults
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| 吵闹( tumult的名词复数 )； 喧哗； 激动的吵闹声； 心烦意乱 | |
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80
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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81
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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82
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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83
precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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84
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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85
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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86
appropriations
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| n.挪用（appropriation的复数形式） | |
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87
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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88
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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89
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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90
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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91
anomalous
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| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
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92
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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93
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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94
consorts
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| n.配偶( consort的名词复数 )；（演奏古典音乐的）一组乐师；一组古典乐器；一起v.结伴( consort的第三人称单数 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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95
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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96
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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97
repudiation
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| n.拒绝；否认；断绝关系；抛弃 | |
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98
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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99
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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100
annex
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| vt.兼并，吞并；n.附属建筑物 | |
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101
contrivable
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| 可发明的，设计的 | |
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102
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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103
cogency
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| n.说服力；adj.有说服力的 | |
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104
enlisting
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| v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的现在分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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105
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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106
annexation
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| n.吞并，合并 | |
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107
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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108
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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109
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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110
gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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111
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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112
virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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113
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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114
relevance
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| n.中肯，适当，关联，相关性 | |
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115
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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116
embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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117
liberate
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| v.解放，使获得自由，释出，放出；vt.解放，使获自由 | |
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118
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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119
plural
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| n.复数；复数形式；adj.复数的 | |
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120
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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121
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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122
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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123
copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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124
devoted
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|
| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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125
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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126
enlisted
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|
| 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） | |
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127
heartily
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|
| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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128
conscientious
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|
| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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129
pointed
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|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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130
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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131
celebrated
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|
| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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132
philosophic
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|
| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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133
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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134
replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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135
improvisation
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| n.即席演奏(或演唱)；即兴创作 | |
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136
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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137
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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138
instinctive
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|
| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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139
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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140
plausibility
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| n. 似有道理, 能言善辩 | |
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141
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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142
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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143
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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144
parental
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|
| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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145
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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146
synthetic
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|
| adj.合成的，人工的；综合的；n.人工制品 | |
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147
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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148
prodigious
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|
| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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149
rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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150
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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151
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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152
ravage
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| vt.使...荒废，破坏...；n.破坏，掠夺，荒废 | |
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153
ravaged
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| 毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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154
intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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155
juncture
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|
| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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156
retention
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| n.保留，保持，保持力，记忆力 | |
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157
domesticated
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|
| adj.喜欢家庭生活的；（指动物）被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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158
conveyance
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|
| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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159
countenance
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|
| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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160
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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161
virtuosity
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| n.精湛技巧 | |
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162
imbroglio
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| n.纷乱，纠葛，纷扰，一团糟 | |
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163
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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164
solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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165
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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166
conclusively
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| adv.令人信服地，确凿地 | |
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167
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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168
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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169
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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170
elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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171
abdicating
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|
| 放弃（职责、权力等）( abdicate的现在分词 )； 退位，逊位 | |
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172
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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173
questionably
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| adv.可疑地；不真实地；有问题地 | |
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174
abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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176
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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177
affiliations
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| n.联系( affiliation的名词复数 )；附属机构；亲和性；接纳 | |
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178
dilemmas
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| n.左右为难( dilemma的名词复数 )；窘境，困境 | |
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179
ramifications
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| n.结果，后果( ramification的名词复数 ) | |
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180
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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181
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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182
calumniated
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|
| v.诽谤，中伤( calumniate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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183
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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184
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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185
sincerity
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|
| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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186
esthetic
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|
| adj.美学的，审美的；悦目的，雅致的 | |
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187
immunity
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| n.优惠；免除；豁免，豁免权 | |
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188
premium
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| n.加付款；赠品；adj.高级的；售价高的 | |
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189
rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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190
lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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191
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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192
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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193
illustrating
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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194
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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195
discriminates
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| 分别，辨别，区分( discriminate的第三人称单数 )； 歧视，有差别地对待 | |
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196
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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197
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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198
emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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199
vouch
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| v.担保；断定；n.被担保者 | |
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200
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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201
blighting
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| 使凋萎( blight的现在分词 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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202
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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203
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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204
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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205
sterility
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| n.不生育，不结果，贫瘠，消毒，无菌 | |
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206
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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207
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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208
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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209
dedications
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| 奉献( dedication的名词复数 )； 献身精神； 教堂的)献堂礼； （书等作品上的）题词 | |
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210
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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211
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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212
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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213
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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214
averting
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| 防止，避免( avert的现在分词 )； 转移 | |
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215
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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216
complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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217
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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218
emulate
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| v.努力赶上或超越，与…竞争；效仿 | |
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219
eventual
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| adj.最后的，结局的，最终的 | |
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220
commemorated
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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221
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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222
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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223
progeny
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| n.后代，子孙；结果 | |
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224
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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225
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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226
docility
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| n.容易教，易驾驶，驯服 | |
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227
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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228
domestication
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| n.驯养，驯化 | |
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229
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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230
robustly
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| adv.要用体力地，粗鲁地 | |
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231
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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232
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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233
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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234
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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235
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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236
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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237
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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238
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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239
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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240
transmuted
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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241
ingenuously
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| adv.率直地，正直地 | |
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242
demolition
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| n.破坏,毁坏,毁坏之遗迹 | |
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243
parody
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| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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244
talons
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| n.（尤指猛禽的）爪( talon的名词复数 )；（如爪般的）手指；爪状物；锁簧尖状突出部 | |
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245
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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246
reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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247
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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248
acuity
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| n.敏锐，（疾病的）剧烈 | |
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249
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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250
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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251
calumnies
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| n.诬蔑，诽谤，中伤（的话）( calumny的名词复数 ) | |
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252
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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253
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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254
succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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255
override
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| vt.不顾，不理睬，否决；压倒，优先于 | |
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256
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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257
precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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258
avid
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| adj.热心的；贪婪的；渴望的；劲头十足的 | |
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259
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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260
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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261
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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262
smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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263
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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264
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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265
consistencies
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| 一致性( consistency的名词复数 )； 连贯性； 坚实度； 浓度 | |
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266
redressed
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| v.改正( redress的过去式和过去分词 )；重加权衡；恢复平衡 | |
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267
autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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268
improvising
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| 即兴创作（improvise的现在分词形式） | |
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269
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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270
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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271
appal
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| vt.使胆寒，使惊骇 | |
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272
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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273
suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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274
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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275
vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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276
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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277
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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278
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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279
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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280
fusion
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| n.溶化；熔解；熔化状态，熔和；熔接 | |
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281
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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282
tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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283
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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284
analytic
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| adj.分析的，用分析方法的 | |
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285
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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286
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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287
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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288
asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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289
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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290
astuteness
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| n.敏锐；精明；机敏 | |
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291
rapports
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| n.友好关系（rapport的复数形式） | |
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292
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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293
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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294
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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295
predilection
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| n.偏好 | |
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296
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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297
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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298
portent
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| n.预兆；恶兆；怪事 | |
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299
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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300
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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301
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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302
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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303
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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304
cerebral
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| adj.脑的，大脑的；有智力的，理智型的 | |
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305
agitations
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| （液体等的）摇动( agitation的名词复数 )； 鼓动； 激烈争论； （情绪等的）纷乱 | |
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306
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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307
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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308
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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309
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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310
saturation
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| n.饱和(状态)；浸透 | |
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311
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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312
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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313
pertinent
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| adj.恰当的；贴切的；中肯的；有关的；相干的 | |
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314
abdication
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| n.辞职；退位 | |
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315
inveterately
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| adv.根深蒂固地，积习地 | |
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316
irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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